Aesa Therese Holleran was born on 7/30/2011 in Manchester, NH, to Ryan and Megan Holleran.

Ryan and Megan’s wedding, October 30, 2010.

A chapter in our life ended on Friday, May 14, 2010, when we said goodbye to our dearest Trevor. He was a dog of my heart, so close and special to me in ways that many would not understand. He was by no means a perfect dog. There was no object perpendicular to the ground that could escape his marking. I will never forget the vision of him casually strolling up to my son’s best friend and claiming him in that special doggy way. Trevor had the uncanny ability to start the doggy equivalent of a bar room brawl, and would never dream of walking away from one. A rescue dog, at times we aptly identified his breed as New Hampshire Hump Hound.

However, no dog could outdo his ability to create joyful times for young boys who, like Trevor, had trouble knowing when to put on the brakes. Even at the end, the sound of a young male voice would stop him in his tracks and change his direction. Trevor would dock dive for jolly balls, play king of the float, accompany canoes, kayaks, and swimmers doing laps. And he would do those things for hours on end. He was an avid fishing partner, patient and calm until the big strike came along. On hikes, Trevor always took point, showing off his jaunty stride and making sure the way was well marked and safe for others. He was a marathon play-master in his prime.

In his older years, Trevor developed the new role of play police for the younger dogs that entered our lives – teaching them when enough was enough, how to play nice, and the importance of not interrupting nap or meal time. It didn’t take much – he could walk into a room and create instant calm. Outdoors, a few well timed warning barks did the trick.

We found each other through adoption, when Trevor was approximately 1.5 – 2 years old, and relished the 12 years we shared our lives. He will be missed by many, including lads young and those now grown. But no one will miss him more than I. If there is a spot over the bridge, here’s hoping that there is a spring back in his step, lots of verticals for marking, a bag of Cheetos, and a never ending supply of jolly balls. Farewell dear friend – Godspeed.

Kris

Trevor’s Photo Album

For those in the area who have never seen a Cirque show, this is your chance. Those who have seen one (or more) wouldn’t dream of missing it. A TV broadcast of Alegria is the event that compelled me to see a live show. Kris and I have now seen 5 live performances, but I’ve always yearned for the chance to see this one in particular. It contains my favorite act, known as “Power Track.” Below is a YouTube video of this act. I have learned from experience that video can only convey about 10% of the magic and energy of these shows, but go ahead and take a look…

Power Track is on the program, and I sincerely hope that the “arena adaptation” doesn’t take away from the thrill. For those considering attending, I advise sitting as low as possible (to the side is OK) – the nosebleed seats would present an odd angle. Of course, down low is more expensive, but I can say with assurance that you will not be disappointed. We’ll be there on Thursday, 7/8/2009, at floor level (after eating peanut butter dinners for a month). Click here for the Cirque website.

“What was their hurry?” asked Kris.

I could think of at least two possibilities, but kept one of them to myself. “I’m sure they’ve been up all night and need some sleep.”

We exited the elevator lobby and entered the cavernous space that lies between any two points in the MGM Grand Hotel in Las Vegas. The atmosphere in the casino was markedly different than it had been just a few hours earlier. When we’d traversed it at 1 a.m., there was barely room to pass through the thousands of revelers who jockeyed for positions at the slot machines, gaming tables and bars. The noise was deafening. Now, at 6:30 a.m., a few of those same souls wandered about in stunned silence. A handful of new arrivals, freshly arisen early birds armed with coffee and the morning newspaper, paused to try their luck at the slots. Otherwise, the place was deserted.

I was, for the briefest moment before I came to my senses, tempted to feed another dollar into one of the machines. The prospect of the second phase of this vacation pulled me back from the brink. It had been a long time – at least 20 years – since we made a genuine all-American road trip. There was a lot of ground to cover today, Las Vegas to the Grand Canyon by way of Hoover Dam. I’ve spoken to many friends and coworkers about their trips to Vegas, and I’ve  asked them all the same question. “Did you go to Hoover Dam?” It’s a question that can be answered two ways – yes or no. I’ve received two variations on one of those possibilities – “No,” or an uncomprehending, quizzical stare.  Never heard a “yes,” which is a great mystery to me. Hoover Dam is way cooler than a slot machine.

Kris waited with the luggage under the hotel’s portico while I fetched the rental car from the parking garage. I had requested a mid-sized Jeep SUV knowing that we’d need some cargo room later when we moved Wells into the dorm at the University of Arizona in Tucson. Clutching keys I’d picked up at the rental counter the previous afternoon, I walked about a mile – at least it seemed that far – to the hotel’s parking garage. When I finally found space #38 on the fifth level, it was occupied by a monster truck – a Jeep Commander that looked remarkably like a Hummer. It was menacing. Deep, dark blue with windows tinted black, a chrome grill that looked like shark’s teeth and tires that bulged obscenely from the fenders. Children would cry when they saw us coming.

I hadn’t driven anything so big and unwieldy since a memorable white-knuckled trip through the narrow streets of Philadelphia in a 20-foot U-Haul truck many years ago. I climbed aboard and sat in the captain’s chair, adjusting things to my liking before backing carefully out of the parking space. Something started beeping. The tone grew more urgent as I crept backward, and ceased when I shifted into drive. It dawned on me that this beast had a radar warning system, lessening the chance that the driver would inadvertently crush an innocent Volkswagen hiding in the blind spot.

I found it remarkable that the parking garage at MGM was free. It seemed so out of character for Las Vegas, where even the free drinks came at a steep price. By the time I’d driven in spiraling circles down five levels, I was so dizzy that I took a wrong turn and was forced to go all the way around the block. Going around the block in Vegas is like driving the periphery of our home town, and it took ages. Finally, I pulled onto the Hotel’s entrance road and, using all of the dumb luck that had otherwise remained dormant throughout our time in the city, chose the correct lane – from at least twenty candidates – to take me to Kris.

“Where have you been?” Kris asked. “And what is this thing? I thought a pimp was checking me out.”

“It’s a Jeep. I guess they upgraded us from the little one I asked for.”

“It’s so…huge! Does it cost more? Is it a camper, too? I thought we were staying in hotels.”

As big as it was, it still couldn’t hold all of our luggage behind the rear seat. I don’t know how the designers managed to use the space so poorly. Our Subaru can hold more stuff. And this Jeep didn’t even have 4-wheel drive, so there’s even more points in favor of the Subaru.

“What kind of gas mileage do you think it gets?” asked Kris.

“I don’t know…maybe ten or eleven,” I said. Out of curiosity, I popped the hood. Standing on tip-toes, I peered into the engine compartment. A massive empty space allowed me to see the pavement below. Several people could have stood upright in there, feet firmly on the ground – without ducking. “Look, it’s the Grand Canyon.”

“Where’s the engine?” asked Kris.

“Up there,” I said, pointing to a tiny little motor sticking out of the upper rear wall of the compartment. “It’s only a six-cylinder. I think we might get actually get twelve  miles to the gallon.” Actually , there was more empty space under the hood than there was in the luggage area. I began thinking about how one could fashion a shelf in there.

We exited the hotel’s private expressway and made a u-turn on Tropicana Avenue, heading east into the blinding sun. “I have to make a stop,” I said.

“Already?” asked Kris. “You didn’t even have coffee yet. Maybe you should talk to the doctor…”

“Not for that. I’m going to pick up a GPS unit.”

“Where? Why?”

“At the main rental car office,” I said. “They don’t stock them at the hotels.”

“Well, that’s kind of a pain. Do you know where it is?”

“Sort of…but it would be easy if we had a GPS. That’s why I got it.”

It turned out that the rental office was just a block off our intended route, so the detour was brief. I traded my signature for the GPS unit, installed it in the Jeep and programmed it to take us to the Hoover Dam.

“Can it tell you where to get a decent cup of coffee?” asked Kris. She had been warned by her well-traveled brother about a lack of decent coffee in the western United States, and she was starting to get a little edgy. “I really need some good coffee.”

“I’m sure we’ll pass a hundred places before we get on the highway.” I said. “Look…there’s a McDonalds – how about that?”

Kris growled.

We drove block after block without seeing so much as a Starbucks. I thought those things were everywhere, not that I’ve ever been to one. The GPS advised that we’d soon be turning onto the highway, and Kris grew desperate. “Here! Right here! Turn! Burger King – I can live with that.”

I pulled into the deserted parking lot, entered the equally empty drive-thru lane and stopped at the menu board. “Do you want anything else?” I asked.

“Just coffee,” said Kris. “A big one.”

A garbled voice came over the loudspeaker. “Orning. welc…urger…ing…oment, please.”

I don’t know exactly what the voice said, but I got the impression that he or she wasn’t ready for the sudden rush of business and was asking me to wait. A few moments later, I heard some more noise. Detecting a rising inflection at the end of it, I assumed it was safe to submit my request.

Speaking slowly and deliberately I said, “Two large regular coffees, please. That’s it…”

From the response I picked out just three words – “…six…drive…window” – but I got the message and stepped on the gas.

Simultaneously, the person in the passenger seat went into a violent, thrashing conniption. “Get the turbo! Get the turbo!!” Kris shouted. If she hadn’t been wearing her seatbelt, her head would have dented the roof. “You didn’t ask for the turbo! I have to have TURBO! AHHHH” I’ve only seen her display such emotion during football games, which is why I retreat to my office when the Patriots are playing.

“You said you didn’t want anything else. What the heck is a turbo?”

“It’s their special coffee. I can’t drink their regular coffee – it’s disgusting! I have to have the turbo. Go back and tell him…”

I continued forward and pulled up to the window as Kris carried on. Through the glass I could see a man struggling to put a lid on a tall coffee cup, a task made difficult by the fact that he only had one arm. He turned in our direction, opened the window and passed me a cup of coffee. “A dollar eighty-six, please,” he said.

“Is it the turbo?” Kris shouted.

“No, maam. Did you want a Turbo-Joe?”

“Yes. I have to have turbo!” Kris’s voice actually echoed in the cavernous Jeep.

I interjected. “Actually, I asked for two cups.”

“I’m sorry – I couldn’t really hear you on the intercom. So you want two cups of Turbo-Joe, sir?“

Kris leaned over and shouted, “Do you have any cinnamon rolls?”

“Yes, maam. So that’s two Turbo-Joes and a cinnamon roll?”

“Large! Large turbos!” yelled Kris.

“Actually, I’ll just keep this regular coffee,” I said. “So it’s just one turbo and a cinnamon roll. Large…”

“I’ll be glad to take that one back and get you a Turbo-Joe.”

“No thanks, it’s fine,” I assured the man, not wanting to be more of a burden. I sipped the coffee to seal the deal. To me, it tasted like it was supercharged.

A minute later I pulled out of the parking lot. The soothing voice of the GPS unit said, “Turn right in point one miles.” Kris was sipping her way to caffeine nirvana. I had a hunk of the family-sized cinnamon roll stuck to my fingers, bits of sugar coating dangling from my mustache, a burning hot cup of non-turbo coffee between my legs, and a beast of a vehicle at my command.

What more could one ask for? The road trip had begun…

Our itinerary began in Las Vegas and continued to the Grand Canyon by way of Hoover Dam. Then it was on to a dude ranch called Tanque Verde, way out at the edge of Tucson where the city’s valley meets the Santa Catalina and Rincon mountain ranges. This was expected to be the highlight of the trip for Kris, who is something of a horse nut. She and our son Wells used to take riding lessons together ten or more years ago.

The original plan had us arriving at the ranch on a Sunday. We would stay a few days, and then on Wednesday morning, Wells would fly in from his summer gig in Colorado. We’d pick him up at the Tucson airport and take him to the university for an orientation session before raiding the local Wal-Mart for school supplies. He’d stay in his dorm room, and we’d move from the ranch to a flophouse next to the railroad tracks.

This was the simple and logical plan to which Kris and I agreed. Never satisfied with a simple plan, I decided to have some fun. Months earlier, after verifying that the ranch had a two-room suite among its accommodations, I asked Wells if he’d like to join us for a few days of R&R before beginning school. He was enthused by the idea, so I told him to wait for details and to keep his lips sealed about it when speaking to his mother.

After a late night on the Internet, I had all the arrangements made. The suite was booked, Frontier Air would fly Wells from Denver to Tucson – arriving at 3:00 p.m. on the Sunday of our own arrival – and the folks at the dude ranch would send their courtesy van to the airport to surreptitiously transport Wells to the property. They were advised of that this was all strictly hush-hush, and agreed to play along.

I spoke to Wells just before we left for Las Vegas, and the plan was set. Since I refuse to have a cell phone, we would be out of touch for nearly a week before meeting at the ranch. Several events in the preceding weeks had seemed to threaten the likelihood that everything would go without a hitch, but I decided not to worry about it.

Kris and I departed the Grand Canyon and headed for the ranch at 5:00 a.m. on Sunday morning. The rental car’s GPS unit estimated that we’d arrive at our destination at 11:17 a.m., and its prediction proved accurate within three minutes – amazing device (I’d much rather have one of those than a cell phone). Kris has always been quite willing to let me handle the business of checking in to hotels, but she surprised me this time by accompanying me to the front desk. I hoped that the clerk would see the note about the surprise and play it cool.

“Howdy!” the young woman gushed. “Welcome to Tanque Verde Ranch!! Are you checking in?”

“Yes,” said Kris. “When is the next chance to ride a horse?” That explained why she wasn’t waiting patiently in the car this time.

“Two o’clock is the next trail ride. May I have your name, please?”

“Mr. and Mrs. Holleran.”

The woman thumbed through some index cards and seized upon one of them. “Ah!! The Holleran family, party of three.”

Kris made an exasperated expression. “No…it’s just two of us. There must be some mistake.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” said the woman, truly regretting the error. “I’ll have to fix the computer record. We charge by the person, and this would have been an expensive mistake!”

I cringed and tried to signal the woman that she should just leave well enough alone. She seemed to notice that I was making funny faces and gestures, but she apparently didn’t get the meaning. Kris was growing impatient. Our room wasn’t quite ready, and there were a number of formalities to be completed at the desk. I needed a distraction.

“Why don’t you go look at the horses?” I asked. It was half suggestion and half plea. Thankfully she bit. Once she was out the door, I addressed the clerk. “There really are three of us. You’re picking my son up at the airport this afternoon and bringing him here as a surprise for my wife.”

I could see the understanding creep across her face. It emerged from her lips as, “Oh. Oooooooh!” She glanced at our reservation card. “It says here that it’s a secret! Oh… Oooooooooooh! I’m so sorry! I didn’t know.”

“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “She’s so excited about the horses it probably didn’t register.”

The clerk verified that Wells was on the airport pickup schedule, and after we’d completed the formalities, I caught up with Kris next to the corral. I’m not much of a horse guy, but the sight of a hundred and fifty of the critters standing side-by-side is impressive. I convinced Kris that we should have some lunch in the dining hall before going to the room, and it was nearing 1 p.m. by the time we finally parked in front of the casita and used a key card to enter room 15. Kris entered first and I heard her draw a sharp breath as I struggled to get the luggage through the door. In a moment I drew a sharp breath, too.

“Holy cow!”

“This must be another mistake,” said Kris. “We’re not supposed to be in here.”

“If the key worked, then this must be the place,” I said. The room before us was at least 20′x40′ – 800 sq. ft for the mathematically inclined. The ceiling rose 15′, and an adobe fireplace soared from the floor up through the roof at the far end. At least it looked like a fireplace, but I’d need to unpack the binoculars to be sure.

“This can’t be it,” said Kris. “There’s no bed.”

“It’s probably in the bedroom.”

“You mean there’s more?”

We ventured into the space and found the bedroom situated beyond the kitchenette, across the hall from a two-room bathroom big enough for five elephants – one on the john, one in the shower, one in the whirlpool tub and two at the counter in front of the mirror, each with their own sink. Upon leaving the bathroom, Kris began flipping wall switches frantically.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I can’t get the lights to go off,” she said.

I pointed high overhead to the skylights flooding the space with daylight. “The lights aren’t on.”

“Did you know it would be like this?” asked Kris.

“No,” I answered, and unlike everything else I’d said in relation to our visit to the ranch, this was strictly true. I reserved the space because it had two rooms. It was only marginally more expensive than the next largest room, which would have put Wells on a cot at the foot of our bed. I like family time, but there is a limit. This suite was, as I calculated, almost half the size of our comfy home – and I’m not including the covered porch we stumbled upon a little later. The two of us could live out our days in bliss within this space. “I knew it was their nicest room, but I had no idea.”

We walked through the main room. Along a fraction of one wall there were two large fine-wood panels separated by a massive built-in armoire. Kris tugged on one of the panels to reveal a queen-sized Murphy bed.

“Look at this! Oh, honey!” When I hear this particular term of endearment, I know something’s coming. “We should call Wells. He would LOVE it here. We have plenty of room. He could relax for a few days…it would be such a nice break between work and school. He could bring a friend – there’s two of these beds. Oh honey! Do you think he could change his flight? Maybe he could come down tomorrow. We could ride horses together and…”

“Hey,” I said. “This is supposed to be a romantic getaway for the two of us. Don’t you want to just hang out with me?”

“Yeah, but…Look at this place! This would be perfect. We have our own room, and the bathroom is huge…”

“Yeah, Wells is such a slob that he’d need this much room to spread all his dirty clothes around. Forget it.”

That made her pause and think for a few seconds. “Ah, c’mon. This is so perfect.”

I scowled and growled theatrically.

“Please?” she implored. “Would it cost more?”

“Of course it would. It’s all-inclusive – they charge by the head.” I reminded her that we’d lost the entire $60 we’d wagered in Las Vegas during our three days there, and needed to be restrained in our spending. “Let’s just enjoy our time here, and we’ll see Wells in a few days. We’ll still have four days with him once he gets to Tucson.”

I thought that would end the conversation, but Kris was completely obsessed with the idea of having Wells join us. For the next hour, she persisted. I actually began to get just the slightest bit annoyed (a rare occurrence), but two o’clock was approaching and I knew that Kris would be rushing off to do some horse whispering soon enough. When she finally rushed out the door, I breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Wells likes beer. I admit that at his age, I did too. These days, neither Kris nor I have much of a taste for it. Ever the thoughtful one, I decided to take the opportunity to drive down the road and pick up a six-pack for Wells, who would no doubt be thirsty upon his arrival – which I estimated would be in another two hours, around 4:00 p.m. The Circle-K Market didn’t have much of a selection, and I was practically forced to buy a 12-pack of plain-old Budweiser. I returned to the room and strolled in with the beer under my arm only to find Kris there waiting.

“What are you doing here?” I asked. It came out in a way that made it obvious I’d been up to no good.

“There was lightning, so they canceled the trail ride,” said Kris. “Beer!? What are you doing with beer? You don’t drink beer. I don’t want any beer. Did you get me a candy bar? What’s with the beer?”

“Ah, er, I…I thought it might be nice to have some beer while you’re out riding every day. I’ll just be sitting on the porch relaxing, and that’s the perfect time to have a beer.”

“Budweiser?”

“Yeah, Budweiser. I’m feeling patriotic.”

“Whatever… I still think we should call Wells and see if he can change his flight…”

“Here we go again,” I thought as I put the beer in the fridge. I took one out and opened it just for effect.

“Could we pick him up at the airport? How far away is that? I’ll probably be riding, but you could go…You could find it – right? How long is the flight? Is it easy to change a flight?”

“Would you like a Bud?” I asked.

“Not me…but Wells would really like to have one, I’m sure. Do you think it would be a problem to add him to our reservation? He’d love it. Oh, it would be so wonderful…”

For the next hour and-a-half, Kris continued on this theme. I sipped the Budweiser and seriously considered taking one of my “flying pills.” I checked my watch every minute or so, and at 4:00, excused myself.

“I’m going to take a walk around,” I said.

“I think I’ll stay here and finish getting settled,” said Kris. “Maybe I’ll call Wells.”

I walked down to the building housing the main office, arriving just as a van marked Tanque Verde pulled up. In the front passenger seat was a familiar silhouette, and I breathed a sigh of relief at the sight. The van pulled into a parking space between two similar vehicles, and I started to walk down the narrow space toward the passenger door, ready to greet Wells. For some reason I stopped before I got there, and retreated to the rear of the van where I waited patiently. Nothing happened. It looked like the only occupants were the driver and Wells, and I assumed that they were finishing a conversation. I paced back and forth, glancing through heavily tinted windows. In the rear view mirror I must have looked like some kind of lunatic.

At long last, the doors opened. Wells emerged from the passenger door, stuck a cigarette in his mouth and planted a cowboy hat on his head before I realized my mistake. This was not Wells. The passenger and the driver eyed me warily and gave me wide berth as they passed.

“Howdy,” I said sheepishly. “I thought you were someone else…”

The passenger tipped his hat and, in a pretty good imitation of a horse, snorted.

I went back to the room, concerned that something had gone wrong with Wells’s travel arrangements. Kris was talking to herself. “He would just love it here…All this space, horses…and the food…he probably hasn’t had a decent meal in weeks…”

Around 5:00, an hour after I expected Wells to arrive and blessedly put an end to Kris’s suffering, I interrupted the monologue and said, “OK, OK, OK – why don’t you just give him a call? I’m sure he has his cell phone.”

“Won’t it be expensive to use the room phone?”

“I don’t care. Call him. Please!”

She did. He answered immediately, and for a good 15 minutes, played the ruse to perfection by pleading every possible excuse. When Kris was convinced that there was no way in h*** he could arrange to join us, she handed the phone to me. “He wants to talk to you.”

“What’s the story?” I said into the handset.

“The driver says we’ll be there in five or ten minutes,” said Wells.

“Okay. We’ll see you on Wednesday,” I said, and hung up. “That’s a shame,” I said to Kris. “I guess it would have been good to have him come and stay with us. I’m sorry I didn’t think of it in time.”

“I should have thought of it, too,” said Kris. “But I had no idea that this place would be so…perfect.”

“Oh, well.” I walked to the sink and dumped the rest of the beer down the drain. This is when we discovered the porch, situated in the rear of the casita. We went out and sat for 15 minutes or so, lamenting the fact that Wells wouldn’t be joining us.

Kris was full of nervous energy. “I think I’ll go do a quick load of wash before dinner. Do you need some underwear?”

“I brought exactly the right amount,” I said. “I’m all set.”

“I’ll do them anyway,” said Kris, seeking solace in a way I never would. I followed her into the room and felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up. There was an unfamiliar suitcase on the couch, its contents spilling onto the floor. Miscellaneous stuff was strewn on the coffee table, and a jacket was draped over the back of a chair. Kris marched right past the mess without even noticing. Once she was in the bedroom, I frantically pushed the evidence onto the floor and draped myself seductively on the couch, my legs partially covering the pile. Kris emerged from the bedroom carrying a plastic bag filled with skivvies and headed for the laundry room, which was housed in a small building a few hundred feet down the path.. “Oh, aren’t you cute?” she said as she passed me. “Hold that pose. I’ll be right back.”

When the door closed behind her, I rushed around to find the camera. I opened the door just in time to capture mother and son. You might be able to guess from the look on her face that despite being overjoyed, Kris had some choice words to say to the photographer. Kris later reported on the meeting. She saw a familiar face walking up the path and was amazed at how much this perfect stranger looked like her son. It wasn’t until Wells said, “Hi, Ma,’ that she believed what she was seeing.

“With all the mysteries I read,” Kris said later, “I can’t believe I didn’t pick up on all the clues…”

There you have it. Kris may never make it as a CSI, but none of us will ever forget…

At approximately 0100 hours we arrived at the USCG base in San Juan, adjacent US Customs center. We thanked our coxswain and crew and went ashore.

We proceeded through the Customs process, presenting passports and filling out individual paperwork. Customs cleared us quickly and the Coast Guard staff began searching for a hotel to accommodate our stay in San Juan. After nearly an hour search, the Holiday Inn Express is found to have vacant rooms (it is a festival weekend – Halloween). A Coast Guard staff person took us to the Holiday Inn Express and we were now on our own.

Capt. Ed took a single room as he expects to remain in San Juan to initiate salvaging of the Epiphany. The four crewmembers shared two rooms for the night in anticipation of returning to Massachusetts later the same day. Before retiring, Harry calls American Airlines and makes arrangements for the four crew to return to Boston via Miami.

We all retire at approximately 0245 hrs.

Epilogue

The crew members returned to their normal lives. SV Epiphany was recovered about two weeks after the rescue and towed to Tortola in the British Virgin Islands. She sustained tens of thousands of dollars in damages, but is salvageable. Research revealed that at least a dozen examples of this sailboat have experienced catastrophic rudder failure.

Two Crews

After a brief time in the stat room, we were invited to go to E deck where we could shower, get into orange “visitors” jumpsuits, and launder our salt water soaked clothing. After showering and while our laundry was being washed, we were invited to the officers’ mess to have lunch. Lunch was fish, vegetables, bread, water, salad and a desert. All enjoyed the meal.

1300 to 1800 hrs. After lunch, the five of us returned to the laundry on E deck where we transferred our clothing to the ship’s dryer. We relaxed in one of the crew’s bunk areas on E deck. Once the laundry was dry we changed back into our own clothes and made our way back to the Navigation Deck. We had free access to all areas of the Navigation Deck and enjoyed learning about operations of a super tanker from our own observations and from deck officers, including the Chief Engineer. We learned that five of the deck officers, including the Captain and the Chief Officer were from one city in Croatia, a community rich in maritime heritage. We learned that the ship was built in Japan, was 12 years old, double hulled, managed by a British company and presently involved in the shipping oil on a spot market sale basis, principally between Nigeria and Galveston, TX.

As the hours passed, we eventually learned that the USCG informed the AP that it was no longer considering dispatching a helicopter to pick us up. This put the Captain and the ship’s owners in an awkward position – they might have to bring us closer to San Juan in order that small vessel might transfer us to shore. The Captain was making extraordinary efforts to accommodate our early and safe departure from his ship. The CO explained to us that the ship’s company had an insurance policy that would, in part, defray the cost of this rescue and lost time at sea. Also, the CO told us that the rescue provided the ship’s crew a training opportunity (a regular Friday afternoon occurrence) – only this time it was for real and it occurred on Friday morning, instead. With the spectacularly successful rescue, the officers and crew, we were told, were pleased to have this different level of activity on their training day.

By mid afternoon, the Chief Engineer invited all of us for a tour of the propulsion system of the AP. All five of us went below with the 2nd Engineer, donned ear protection, and were taken down some four additional decks to observe the 7 cylinder diesel that operated at a 73 rpm cruising level. We also observed the generators, maintenance areas, the drive shaft, air circulation and hydraulic rudder control systems. Everything was incredibly large. We returned to the Navigation Bridge where we spent some time observing operations, hung out in the Officer’s stateroom, and later down below to E deck where some of us rested in a bunk or on a settee.

1800 to 2200 hrs. At approximately 1800 hours we were invited to have supper with the officers in the officer’s mess. We gladly accepted and sat down to a baked lamb dinner with salad, vegetables, garnishes, and a desert. We spoke of our satisfaction and gratitude for such a great meal, at which time the Captain invited the ship’s cook to come forward and take a bow. We applauded him with enthusiasm.

Later, while we steamed toward San Juan, we proceeded below to the officer’s lounge where we hung out with some of the officers, including the Chief Officer and Chief Engineer. While a DVD played in the background (a USCG action film about training recruits in Alaska) we talked at length with the officers about their homeland, their careers, about their current jobs and work history aboard the Atlantic Prosperity and a little about our journey from Salem. We had been discouraged by some from bringing such a small sailing vessel so far off shore – and now we agreed! The conversation was most congenial, informative and helpful. Gary went to the galley for a snack of canned pears.

2200 to Midnight. At approximately 2300 hours we were invited to the port side of the red light section of the Nav. Bridge to observe our passage into San Juan harbor. We learned that we were to rendezvous with a USCG patrol boat approximately one mile from shore.