Life Aboard

Sunset, with me at the wheel

In my first post about the voyage, I gave a once-over lightly of life aboard. There may be overlap with this post, but I'm going into more detail. I did keep a few notes in a paper journal while underway, and I've got that as a reference.

The first day, after we raised the sails, had the most amount of sail handling of any day. We needed to head down the Chesapeake to the mouth, and the wind was blowing directly up the Bay. So, that meant we tacked at an angle across the Bay, and then tacked again to the other shore just before running aground. And again. About a dozen times in all.

Me and my fellow guest crew were novices, and needed a lot of help and instruction on what to do.There were eight sails up, and they needed tending to enable the tack. Not all of them were handled at once, but there was a specific sequence to be followed. There were two basic stations - one to handle the three headsails (jib, staysail, jibtop called the "JT"), and one at the mainmast to handle the remaining sails - two square sails on the foremast (foretop and fore t'gallant*), foresail, main, and maintop. I was stationed at the mainmast, and finally got into it enough to understand the sequence, where to stand to be useful, and how to move to be useful in the next move coming up. After each tack, I learned how each line needed to be coiled - there were four different methods of coiling and storing the lines, each with its own rationale. It is really important to place the lines in the right place with the right coil so that when it needed to run out, it could do so smoothly without jamming. Often, coiling involved kneeling or sitting on the deck, laying out the line in a pattern. 

Time for Nan to get to work!

It required essentially all of the crew to tack the ship, so it was only after sails were doused for the night and we started motoring directly towards the ocean that we split into our watches for the first time.

There was a cook on board, with no other normal duties. There was always coffee and hot water available. We got our three square meals a day, breakfast and dinner hot, lunch not always hot. There were also snacks - leftovers, chips, peanut butter cups, gummi bears. (The snacks didn't inspire me, but I was consuming at least a dozen ginger candies every day.) I was on duty from 4-8 am, and 4-8 pm. The way meals worked, most people ate at 7:30 (both am and pm) and then our watch ate at 8, after being dismissed. Our watch and the one going on duty at noon ate lunch at 11:30, and the ones coming off duty ate at noon. The food was set out on a buffet (with high sides to keep things from sliding off). Generally, meals lasted fifteen minutes, as folks were either getting ready to go on duty or else had just come off four hours on deck and had other needs. Breakfasts were pancakes and sausage, scrambled eggs and bacon, bagels and fried eggs, oatmeal with a side of fried eggs, things like that. There was usually fruit, and cold cereal was set out once, but there were also eggs. I dislike a breakfast that is primarily carbs, and this worked well for me. Lunches are less memorable, sandwiches, soups, mac and cheese, usually with salad veggies out and often incorporating leftovers. Dinners were terrific, meat, starch and green veggie. Pork chops, salmon, tuna, chicken, beef stew, even steaks one night (while quarantined at the dock in Bermuda). Dishwashing was self-serve. They had three sinks, each with a plastic tub: first with dish soap in water, second just fresh water, the third a very dilute bleach solution. Just scrub, dip in the second and third tubs, put in the rack. One of the professional crew was assigned each day "boat duty" that involved cleaning all the public areas and heads. Copper and bronze needed to be polished. Ships have a tradition of a high degree of tidiness and cleanliness, probably impacted by the same imperative that leads to meticulous coiling of lines.

Sail handling - I'm in the white cap

There is just one accessible deck below the open-air deck. It is divided into four compartments. From the front: the foc'sl, where seven of the crew lived and shared a head, the main salon, with the galley, the dining table, and four two-bunk cabins (the cook and engineer shared one, the six guest crew in the others) with a head, then the engine room, and finally the aft cabin where the Captain, the first and second mate live in single-bunk-cabin splendor, along with all the electronics for navigating and communicating. There were water-tight doors separating the four compartments (big metal things with big round handles like in the movies) and each compartment had its own access to the deck. When the engine was off, the doors were open and you could pass from foc'sl to nav station without going on deck. Below the deck were hatches leading to the bilges, which were also isolated from each other by watertight bulkheads. These bilges needed to be checked constantly while we were moving. The Pride is a wooden boat, and it leaks constantly. We were constantly pumping out the compartments. With the working of the ship, it might start leaking a lot more without any sign on deck. (In fact, at the dock in Bermuda the crew tracked down where a seam had split under water near the bow and were able to patch it enough to slow the leak way down.)

During the four-hour watch, I was generally at the helm for either one or two hours, coiled some lines if we had done any sail handling, and swabbed and wiped the dew off the extensive wooden brightwork varnished areas after the sun rose.

Typical sunrise

The early watch was especially magical. I laid out my clothes in advance, with a fleece for warmth. It would be pitch dark as we made our way cautiously over the bouncing deck filled with lines and blocks and other tripping hazards. The stars were magnificent - the first morning, the big dipper lay directly behind us, the first thing I noticed when I emerged and headed aft to towards the wheel. The Milky Way was bright and obvious arching across the ship from horizon to horizon. Out in the ocean, we saw bioluminescent plankton, circles and lines, dashing from the wave cut by our bow. Steering without a horizon reference meant steering by stars through the rigging (with frequent glances at the compass to make sure still on course). But very soon after we emerged the stars would fade, the north-eastern horizon would lighten, and dawn would come. It would be full light and quite a lot warmer before our watch was done. The Captain would emerge with the light, and often there was a bit of sail trimming needed during our morning watch.

I didn't go aloft, but I did go out on the bowsprit over the water

The afternoon watch was often social, with the off duty crew hanging about before dinner. We were headed east, and sunset came earlier each day, and it would be dark as we headed below for our turn at dinner. Often there would be sail handling towards the end of the watch, getting things in order for the night. 

Off duty, I tried to stay awake during the day, thinking my six hours uninterrupted at night would be enough. But I slept restlessly, and during the day fatigue would come on suddenly, and I would retreat to my bunk and fall instantly, but briefly, deeply asleep. 

As I mentioned, there wasn't a lot of physical comfort to be found for lounging. There were sights and sounds on deck: I saw flying fish, singly and in groups (is a bunch of flying fish a school or a flock?) and we marvelled at how far they could go. There were birds, and we saw the "longtailed tropic bird" - native to Bermuda - while two days out from the island. We saw the sails of the Portuguese man-o'wars, looking like bubbles on the surface, disguising the 100 feet-plus of the body and tentacles of these deadly cousins to our familiar jellyfish. I had books on the kindle and the phone (to listen to), and managed to knock off a whole science fiction trilogy I had been saving. There was a decent amount of alone time for me, on deck and in my bunk. I was as social as I wanted to be, and might give a rundown on my fellow crew in another post.

So I'll leave you with yet another sunset.

The Ship Recap of Voyage (from Facebook)

 From Pride of Baltimore's Facebook page, just the facts:

 

Sail handling requiring most of the crew

With PRIDE's lines fast in St. George's, Bermuda, we thought we would give you a little voyage recap. Additional details to be featured in an upcoming Captain's Log. 

Day 1 (Friday, June 4): PRIDE II motored to just off Annapolis & set sail right on the heels of some 50 yachts competing in the Annapolis to Newport Regatta. With the breeze coming right up the bay PRIDE II tacked (nearly a dozen tacks) her way down to the mouth of the Choptank before taking in sail. By that evening the wind was going light & with a deadline to reach Bermuda the d-sails were fired up & the ship motored down the bay (actually passing close by the boat our program coordinator was racing to Newport). 

Day 2 (Saturday, June 5): For logistical reasons & the forecast, a gentleman's agreement was come to between the skippers of 59 North Sailing ICE BEAR & PRIDE II to move the start line offshore in hopes of breaking free of the reversing currents at the mouth of the bay & finding a fresh & favorable breeze. By the end of Saturday, PRIDE II set all sail with the exception of the studding-sail & ringtail & began reaching for Bermuda making 8 knots in 10-11 knots of wind on the beam. 

Day 3 (Sunday, June 6): Light air & motor sailing most of Sunday. By mid-day, the ship struck square sails & outer jibs (not a ripple on the water & had a schedule to keep). 

Day 4 (Monday, June 7): The breeze filled in by the afternoon & the ship began to sail again. "The wind for this leg from near the Virginia beaches south of Cape Henry has been somewhat fickle. Saturday night was a good, relatively smooth, & speedy sail of around 8 knots. All sail including the square top-gallant. Sunday around 0900 the wind fell to near nothing when PRIDE reached the main part of the Gulf Stream. Smooth seas & no wind at all. Had to strike square-sails & headsails as they were blocking the breeze made by motoring. Late afternoon Sunday, having crossed The Stream, we went sailing again with the return of the southerly-southwest breeze of around 5-10 knots. We have been able to sail continuously since at boat speeds of 4-6 knots. " -- Captain Jan Miles 

Day 5 (Tuesday, June 8): Sailing under all plain sail & topgallant. "Life board is at a constant 5-10 degrees of heel. PRIDE heaves & jerks with the impact of 3 foot swells from the southeast. No one aboard is able to stand & walk without jerking around compensating with quickly shifting feet. For those of us less nimble, we have arms out to grab or brace as we move around. Since the rise of water temperature to near 80 degrees Fahrenheit with the Gulf Stream & on toward Bermuda, plus a significant rise in humidity, life down below is a swelter. Notwithstanding, ship’s cook, Ian Bova, has been keeping all aboard well fed. And there be plenty of snacks to reach for if one goes to the designated snack locker. But there is no such thing as a cool drink. No ice to be had. So the coolest a drink can be is around 80 degrees. But anyone can have as much hot drink as one wants." -- Captain Jan Miles. 

Day 6 (Wednesday, June 9): Late on Tuesday after 54 hours of continuous sailing PRIDE II began to motor again. Some 120 miles from Bermuda, the captain was estimating an arrival after sunrise on Thursday. (Note from Nan: and the wind rose and we sailed until dawn the next day)

Day 7 (Thursday, June 10): PRIDE II arrives in Bermuda 0700 EDT/0800 Bermuda Time.

Bermuda Notes

What is Bermuda like? I wouldn't know. 

Bermuda requires arrival testing, and quarantine until results. The arrival test can work for the departure test required for the airline to board passengers to the U.S. We didn't get tested for 26 hours after arrival (airline passengers are tested at the airport). Results had been running 5-8 hours. It's now been 23 hours and no results yet. If I don't have results in about half an hour I have to reschedule my flight. 

My Airbnb is lovely, and the host is working her local connections to see if she can get me what I need. Since I showed up a day late and she has no-one booked, she extended the invitation to stay overnight if it comes to that. So I'm physically comfortable, safe, and I am not likely to have to pay thousands to get out of this pickle. I have been in worse travel adventures. But I'm not pleased. 

I spent the first day on the ship and the immediately adjacent wharf. I had a lovely taxi ride the length of the island to the Airbnb. I walked to the city center for takeaway food last night (perhaps not strictly according to the rules). What a surprise - it's a big banking center! (Offshore banks, anyone?) It seems to have high-end shopping, but everything closes at 5 and I had waited till past then hoping for the results so I could sit on a sidewalk patio. It was Friday evening, and bars were packed anyway with prosperous-looking banking types. I did, however, get 11,000+ fitbit steps on my excursion. I was too disgruntled to take any pictures. 

In the middle of the night, when results still weren't there, I reached out to my ship via email to see if they were in the same situation, because misery loves company and I needed to find out if it was just me. I determined the phone number to talk to a person, and their opening time. I checked airline flights - there is a later one this afternoon with apparently seats, and flights tomorrow. I like a backup plan. I'll need to call and change soon!

EDIT/UPDATE: It wasn't just me, the whole ship was waiting for results. Possibly because of my host's interventions (just happened to know the head of the lab), my results came through on my phone just after I had picked  it up to reschedule my flight. I hung up on the airline. The taxi was there and waiting, so I threw everything in the car and off I went! Made it.

Voyaging

Under the Chesapeake Bay Bridge,
the edge of my normal sailing adventures

I have a lot I want to say about the trip, but I don't know if my interest will sustain once I get home to my normal life, so here's a quick overview. 

The trip was fabulous, but not comfortable. I had moments of such joy to be there, doing what I was doing. I remembered often to be in the moment, using feeling my feet and hands as much touchstone. Then I would close my eyes and just feel - the wind, the movement of the boat, the heat of the sun or the breath of the wind. And listen - the creaking and wearing of the boat, the splash of the waves and our wake. Then I'd open my eyes and wonder at how lucky I was to be alive right then. 

We had what is known in the North Atlantic as light winds. The first day, we motored to Annapolis and then tacked into a wind from exactly the wrong direction until nearly nightfall. Each tack required extensive sail handling from the whole crew. The Captain prefers not to require the crew to do difficult sail handling, especially going aloft, in the dark. The wind was forecast to remain from the wrong direction, and be light besides, so the sails came down and the motor pushed us directly towards our destination. We motored for a whole day, to get all the way out of the Chesapeake Bay and into the ocean.

Me in charge at dawn

I could tell the difference in the swells almost immediately we were out in the full ocean. One person got sick quickly. I was very concerned about getting sick. I had medication, but I had tested it at home the week before and I was groggy for two full days after taking it, so it was only a last resort. I focused on what I could - drinking lots of water, being on deck rather than below as much as possible, and continuing to use my feet and hands as an anchor, any time my thoughts started me thinking I was going under. I never got sick. 

Well out into the ocean, we raised the sails, killed the engine, and steered for Bermuda. We started watchkeeping, with four hours on, four hours off, and another four hours off but designated "standby" if more people were needed. My watch was 4 - 8: that is 4 am to 8 am, followed by 4 pm to 8 pm. My watch consisted of the second mate, two deckhands, and another "guest crew" and me. (The other guest crew was also my roommate, with me in the bottom bunk and E. in the top bunk.) That cycle meant we rose in the dark and watched the stars fade away as the sun rose. Then, we took the deck in the heat of the afternoon, and before our watch was finished the sun set. I went to bed by 9 pm, and was up at 3:30 am. I found it necessary to doze during my time off in the middle of the day, exhausted even if we hadn't done much sail handling, just from being outside so much. 

My duties on watch, if there was no need to do any maneuvers (for four days we pretty much just held our course without major changes in the wind) consisted of steering the boat and "boat checks". (Once an hour, a series of specific checks for water in the bilges, and recording of electrical and mechanical gauges status, weather and position. This required up and down a series of ladders to move between different parts of the boat below decks.) Fairly quickly, they stopped having a regular crew member look over my shoulder to ensure I was steering correctly - just popping back every now and then to make sure both the boat and I were doing well. There were moments - brief ones, but still - when I was was the only person on deck. Boat checks were what I did when not steering. That took longer to be allowed to solo, but finally I was trusted - and it was a genuine boon to the crew. The professional crewmembers almost always had other projects to carry out during watch, maintenance items, fixing things, practising their celestial navigation. 

Off watch, I ate (never have I been with people eating so much so fast with so little conversation!), read, hung out on deck just looking, and dozed both on deck and below in my bunk. 

I said it wasn't comfortable. Below decks, and especially my cabin, were stuffy and warm. The bunk is hard, and there is no room to sit - in fact, the first three days I repeatedly whacked my head on the upper bunk. There is a big table in the main salon with benches for meals - one side just wood with no back, the side built into the hull padded with a back. On deck, there are no seats, just perches of varying levels of discomfort. Shade was cast by the sails, at least, and all of us would try to find a place to sit where maybe we could lean against something that wouldn't move. The boat was heeled over for most of the trip in the right direction that in my bunk I was rolled against the hull, not out onto the deck, luckily. I found, at night, the motion and noise of the boat comforting, but my knees and back were feeling the unaccustomed strain and sometimes it was hard to find a comfy position. 

By design, we arrived off Bermuda just before sunrise, so the sails could come down in the daylight. We motored through a very narrow passage into a very big bay, and docked at a wharf. Then, we waited for 26 hours to get our arrival Covid tests. (This is very unusual, not sure why such a screwup.) We were technically confined to the wharf (several of us got off and walked a very little bit, sitting on benches in the public square). I was supposed to go to my Airbnb last night, but had to wait until after the test, at noon today. 

While waiting that first day, the boat was in full sun, with no shade, and I was getting a little cranky. The Mate had the crew put up the canopy to cover some of the deck, and set a large number of maintenance tasks for the crew. Then he declared a swim break, and most people jumped off the boat and into the (clean) harbor. It was fun to watch the young people really skylark around. Some of the other guest crew bent the rules the tiniest bit, and as it got dark unveiled their clandestine purchase of enough cold beer for everyone to have one, and the night turned into a party. There were guitars and ukeleles and a great deal of singing.

The little bit of Bermuda I saw was cute!

Now, I'm ensconsed at my very comfortable Airbnb, a half hour taxi ride from the ship. My host ordered a taxi for tomorrow, with directions on the scenic route to the airport. I had a wonderful shower, put on almost-clean clothes, rinsed and dried in the sun my trousers for tomorrow's flight, and did some quick sorting of pictures, tried to nap, and am now sitting in a very comfy soft chair with a back writing this on my ipad. I'll walk into town to get a sandwich and a beer in a few moments, if I'm adventurous, I might take a ferry ride. The room is still bobbing up and down a little bit, but not as badly as I thought it might. Home tomorrow! 

 

Updated for format and grammar

Kedging

October 2019, in the Chesapeake Bay

“Kedging” is the term used by my friend Kim’s friend Chris (Crowley, author of the “Younger Next Year” series of books) for a way to motivate yourself to get out there and do things. Big things. Scary things. Boats - especially old sailing boats - use kedging as a technique to move themselves out of a dangerous place - shallows where the ship is aground, for example. An anchor is tossed (or, preferably brought in a smaller boat) out in the direction you need to move the ship, and then everyone pulls on the anchor rope to move that way. Repeat as often as necessary. Crowley writes it is “climbing out of the ordinary, setting a desperate goal and working like crazy to get there. To save yourself.”

I figured this out years ago. Back in the 1980s I took a number of Sierra Club backpacking trips out west, and for each of them I trained. Especially after the first time. It was clear to me, the better shape I was in, the more fun I would have. Or, alternatively, the less miserable I’d be. I have continued to use this technique, from signing up to run a 10K to backpacking in the Alaskan National Wildlife Refuge. My next “kedge” adventure is coming up - in just sixteen days!

I’m going sailing! On the world’s most beautiful ship, the Pride of Baltimore II! Offshore! From Baltimore to Bermuda!

I’ve sailed on her before, but never offshore. So I have some idea of what to expect. But it will be physically challenging - even if I don’t get seasick. The only absolute requirement is to be able to climb up and down the ladder from the deck to the main cabin. But the better shape I’m in, the more I’ll be able to do, and the more fun I’ll have. Or, the less miserable I’ll be. 

I signed up for the trip less than six weeks before departure - the day it became available. So not a huge time to prepare for it. But not nothing, either. Knowing my propensity to go all in on something, often followed by burnout, I instead set myself a couple of reasonable goals. I had already been exercising more than during the winter, walking more, and working out with my trainer via video once a week. I upped the sessions with the trainer to twice a week. As she is heavily pregnant, this made her very happy, thinking of building reserves for the time off she will have when the baby is born.

I looked at how much I had been walking, and I decided to aim for a twenty percent increase in my steps. That is a fairly dramatic increase from the baseline, but my baseline steps this year have been very low. So the absolute number of steps is not that many. Of course, the first day after I signed up, all jazzed and excited, I walked my feet off and doubled my baseline steps. But a couple of days later, it rained on and off all day, and I barely left the house, with only a tiny number of steps. So, twenty percent more steps is actually a very reasonable goal, but one that I have to keep in mind. With long evenings and nice weather, I’ve been out there pretty late, up and down the steep hills that make up my immediate neighborhood. Still, I’ve also had some very low energy days, and it will take work to meet the goal, measured as the average for the month of May.

So two things I’m afraid of: seasickness and migraines. I have never been actually sick from motion, but I have felt nauseous. So, I have my wrist bands, and ginger candy, and over-the-counter medicine, and the super duper anti-nausea stuff I got last year when I had vertigo. The medicines make me sleepy, so I hope I don’t need them. If I get a migraine, I’ll take my medicine for that and just hunker down as much as I need to. 

The cruise is a one-way trip to Bermuda. I’ve got an Air BnB for a couple of nights when we get there, and then a flight home. I like traveling alone, but it takes what I think of as “gumption”. I imagine I have a “gumption reservoir” and doing things like finding a restaurant and dining there alone uses up gumption out of my reservoir. I figure I’ve got about two days worth. There is also a good chance other guest crew members will be lingering in Bermuda, so perhaps we’ll do things together and the total gumption need will be less. But I’ll certainly be ready to come home!

Impulse Buying

I spend lots of time on the internet, and that allows the internet to track me and target ads. It's a little pathetic, like a neglected puppy, I show the slightest interest, and a product / product type is all over me. Sometimes, it's amusing. Sometimes, it actually works on me. I am very suggestible, I have money, I have time, I have endless optimism about whether I'll use something, and I'm always seeking the new and novel. In fact, I subscribe to some emails (including Wirecutter from the NYTimes) so I'm getting "push" into my mailbox. If I didn't want to buy anything, I wouldn't do this.

For budgeting purposes, I have a list of possible big purchases (defined as over $100) and things have to be on the list for a while before I act. I have to do at least some research, and be sure I want it. But there is an amazing array of things one can get for less than a hundred dollars, and I have been known to just push the button and buy. I try not to - I will go so far as to put things into my shopping cart on a site, and then close the browser thinking I'll come back tomorrow with a clearer mind. Sometimes that even works and I don't buy the thing. But more often than I like to admit, I do.

Clothing is an obvious category. For me, its not so much party or dress up clothes, or any kind of bling. Things that catch my eye are specialty clothing for adventures I hope to have some day. So recent purchases include a merino wool tshirt from Woolx ("the only tshirt you will ever need") and, in contrast, a quick-dry cooling long-sleeved tshirt from Arctic Cool ("like wearing an air conditioner"). They are nice. I already own a bizillion tshirts. Now I have a bazillion plus two.

Anything to do with travel catches my eye. Gadgets, of course, luggage, purses. I have disposed of enormous numbers of suitcases and bags and backpacks, and yet I'm constantly browsing, looking for something new. The ideal is small, has a million tiny but capacious pockets, holds everything, weighs nothing, and transports itself. Such a thing, The Luggage, exists in Discworld (by Terry Pratchett). But I keep searching in this world. Each trip planned is likely to generate some wistful looking, if not an actual purchase. Right now, I have storage space set aside for all the bags and backpacks and suitcases I own, but any more purchases will drive another round of purges. I also have bags to put in bags, of course, more than a few. Which leads, when traveling, to endless hours of unzipping things to see what is each one. I just went through all that have, got rid of the most tatty, and washed all that remain. Ready to go someplace!

Lately, I've been tempted by food things. A young blogger, Athena Scalzi, has written of several things she has tried and I've jumped in behind her. I got Honey Pops (a Maryland company, Waxing Kara, makes them) and found them a lovely treat - not one I want all the time, but something to savor. I got a "box" of treats from Japan. It was so fun: the whole family sat around after dinner and sampled the twenty things in the box. Weird and sometimes wonderful, great entertainment.  This strikes me as really expensive for what you get, but this is not food to shovel in mindlessly, but to taste and explore. The whole package - literally packaging and all - makes for a lovely experience.

Back to My Roots

 I decided it was time to go back to where I started on this blog - how am I doing on weight and fitness?

I've not been happy with either, lately, and I decided it was time to get into gear. As is my wont, I like to study the situation before taking action. Or if not before doing anything, at least as a motivating device while I'm doing it. We know it takes some sustained attention and effort to actually move the needle on either fitness or weight. It feels like the older I get, the more it takes.

I really got motivated when I looked at the graph of my steps. My daily steps have been going down. As with all numbers, it's important to look at them in context. After trying a couple of different ways of looking at it, I decided the time period of 2018 to the present makes sense. I retired partway through 2019, and shortly afterwards my mother died. So 2018 was a full year of office work, 2019 was full of disruptions, and last year was, well, it was 2020 and we all know what that means (amirite)! I think it's useful to anchor this look in the working world, and look at how things have changed as I figure out this retirement thing.

This is the picture that grabbed my attention. I seem to have been in decline more or less steadily since a rally last summer. This, of everything I track, is the most controllable thing. I can fix this. I need to fix this!

Total calories burned is a similar outlook to steps. I show both, because if I'm doing a lot of work that doesn't involve steps - like gardening - it shows up in the calories.

This calorie graph also shows that last summer's rally for steps didn't translate into total calories - so I guess I was walking more than I was working. Huh. Need to think about that.

Of course, I care a lot about my weight. It is something of a fitness indicator, just on its own. But I also care about how I look, and weight is bound up into that.

The two red dots show my retirement date and the day my mother died, respectively

Covering the same timeframe as the other graphs, this is not a great picture. But it could be worse. It's not all just going up. I made a little progress last year, and then lost some of it, and I've been holding my own this year. Can I actually reverse it?

For the ultimate in context, and to reassure myself that weight loss is, in fact, possible, despite current common wisdom to the contrary, I show you my weight since the beginning of time (that would be 1988, the first time I went to Weight Watchers).

I find this picture very reassuring. It tells me that my weight loss efforts have not be in vain. I was at my peak weight in the few years around my fortieth birthday, and all the years since then have benefited from being fitter and slimmer. Around age 55 is the second big loss (also the start of this blog). It shows that even now, as I feel fat and feeble, I weigh less than I did when I made the second effort.

This picture also clues me in on how unrealistic my "target weight" (represented by the blue line) has been. I hit that weight briefly twice, showing it was physically possible. But the orange horizontal line is where I settled for a while. I wasn't satisfied with being there - especially at the upper end of the range through which I was oscillating. Somewhere between those two lines would be ideal, I think. I would feel and look the way I want to feel and look.

I've also got my broader range of measures, the Report Card, cooking. I'll post when I'm ready for that.