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1 Wanted:
Epic Adventure
Shortly
after stepping out of my new home with my hound for our first stroll through
the historic seacoast village of Mystic, Connecticut, a woman pulled over in
her van and yelled, "Excuse me."
Assuming she
was a tourist wanting directions to Mystic Pizza or some
other attraction, I wasn't prepared for what she really wanted to know.
"Do you
realize the back of your skirt is tucked into your underwear?"
What a debut
in my new hometown—I don’t think this is what National Geographic meant
when they named Mystic one of the top 100 adventure towns in the United States.
Once
recovered from my wardrobe “malfunction,” I continued toward downtown Mystic
with Bailey, a beagle/basset hound mix, to embark on a new life and shake off
my old, sedentary landlubbing ways.
No longer
did I want to be known as the lady who always talks about losing weight but
never does it. No longer would I sit around daydreaming about becoming thin and
famous so I could hire someone else to clean my house. I had a real shot at it
now that I lived in a place where I couldn’t help but fall into a
swash-buckling adventure—the kind that might inspire me to write a bestseller.
Straddling
both sides of the Mystic River in the towns of Groton and Stonington, the
village of Mystic takes its name from an Indian word, “river running to the
sea.” With its scenic views of tall ships, islands, lighthouses, and secluded
coves, it has attracted such legendary honeymooners as Humphrey Bogart and
Lauren Bacall. It is a place where those who cross the oceans gather to swap
stories and repair their boats. It is where famous explorers are born, visit, get
married, or come to live.
To launch my
career as an adventuress, I decided to walk Bailey to the haunts and homes of
such celebrated adventurers as Amelia Earhart, the first woman to fly solo across the Atlantic; Dr.
Robert Ballard, the discoverer of Titanic’s watery grave; Rear Admiral Richard E. Byrd, the first aviator to fly over
the South Pole; and Captain Nathaniel B. Palmer, who accidentally discovered Antarctica.
Now was the time for me to join their ranks, to start living life on
the edge. Maybe I could become thin and famous like Amelia Earhart. Like her, I am fairly tall, my middle initial is M, I have a gap
between my two front teeth, and until I looked it up, I couldn’t spell medieval
either (more on that and her wedding day later). Unlike Amelia, I wasn’t
skinny, but that was about to change. I would stop lying around reading about
adventurers and do what it took to become one.
My husband,
Jim, and I were transferred to the Mystic area by his company, which meant I
had to quit my job as a full-time writer for a college and search for a new one
in a community revolving around life at sea—not easy for a confirmed desk
sitter like me. Finding the area already teeming with underemployed writers and
publicists, I was grateful when my former employer hired me back as a
consulting writer. Although freelancing allowed me to work from home in my
pajamas, it offered no retirement benefits—hence the need to become famous.
Being famous not only helps pay the bills, but it gives you an edge when trying
to accomplish other goals.
Now was the
time for me to follow in the path of prominent authors such as Herman Melville
who went to sea on a whaler (a ship designed to catch whales and process their
oil) when he couldn't find a job. Although he deserted and had to live among
cannibals for a time, he found the inspiration to write his first novel.
Further sea adventures, which included mutiny and hearing about a whale that
rammed and sank the Essex, led to the creation of his magnum opus: Moby
Dick. I, myself,
could barely get through this “Great American Novel,” but somebody must like
it. And now that I lived within walking distance of the Charles W. Morgan, the last
wooden whaleship in the world, I felt that was a sign. Perhaps I could enlist
on it as a deck swabber on some epic voyage. The house we purchased came with a
brass, whale-shaped door knocker. That had to be a sign.
If following
in the footsteps of a whaling writer didn’t work, there was always the chance I
could get famous by finding a dead body—just like Bailey and our older daughter
had. Although it didn’t make her into an international celebrity, I use it as a
party stopper whenever I want to be the center of attention. Of course, I
should really find my own body, preferably of a well-known person. Celebrities
are always coming to Mystic to film movies or vacation.
Since I
couldn’t count on finding a dead body, famous or otherwise, I decided to start
small. First, I planned to compile “The 7 Wonders of Mystic”—something quick I
could shout to the tourists who rolled down their car windows asking what they
should see (besides my underwear).
National Geographic’s website
suggests that Mystic adventurers bike what it calls the 25-mile Vineyard Loop
that includes “some hairy climbs that stops at two of the best wineries.” Hairy
climbs? I hoped to get thin, but did I have to go uphill to do it? I thought
not.
Instead, I
would conquer a trail of my own design—one that would avoid hills where
possible—and call it the “Mystic Seafarer’s Trail.” It would include “The 7
Wonders” (once I figured out what they were), plus the stomping grounds of legendary
explorers. It would encompass the Mystic, Stonington and Noank area and even
include where Kate the acupuncturist weighed her newborn on a lobster scale
after giving birth on a schooner and rowing to shore.
With so many
potential wonders to consider and adventures to try, I had a lot of ground—and
water—to cover. So, every afternoon, I checked my skirt and off Bailey and I
went to follow a scent of our own.
Read Chapter Two by clicking on the “LOOK INSIDE” feature of
the Mystic Seafarer’s Trail at: http://www.amazon.com/Mystic-Seafarers-Trail-Titanics-ebook/dp/B00A3RX85E
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