edieval calendars marked the high holy days with red ink instead of the usual black ink used for ordinary days, so through the ages saying you've had a "red letter day" denotes a day of some special significance.

Those of you who have followed my exploits for any length of time know that it doesn't take much to mark a red letter day in my calendar lately. I've been disabled for a year and a half now, thanks to the disintegration of the cells in my nervous system as they devour themselves from the inside out. Going to the mailbox is often an arduous enough task to qualify as a red letter day, and entering a few paragraphs in my journal may take so many hours that it often qualifies too.

This weekend, I had a day that is special for my calendar in a new way. I actually made it out on the water for the first time in two years. Now, I've been down to visit my boat in the harbor several times in the past few months, and even spent a whole night sleeping aboard in the aft cabin with my wife once. Those days are usually followed by another day or two of convalescing in my living room tucked into a blanket with pillows supporting my arms and hands. Actually getting out on the water though, remained a pipe dream.

Carol made coffee for me early on Saturday morning, and out of the blue asked me if I felt well enough to go sailing. The day was overcast, light winds, with the threat of a rain shower looming at about 40%, according to weather.com. Without even thinking about the consequences, I immediately chimed in the positive.

I was so smitten with the idea of being on the boat, and even more, being asked by Carol to participate, that I never even hesitated.

It was only the two of us, preparing to head out on to Monterey Bay, but two other boats, "Ariel" and "Sansoushay" were participating in an impromptu race, so they asked us to join. By this time I knew it was too ambitious, but we agreed to take part anyway.

I took the helm and started up the engine while Carol prepped the boat, taking off the sail covers and stowing anything that might dislodge itself on the bumpy ride. We motored out of the harbor while Carol raised the mainsail. The other boats waited patiently for us to meet them at the starting line.

Thank goodness it was such a light day. Winds were less than 10 knots, and the swell was about four feet at a 14 second interval, making conditions light and easy for me. That's not enough to get a real sailor excited, but shortly after the start of the improvised race and long before we had reached the first mark, I knew I had reached my limit. Half an hour on the water is not enough time to go anywhere, but it was enough time for my neck and shoulders to lock up and prevent me from raising my head high enough to view the telltales on the sails to see which way the wind was blowing.

Carol took the helm and began single-handing the boat while I fell into a prone position in the cabin below deck. I could only shiver and shake while my Dystonia attack wracked my body with involuntary jerks and tremors, as Carol turned the boat back to shore and directed us to harbor.

She got us back to the dock and safely stowed away just as the rain started to fall. I have to say, there's something extra cozy about being ensconced below deck while the rain patters above your head, drinking hot cocoa, even if you can barely hold the cup upright.

I was embarrassed and humiliated to have to have dropped out of the race. The other boats had been so generous to invite us, even knowing I was aboard, and I expected them to be upset that I made Carol drop out so early in the afternoon's sail. It's a testament to the quality of people that love to sail in Moss Landing that their reaction instead was concern and pride.

They were concerned that I was safe, since they all know enough about me to know what it took for me to even think about going out in the boat, and they were proud that even with this affliction that keeps me tethered to my La-Z-Boy recliner most days I still have enough life left in me to make such an effort. My effort was nothing compared to what a healthy person would be able to exert, but they felt so much compassion for me that they all understood how much it took for me to make the attempt.

What made that Saturday a red letter day then, is not that I was able to go sailing, even if for so short a time and at such a cost, but that I gained a new, greater understanding of my local sailing community. There's not a single person aboard any of the boats involved that cares one whit about who came in first, or who beat whom. As far as every one of them is concerned, I was the winner that day.

I feel like a winner. It's taken me nearly four days to regain enough muscle control to write this journal entry, but my heart still swells as I recount the events of the day. I'll take the pain, and I'll take the disability it brings, as long as I can keep this joy for life, and as long as I can keep meeting people who care more for their fellow competitors than for the competition.

That's what keeps me coming back here, after all. The people I've met on dA, without exception, have all been the type of people who appreciate the challenges I face. We're not competitors, but we share many common interests, and above it all, we appreciate the love of art, and a love of life that goes beyond the mundane hurts and problems we all face at all our varying levels. I appreciate every one of you, and I thank you all for going sailing with me again.

Hot cocoa, anyone?

-=b=-