The Tempest

The Swizzle-Smoking-Cessation program hit some funky bumps in the road today. Check that. Not bumps in the road, bumps in the mind. The cool, sunny morning had all all the promise of a cool sunny morning. Out of office assistant, check. Shower, done. Town car ride to the airport with my man, Arman, word. Passport and one way ticket to Bermuda in-the-pocket. How cool, and sunny is that?

Then it all went a little pear-shaped, as the Brits say. I was, after after all, going to sail with some Brits. Why am I always sailing with Brits? Perhaps a story for another day. So, I finally make it through security. The full, $8.50 pack of Marlboro Reds was ceremoniously left on the lip of a trash can outside terminal C, and I was headed back to sea. Back to the scene of the beginning of the end of my drinking, actually. You see, back in 1993, I'd been sober for almost 2 years (1 year and 11.5 months actually, but who's counting? I was actually), when I first sailed aboard the Swan 615 Monsoon Jaguar from Newport, down to Bermuda, and then on to Antigua. It was Fall. Hurricane season had just officially ended and the cold, New England fall air stayed cold until we crossed the warm water of the Gulf Stream. Dolphins jumped off the tops of the 12-foot swells, and I was at sea. Off on the adventure I knew was the key to all the happiness I was searching for. And then we stopped in Bermuda. And Sally, the pixie-like cook from New Zealand and I rented a scooter: one must always rent a scooter when one is attempting to woo a kiwi-pixie-cook in Bermuda.

But Sally was having none of it. Sure, she called me "Lovie" (she called everybody "Lovie") and shared night watches together, but she was not buying what I was selling. No sale, so to speak. So I had a brilliant idea "She's not down with my jive because she must think I'm a bit of a dandy since I don't drink?" I thought to myself. "Well I can fix that. I know how to drink. I'll just show her I can throw a couple back like a heavily tattooed, full-on, tough-guy sailor." Brilliant. It all went down in St. Georges, curiously, the location of the boat that's waiting for me, and my destination on this cool, sunny morning.

At least I thought that was the destination for today. Turns out the weather report was for a sporty 40-60 knot weather system, right in our northerly path, and the boat's departure day was moved back to Thursday, Wednesday at the earliest. So I had a decision to make: Continue on with the boat-based,  Swizzle-Smoking-Cessation program on an anchored boat that wasn't going nowhare until Thursday, Wednesday at the earliest, or head home, and do it all over again tomorrow.

I headed home, but not before I checked the trash can to see if my full pack of Reds were still on their ceremonial perch on the trash can. I saw the garbage truck before I say the trash can. No doubt the trash man had just deposited the Reds in the back. I'll be back at he airport tomorrow.

But first! A 30-mile bike ride through the colonial countryside. What better way to celebrate smoking-cessation than to put the hammer down and maybe reap some kind of benefit from not taking long, hard pulls from packs of nails that put ammonia and cyanide into my lungs.

The cravings, the bumps in my mind, started almost as soon as I got out of the shower. Maybe even before? So, there I am, just hanging out in the spandex, gay-astronaut get-up that bike clothes are, the sweat and salt hasn't even dried yet and you got it, my mind sends the "wouldn't a cigarette just be the perfect capper to this 30 mile spin?" impulses. Yea, I know, awesome.

And that was only beginning. Take 2: I'm off to Bermuda tomorrow.