Ha!! We Caught a Live one!

The Pain of Regret

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**I have decided that for the ease of identification I am going to give our crew first names. I did not want to as I thought it may distract from the story line, but it is clear to me I must. So I will do this going forward. The delivery crew were as follows: Brad, Sr. Captain; Lloyd, captain, and our friend from the Caribbean; Jason, First Mate; and Micah, cook and deck assistant.**

The reality of what the seller’s broker had done hit us like a sledgehammer. It was hard for us to take. We are scrupulously honest about everything in our lives, so the depth of the deceit from ‘Bozo’ was a shock.

He had found his ‘live’ ones, and boy did he stick to to us. The “flakes”.

It took a few hours for us to recover from the trauma of losing almost complete control of the boat, coupled with nearly slamming into the Bay Club docks - let alone absorbing the realization that Eclipse had a very, very serious electrical problem. I have little recollection of the rest of that day. I remember bits and pieces; the sweet stewardess, Brooke, leaving as there was nothing for her to do; the crew talking about what could possibly have caused the failure; saying goodbye to our daughter; but little else. Deep inside, I probably want to forget that entire day.

As we drove home, while I was thinking about how I could get around explaining to my father why we weren’t in Catalina, there was something else nagging at me; a thought that was giving me one of those having-your-stomach-sucked-out through your feet emotions that I would become all too familiar with over the next year.

The thought? Our very quickly approaching must leave-the-dock deadline.

Dean was not surprised by what Bozo had done - the voice of reason, as always. I was livid. I wanted blood. But the practical me knew that we had only one path forward and that path did not include lawyers or blood. There was only one solution - we had ten days to figure out “the problem” with the generator and fix it before we no longer had a slip on which to keep Eclipse. On February 28th, 2022, our time at the Bay Club was up. We had to leave Newport Harbor regardless if she was fixed or not.

I had made it clear to Dean after he announced his crazy scheme that I was NOT going to be involved in any physical or mechanical work on our boat. I had raised our children and held down a successful career at the same time. I had worked my tail off for three decades and was not interested in picking up any more responsibilities than I absolutely had to. If Dean wanted this boat, I would support that. But I was not going to be doing any "work” on her, other than small projects I chose to do. We were paying people to do the work on Eclipse, and paying them well. I was ready to relax and enjoy the fruits of my labors.

Dean understood my position and was completely fine with it, but he wanted to be much more hands on - to a point. He was retired now, and whatever work he did on Eclipse would be his choice. Dean is very curious and hands on, so I knew that he would enjoy doing projects on his boat. He wanted to empower the professional crew to do the jobs we were paying a very respectable salary for them to do, while also resisting the urge to micromanage them. In that respect, he was in constant contact and discussion about the issues that needed to be addressed, but not directly involved in solving them or in working on them as they prepared her to leave for Florida.

It was a decision he would later come to regret.

After the fiasco in the morning, we finally left Eclipse and the crew that afternoon to continue their work, knowing that solving the issue with the generator was paramount. To his credit, Brad, the Massachusetts captain, was absolutely determined that he was going to fix it.

In the days that followed, our time was spent taking care of my father, the house, shopping, cooking, taking him to myriad doctors appointments, finalizing his care plan and driving down to check on Eclipse. The only conversation I directly remember about “the problem” that weekend was when Brad looked at Dean and I and said, “don’t worry. I’m gonna fix this”. As reported by the crew, the progression and gist of solving our “problem” went pretty much like this:

Brad started first thing on Monday, (two days gone of our ten), by making phone calls to generator repair and electrical specialists in the area. Despite his diligence, he was unsuccessful at getting anyone to come on board and diagnose - let alone fix - the problem. Although COVID had made everything harder, especially finding someone still willing to work, that was not the issue; the issue was that all of them had already been on Eclipse trying to fix her. Unsuccessfully. This is how we found out that every electrical specialist from Long Beach to San Diego had been on board and could not find “the problem”. It was so well known among them that one actually told our captain, “get off that boat. She’s dangerous”.

Great. So no help there.

Undeterred, Brad then turned to Northern Lights, the maker of the generator, for their help. He was told a technician could be on board to look at it in three months. THREE MONTHS. Thankfully, Lloyd then piped up and said he had a friend who personally knew the president of Northern Lights and had his personal cell phone number. We reached him while he was on vacation in Mexico; he listened sympathetically and promised to get someone out to help us.

We never heard from him, or anyone else at Northern Lights, again.

In the meantime, since the discovery of “the problem”, I had been pacing our bedroom in my dad’s house every day, calling marinas all over Southern California, trying to find anywhere we might take Eclipse while we tried to fix her. We needed a slip with electrical power, which created a big problem. Eclipse is a big sailboat by Southern California standards. Power boats rarely need more than six feet of draft, (water under the hull), and the marinas were designed for that. Eclipse needed twelve feet at minimum. Even at the Bay Club, where they had dredged her slip, at low tide her keel rested in mud. A few places could accommodate her length, but no one had a dock deep enough for her draft. I heard a steady drumbeat of “….but we’re full”, “sorry….”; “nothing available….”, “…..waitlist”, “have you called…”.

I was starting to panic. It was now Thursday. Could we find a place in Mexico? Could we even make it that far? Out of desperation I tried two marinas in Ensenada; neither one got back to me.

Things were not looking good.

On Thursday night, as Dean and I laid in bed, we held hands and began to pray. “Dear heavenly Father, we need a miracle”.

By now, Brad was also getting desperate. He was going through his list of contacts - which was substantial - calling anyone and everyone, trying to find answers. Someone, somewhere, had to have had this problem before. It was an electrical issue, he reasoned. Of course it could be repaired. At the end of his rope and getting to the end of his list, he reached out to an old captain friend of his in Florida. The man had been a captain on boats for decades and had a wealth of experience. They chatted about what had happened, Brad explaining as best as we all understood, when this friend paused and asked him, “by chance, are they Northern Lights generators?” Brad affirmed, “yes, they are”. “Are they three phase?” “Yes”. The friend paused again. “Hmmm. It sounds like your voltage regulator’s gone bad”. Brad responded. “I don’t think so. I brought that up to the Northern Lights technician but he said it couldn’t be the voltage regulator. He said they never go out. He was so sure he didn’t even look at them when they were onboard late last year”. His friend laughed. “Of course they do. It happens so often that I have spares on board, already programmed. You should change it out, see if that fixes it.”

Brad hung up the phone and got to work.

Before we knew it, it was Friday the 25th. One week had gone by. We had three days left before we had to leave and had made no progress at diagnosing or fixing “the problem” at all. We had no news from the boat. I was still frantically calling marinas. Around noon, I was looking on my phone through the list of facilities in San Diego when Shelter Island Marina drew my eye. I thought I had already called them but something told me, “try anyway”.

I dialed the number tentatively, thinking “dear God, please help us” as my fingers touched the screen. The phone was promptly answered by a chipper voice - Nancy -one of the managers. “Good afternoon! Shelter Island Marina. This is Nancy. How can I help you?” I launched into our situation immediately. “Hi, Nancy, this is Michelle Lobdell. My husband and I just purchased Eclipse, a 107 foot sailboat with a 12 foot draft and we are trying to find a place to put her while we get some repairs done. We’re desperate. We have nowhere to go as of Monday. Do you have anything, or can you tell me who might?”

There was a pause at the other end, then - a laugh! I thought to myself, is this woman mocking me?? “Hi Michelle! I know Eclipse, she has been here before! What a beautiful boat, congratulations! And you will not believe this, but I just hung up the phone with a cancellation starting Tuesday next week on a slip that can accommodate Eclipse! What a coincidence!”

After almost dropping the phone, I let out a whoop. “That’s fantastic!! How long can we stay?” Nancy got quieter “…..well, it’s only for four days. The boat with the reservation is delayed getting here”. I didn’t hesitate. “We’ll take it”.

First miracle delivered.

Silently, I thanked God for his providence and provision. This was not the first nor would it be the last of many times he has come to our rescue; and as always, just in the nick of time.

I messaged Brad with the good news. We had a four day reprieve to fix Eclipse. He messaged me back that he had just ordered a part that he hoped would fix the generator issue, and that it would be at my father’s house on Monday. According to the shipper, we would have it before we had to leave.

Maybe things would work out after all.

The crew spent the weekend getting the last minute details completed for a long trip. Micah hit the markets, stocking the fridges and freezers for what Brad told us would be about a four to five week trip to Florida if we made no stops. Two thirds of the voyage was just getting to the Panama Canal. We were told that the passage from Panama to Florida could be extremely rough in March and that sixteen foot waves, or bigger, coupled with thirty to forty knot winds were to be expected. Rigging was checked, then re-checked. The new tender cradle was installed and the tender lifted into place by the halyards, then lashed down tightly. All loose items were stowed and the water and fuel tanks filled.

On Sunday, Dean and I finalized getting ready to leave. Things I thought my kids would want to have; family heirlooms from their childhood, Christmas decorations, pictures and practical things that we had hauled from Arizona, all packed in plastic bins, would stay in my father’s garage until they could get them. I looked around the garage to make sure it was in a condition acceptable to my father, not wanting him to be annoyed about boxes in his way or storing our things for a few months. Mixed emotions filled me; apprehension, doubt, excitement and melancholy all fought for supremacy; while far in the darkest corners of my heart, dread lurked and brooded, shadowy and upsetting. I was about to embark on a trip I had never imagined I would take. I love boating, but a sailing trip of over five thousand miles and through two oceans was never something I aspired to. I knew how awful the ocean could be and the description of the conditions in the Western Caribbean did not sound like my idea of “fun”. I was afraid of the sea sickness, the discomfort, the reality of no escape if things got ugly; no avoiding, no escaping - only going through. Even though I knew Eclipse had sailed the equivalent of over ten times the circumference of the earth, I was not fully confident she was ready. The “problem”, still not even identified, had not been repaired. We had no idea what “repair: would mean, or how much it may cost. A new generator was over $100,000 dollars and could take months to get. I was leaving my family, friends, terra firma and everything comfortable and known for a whole lot of unknown. I was relying on my faith, my husband and a few able and experienced sailors to get us through.

I went upstairs to our room to finish packing. Dean was already there, almost packed - I checked his demeanor. He was busy ironing his underwear. (Just kidding, but he packs just a bit more fastidiously than I do.) On the surface, he seemed calm and confident. Neither of us spoke. I wondered if he was feeling as calm as he looked. I sure wasn’t. As I placed the last few items in one of my bags, I took a deep breath and put on my resolve, trying to block out all other thoughts and focusing on what was immediately in front of me. Make dinner tonight. Get to the boat. Pack our stuff on the boat. Get to San Diego. One step at a time. Unable to completely quiet my trepidation, I forced myself to be optimistic….“Thousands of people have done this; do this; every year. It’s no big deal. It’s an adventure. It’ll be amazing. Some people would give anything to have this opportunity. We’ll be fine”.

That evening, we had our last dinner with my father. I had spent the month setting up a schedule for his caregivers complete with detailed written instructions. I had set up his doctor’s and physical therapy appointments through June. I had written in all the details of his appointments on a 3’ x ‘5 calendar so even my dad could read it. Everyone had mine and my sister’s contact information. Medical powers of attorney and emergency contacts were confirmed. I had driven to Costa Mesa to get a months supply of his favorite chocolate chip cookies from Stater Brother’s bakery. He had leftovers in the refrigerator to last the rest of the week. Local friends and neighbors were alerted to his situation and needs.

Dad would be well looked after.

Tomorrow, we would set out - AFTER we got the Fed Ex delivery with the parts that, fingers crossed, would fix “the problem”.

We went to bed early, me tossing and turning for the last night on that God awful bed.

Sure enough, Monday dawned, dry and cloudless. We were awake early enough to watch the sun peek over the wall at the top of the bank in my dad’s back yard. The day had finally come to leave. The weather was perfect. We were due at Shelter Island that evening, about a ten hour trip. Dean drove to Starbucks for our coffees while I got my dad situated for the day. He liked his coffee brewed similar to hot coffee flavored water so we did not partake of it; the local Starbucks was our salvation. After Dean came back, we called an Uber and brought our suitcases down the stairs. Our Fed Ex, due by 9:00 a.m., was not going to show up. Tracking showed it at a distribution facility, not on delivery. We were not going to get it before we left.

I hoped it would not be a sign of how our trip would go.

My final moments with my father were here. It had been a tough time for both of us. There had been good, and not so good. The physical therapy was helping him in regard to his balance, which was great. He was relying on his walker to assist him less, which made him happy. He clung to the idea that he could be independent again; our biggest arguments had been me denying him that delusion. The doctors said that he would definitely have another stroke - it was just a matter of time. I did not share that tidbit of information with him, not wanting to depress him even more.

Sadly, there had been few moments that I had seen my dad in any state I would describe as “happy”. Just getting a smile out of him was a victory. We had watched a few movies together after I was able figure out he had streaming; one night we watched “Something’s Gotta Give” with Jack Nicholson and Diane Keaton. It was great to hear him laugh - a wonderful memory for me. It made my heart happy to hear him make a joyful sound that I heard too infrequently. We also got him down to see Eclipse and spend an afternoon on her. It was no small feat to get a man who could barely walk on Eclipse. We enjoyed a beautiful, warm afternoon, dad watching all the boats go by in the big channel. He seemed happy for us but also overwhelmed by Eclipse; she was the biggest boat he had ever been on, including his fishing charters. That one of his children was in a position to not only afford a boat like her, but also to take a trip like we were planning, was almost beyond his comprehension.

My dad’s dreams were tiny compared to mine and always had been. He was a simple man who could not understand this daughter of his; a dreamer and risk taker who lived a life full of adventure. I can see now that that was just another reason we had such a hard time relating. Over those three months I took care of him, my dad spent most of his time complaining about what he could no longer do, lamenting his lot in life, or watching cable news, silently staring at the television for hours. I tried to get him interested in going places, seeing movies or going to hear live music. He just wanted to stay home. Many days, he did not even get dressed. His eyesight and hearing were almost gone, a cruelty of age that was incredibly frustrating for him. He wondered why he was still alive, an alien in a world he no longer recognized proliferated by technology that he had no idea how to use but that ran nearly everything. Almost all of his friends were dead. When he did talk, it was clear he was living in regret; not for what he had done, but for what he had missed out on and for the decisions he had made that denied him the opportunities to do the things he thought he should have. I kept trying to help him with his outlook, reminding him that old age was a privilege denied many, that he was in fantastic shape compared to most people his age and that he was fortunate to have children who cared about him. My words fell on deaf ears and a closed mind.

I had tried to talk to him about the reality of his situation; and, with the agreement of my siblings, discussed selling his house so that he could live in a gorgeous, brand new, state of the art assisted living complex in Irvine, not three miles from his home. I hated that he spent most of his days alone in that big house full of ghosts and memories. Besides, his house was falling apart; the termites were holding it together and plaster was starting to literally fall off the walls. He would have had a chef, had access to round-the-clock medical assistance, had people his age to talk to and play cards with; which to all of his kids sounded ideal. He would have none of it. He was determined not to leave his home of fifty six years.

Worst of all for him, he could not fish anymore - the one joy in his life. It was a crushing blow.

I know my dad was unhappy with what his life had become. I cannot imagine what he expected it to be after ninety two years on this planet. I took care of him as best I could. However, I am embarrassed to admit that in the short time I had with him, I was often annoyed with him. I was at times short and argumentative. He was stubborn and opinionated. I don’t think that at his age he could have been anything else, and I should have given him more grace. As we stood there, ready to leave, guilt wrapped itself around my heart and ate at my insides. I should have treated him more gently; not responding by snapping and getting angry the way I did. The bitterness of all he had said about not wanting kids, how he had not protected me as a child, how he had never been around, never took us on vacation; my feelings of abandonment, the fights, the disagreements - I had so much accumulated anger - all of it had been seeping from my not fully forgiving heart.

Now, as I was about to leave, it hit me; I was facing the very real possibility that my anger, snapping, disrespect and impatience would be how he remembered me and our last months together. And it crushed me.

That morning, as we waited for our driver, he exuded energy and optimism. He was managing himself very well, almost as if to convince us all that he would be fine after we left. He was wearing his thick gray terrycloth bathrobe - it had almost become his “uniform” by that point - as he shuffled into the front hallway to say goodbye. I looked at his face; ninety two years of age; unshaven with not too many wrinkles, really; and into the blue of eyes as piercing as they had ever been. They were the one thing - besides his obstinacy - that in all those years had never changed. I could see the sadness behind his eyes and in his smile. The week before, as we had been watching a movie, he had begun to cry as the thought that he would never see me again hit him. I remember being surprised - I could not believe that seeing me meant that much to him. I had also assured him that he would - we were only going to Florida - but he seemed sure he would not.

The driver pulled up and because it was Uber, with the clock ticking, Dean immediately began loading our bags to avoid us getting “dinged” for a delay. My dad stepped unsteadily out onto his front porch, and I turned to say one last goodbye before we left. I hugged him tight - I smelled his familiar smell as I closed my eyes, willing him to know through my tight embrace that I really did love him. As I let go, he looked at me and smiled, “I hope you have an amazing trip, honey”. I looked at his face; familiar, grizzled, aggravating - the man I did rounds and rounds with as a teenager, the man with whom I seldom agreed about anything. “Thanks, dad. I love you. I’ll see you soon”.

I turned and walked to the car. As I got in and closed the door, seated on the right side where I could see him as we pulled away, I took a deep breath. Dean grabbed my hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. As the driver backed up, I looked at dad standing on the porch in his old bathrobe. It is a memory etched into my mind; a vision of him, smiling happily, standing on his own on the porch, waving goodbye. I almost stopped the car to get out and run to give him one more hug, but I resisted and rolled down the window, smiling and waving. We were to leave for San Diego as soon as we arrived at Eclipse.

It was the last time I would ever see my father alive. Within six weeks of our departure, he died. He had been right.

I never saw him alive again.

To Be Continued.