Writing Boots

The floor is still pitching now and I'm walking the dog in my bathing suit in the shocking Chicago cold, so it'll take me a couple of days to get my docksiders off and my Writing Boots on.

The trip was full of communication insights, of course, those being the only kinds of insights I ever have.

But the main idea is that there is no interpersonal misunderstanding or suspicion or disrespect so great that it can't be ameliorated by a week of endless nights spent staring into one another's darkened faces in the cockpit of a sailboat in the middle of an infinite black ocean.

More on that soon.

Meanwhile, it's good to be back, my friends. Thanks for holding down the fort.

After eight suffocating days waiting in the harbor at Annapolis for weather to clear, we're finally moving. Last night, down the Chesapeake. (Where the Coast Guard was on the radio all night trying to find an overdue sailboat called Nemo.)

Today, out into the Atlantic. Back a little later than planned, but in one dry piece, I hope.

Stuck on a boat in a harbor, happy hour becomes the focus of the day.