My dad used to put together an annual deep sea fishing trip for his employees and customers, and would always have an extra slot or two for come-withs (generally us kids, taking turns year to year). He’d plan a three-day trip to Destin. Two of the days were for general playing, and he’d charter a 65′ sportfisherman for the fishing day. Just Dad’s party on the boat; nobody else. The boat came with captain, deck hands, equipment, supplies—everything. You were 35 miles out in the Gulf of Mexico, and all you had to do was fish and drink beer.
I got to go three times in twelve years, and oh man, was it ever one hell of a good time. Ever 
eaten triggerfish that was alive 20 minutes earlier? Do you have any idea how lustrous and just, well, blue the water is out there? It’s breathtaking, and I don’t throw that adjective around lightly.
They’re some of the best times I’ve ever had. I usually caught red snapper (lots of fun) and trigger, with an occasional grouper or amberjack. Other guys who were more experienced would set up for king mackerel or wahoo, and I think I enjoyed that almost as much as a spectator as I would have a fisherman.
Unfortunately, he doesn’t do the trip anymore. One minor reason is that a lot of the folks who used to enjoy the trip have moved on to new jobs, but the main thing is the new fishing restrictions in the Gulf. In an effort to restore and maintain the fish populations, the per-person limits are now low enough to make the value of the trip dubious. (Can’t fault the reasoning; just saying.) On a good trip, a dozen of us might catch 400 pounds of fish, and we’ve simply reached a point where we need to take an active interest in ensuring the sustainability of such things.
In any case, it was my turn two years ago, on what turned out to be the last event. And Lea found out the day I left that she was pregnant.
Lea’s my wife. I’m her husband. Husbands and wives make plans. And our plans were always for two children. We designed and built our house thinking that. We did our long-term financial planning thinking that. We decided I could be the sole breadwinner thinking that. A third child was not in the equation.
So this is major freak-out news, dig?
And Lea, not wanting to ruin my trip, didn’t call and tell me. She kept it to herself for three days. What an incredibly selfless act. What a woman I married.
So understandably, I was home for all of five minutes when she spilled it, and then we both freaked out together. Holy shit. What are we going to do?
After the worst of the shock passed, we decided that as serious as the situation was, we could permit ourselves a week of floating while our emotions settled. We’d talk about what to do then. No penalty in doing nothing for seven days. Probably good for us, actually.
After that week, we looked at our options. Neither of us particularly wanted to move. Nobody thinks it’s fun, but I’m really, deeply, viscerally opposed to it. I’d love to move two more times the rest of my life, okay? So on to other options.
We had kicked around the idea of building a detached garage before, in terms of having a shop and a spot for an eventual fun car. Lea took this idea and suggested we make the detached garage bigger. We could then turn the in-house garage into a study for each of us, another bathroom, and a family room, and recover the fourth bedroom (my current study) for the baby. We’d get a home equity loan to pay for the work.
We slept on it for a day or three, and the plan still stood up. Lea was sketching by now—she’s good at that—and we decided it was time to call a few someones for estimates. We made appointments. I was feeling better with a plan taking shape, and one night I caught my breath and said “you know, I didn’t know this was the next challenge, but it is, so bring it. Go hard or go home!” (I heard Diablo Cody say that on Letterman, and I loved it.)
Shortly before our first contractor was to show up to talk to us about our plans, it became clear that Lea was going to lose the baby. She wouldn’t be joining us after all. (I kind of thought it was a girl, and had been calling her “my hellion unplanned daughter.”) Actually, she was all but named Tabitha. If she’d been a boy, we hadn’t quite decided, but David had a lot of promise.
It was one of the most emotionally draining periods of our lives, as short as it was. To be pummeled with the news, then freaking out, then adjusting, then beginning to get excited, then losing…well, it was something. I wished I could have taken more of the hurt from Lea. Naturally, she experienced it all of the same ways I did, but also on that maternal level I couldn’t understand.
When Lea was planning, she tied little ribbons on the chain-link fence in the backyard to denote boundaries for things like
breezeways and landscaping. One of them is still out there, and I think of our baby that wasn’t every time I see it. More germanely to my life today, I think of what I said about not knowing what the next challenge is, but to bring it.
And then I wonder whether I have enough of that spirit day to day. I count my blessings. I have a beautiful family. I have truly close friends. I have a career that both rewards me personally and makes it possible to support a comfortable lifestyle for my family and me. That’s a jackpot right there. That’s stuff that many people don’t have.
At the same time, I question whether I’m doing all I should do. As important as it is that I keep doing what I’m doing—father, husband, friend, and all that is associated—I feel like I’m capable of more, and I need to start figuring out what that “more” is. I need to write, then pursue, some “stretch” goals for the second half of my life. I want to cultivate an affection for that challenge, not just handle it reasonably well when it blindsides me at 4:00 on a Monday afternoon. And that’s what the ribbon still means to me.
I think 2008 is probably the ribbon’s last year with us. It’s been out there two years, and UV is merciless (it used to be red, believe it or not). I expect I’ll look for it one day and it won’t be there. Its fibers will finally die. I don’t want what it’s come to evoke in me to die with it.
Go hard or go home.
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Hug.
If I were you, I’d rescue a bit of that ribbon. Not all of it, mind you, but a scrap you can keep someplace as a touchstone for all that it represents to you. It’d be a shame to have it fade away completely, even if you DO follow through on your promise to keep that spirit.
Wow, I am sorry to hear of your and Lea’s loss. This was a very touching post. {{{ hugs for you and Lea }}}
Thanks, ‘seester and Chili. Hugs backatcha.
It’s okay. I didn’t know I would ever tell that story, but I saw the ribbon while cutting the grass yesterday and the post pretty much wrote itself.
Great piece, Bo.
Funny how hours and hours of sweat are no substitute for a dash of inspiration.
Thanks, Greg. It does feel almost like cheating. I’ll take it, though.
I’ve mentioned before that I didn’t start blogging with any real expectations. It’s been interesting to me, though, how much my sense of what’s “blogworthy” has developed. Sometimes I miss; I still want to talk about infidelity again sometime, less clumsily.
But occasionally it just comes together. I felt like this one did. I’m pleased you agree.
Go hard or go home.
Written like the man I know you’ve become, Bo. My money is on you to meet any challenge thrown at you and to embrace the “affection” for it, even if slowly.
Thank you for your confidence, Jan. I appreciate it! xoxo