Pic 1: wet all over, and the ocean most of all.
Pic 2: we have not left yet, and won’t for a while as Peregrine decided she needed more attention. We washed the holding tank overflow yesterday–see the brownish stuff on pic 2? We also filled the batteries with distilled water (hmm, 4 gallons, so now you understand what I mean by Peregrine needing “attention”), and Dickie wired the electronics from the nav’ station to the cockpit.
I told Dickie over breakfast at Mallory street café this morning how in the last week I feel like I’m living on his schedule. His brow lifted in concern. I added, “Like a man’s schedule to be more precise.” Because given the way things have been going this week, we-are-on-a-routine. Like his dad, who used to describe his morning routine with great relish: ‘In the morning, first thing I do is make a cup of coffee. I like it black, always. Then I get the newspaper and read it (and he’d make the gesture of opening and folding his newspaper). Then I make breakfast: a cup of oatmeal (and he’d make a cup with his hands), or maybe some whole wheat toast with a little butter and a poached egg. I like my eggs poached soft. etc.” And the thing is, his dad has managed to be happy his whole life, even now when he cannot walk anymore, and I believe looking forward to whatever is coming up next in his routine might be the secret ingredient.
So, Dickie and I now have an established routine: have breakfast out, go to Peregrine and work on her (well, Dickie always does while I mostly write on my Cubism chapter), have a high protein bar for lunch, go home, have dinner, watch “All Creatures Great and Small,” and start all over in the morning.
So, back to our breakfast at Mallory street Café. Dickie agrees, “yeah, we men tend to like our routine.”
I expend, “See, this is not what we women do. We like to weave people in our schedule, and all other kinds of social intricacies.”
Dickie smiles. “Yes, you ladies do that, don’t you?”
I sigh, “It’s kind of nice living like a man for a while. So much easier.”
I take another bite of grits. Actually, I have had the exact same breakfast in the last three days of poached eggs, sausage, grits and toast, so that I can fairly compare restaurants (so far, Mallory street has won over the 4th of May, way too salty, and Palmers, whose grits were delicious but too buttery so you don’t really taste the grits. I liked their sausage the most though).
Speak of a routine.
Oh, and if you noticed I take poached eggs like Dick’s dad, you’re right that I take it after him.
sv PEREGRINE 