We’re baaack, but we’re different.
The captain and I pulled our floating mini-condo into our slip on Rehoboth Bay on a drizzly, yucky Memorial Day weekend. The first thing we did was blow-dry the dog and take hot showers.
The miserable weather had its up side. Drizzle usually flattens the water. This was good, since a friend with a history of motion sickness was aboard. She chose our trip from Annapolis to Rehoboth to face down her demons in a personal outward bound experience. We were flattered, I think, as we armed ourselves with every pharmaceutical, herbal, homeopathic, and velcro seasickness cure marketed.
So the Captain, First Mate, First Dog and Mal De Mer poster girl set out on a gloomy morning. Our fledgling crew member steered the boat to keep her mind off her gag reflex.
With Captain Bonnie at the throttle and navigational charts, the dog and I had nothing to do. So Max monitored the seagulls and I pondered.
I continue to revel in being part of Rehoboth’s mainstream. And while I’ve been pretty “out” for years in a relaxed, non-confrontational way, I never realized just how “out” I wasn’t.
My mate and I never celebrated an anniversary in suburbia like we did at the Back Porch Restaurant this year. No shrinking in horror at a loud, proud “Best Wishes on your 14th Anniversary” from the waiter; no stares from gay or gay friendlies in the room; no embarrassment at “good for you!” toasts from perfect strangers at the next table.
I’ve got the freedom of unedited conversations with shopkeepers and new acquaintances. I can join straight neighbors in casual chatter about everyday details of married life no different from their own. I don’t have to wonder if people think “why does she always have to bring up homosexuality?” when we’re really just describing our lives. Amazing.
I glanced starboard and saw sea gulls. Not swimming. Walking. I could see their bony little knees. As I turned to relay the bad news, the boat lurched and landed on a sandbar.
“What’s the depth finder say?” muttered the captain.
Now if you ask me, a depth finder is a useless instrument, proudly revealing how shallow the water is around the thing you’ve already hit. We were in 1 ft. 8 inches of water. That’s putting the drama in Dramamine.
“I thought it felt unusually calm here,” said our crew member, who, despite our best efforts, had obviously been monitoring every pitch and roll for the last four hours. Fortunately, we were quickly re-floated and back in the channel.
Returning to my ponderments, I realized that my beach personality was creeping into weekday life. Recently, my spouse and I were immersed in a production of the show Side By Side By Sondheim in Annapolis. The mostly straight company included longtime friends as well as folks we’d just met. While we’ve always been quietly open with theatre friends, we shut the closet to others until we gauge their comfort level. It’s exhausting being unflaunting lesbians. This time, unconsciously, we arrived with matter-of-fact “we’re here, we’re queer, get used to it” attitudes.
In the show, I expressed my identity by staging an appropriate ballad with the singers wearing red ribbons. On opening night it looked great, except for the clueless soprano with her ribbon pinned upside down.
After the opening, the company did the bonding thing. Among everyone’s getting-to-know-you details were casual questions asking how long Bonnie and I’ve been together and unsolicited support for sending us to Hawaii to get hitched should the court okay gay marriage there.
I was interrupted. “Is it lunchtime?” asked the captain and pilot-in-training. That everyone actually wanted lunch was a good sign.
I volunteered to make sandwiches while we kept going, since it would be cruel to ask a person who was, incredulously, not yet hanging over the rail, to eat lunch meat and pickles in a boat bobbing at anchor like a rubber ducky.
I absently juggled ham, cheese, plates and condiments while continuing my attitude adjustment review. Last week at an Eddie Bauer in a mall near home, a salesperson and I connected gaydar blips. As she totaled my spree at the register, I said, “Well, it’s no more than my other half is probably spending for a leaf blower downstairs.”
“Well, then he can’t be mad,” said another clerk.
“She won’t say a word,” I said. “I know what leaf blowers cost.”
The salesdyke fought back a grin as I took my receipt, smiled sweetly at the open-mouthed clerk, and left.
Reality intruded again, as the waves picked up, sending tomatoes rolling, cups catapulting and an open mustard jar into the air. The mustard itself flew faster than the jar (that Isaac Newton thing, I guess) and a huge glob became a heat-seeking missile, Grey Pouponing what would have been my lap if I’d been sitting down. I shouted a bad word.
The real captain (as opposed to the intern), thinking I’d been hurt, instantly throttled back. The boat stopped but I kept going, landing butt first in Max’s water bowl. Now I had a lap, with ripe tomatoes and a huge vidalia onion coming at it, in a simultaneous application of Newton’s and Murphy’s laws. I became a hoagie.
Miraculously, lunch got made, everyone ate, nobody turned green, and we reached Lewes on schedule. Loyal but wind-whipped friends waved at us from the Rehoboth Avenue Bridge as we made our second annual arrival in the canal, and cheered the success of the former barf queen’s aversion therapy cruise.
Heading to our marina, I remembered wondering last year if the Bay Pride and its rainbow flag would be welcome. Upon arrival, we had been a curiosity. This time, several marina neighbors, strangers when we pulled in last year, waved, hollered “what took you so long!” and offered helping hands for docking and dispensing beverages.
I’m so glad to be back. If anyone asks “Have you any Grey Poupon?” I can say proudly say “Yep, I’m wearing it.”