Shiloh at 19 - A boy to a star

Many lifetimes ago, on a continent far far away on this day, I made my way through the clogged and humid streets, a melting Spider Man cake tucked up on the seat beside me…

I’m on my way home from the one bakery that makes these specialty cakes. It’s far and the traffic is crazy in the way only African streets can be. Stray goats, Police roadblocks, hawkers touting smoked fish and exercise equipment. But I had to do it. You love Spider Man. And Bob the Builder. Or maybe Bob the Builder was last year or the year before. I smile to myself imagining your beaming grin, the kind that lights your magical eyes from within when you see it. The pride in your eyes when you scan the crowd – your cousins, your friends, the kids from the compound. And then I chuckle, knowing you will be the least interested in eating a bite. My sweet sweet boy who needs no sweets. it’s your sixth birthday.  

I might have lost my patience in the busy streets. I might be silently cursing Spider Man or worried that his melting face will be unrecognizable by the time I reach home. I have no idea how much I will cherish this day. How I will physically ache for one more chance to light your birthday candles. To witness your outstanding beauty. To hear you whine or laugh or even cry. Just to be near your life force one more time.

I am oblivious to the cruel future, I am limited, human in my lack of understanding of this world. It is your last birthday on this earth.

Gramma H, Quinci, Wesley, Shiloh, Auntie Jaqui

Grampa and Shi

My precious boy

Flying planes!

Think i had more fun than him!

The Vespa girl and her cool crew

brotherly love

Shiloh the ladies man

Still the ladies man

My little ham

Shiloh and his favourite dog Bob

Kristyn and Shi

That unmatched smile!!!!!!!

Hamming it up

Mother and son

Today I cannot imagine the 19^th birthday you will never celebrate. There were no more cakes, no more parties, no bicycles or scooters. There was crushing pain. Emptiness where there had been laughter. Just void.

And now, so many lifetimes away, in a place under the stars, I celebrate only your ageless spirit. I can only walk the beaches and feel the sensory celebration of you. The roar of the ocean waves against the unyielding rocks at shore – that is your roar. The tiniest of delicate seashells that cushion my feet as I walk – these hold the whispers of your ancient soul. 

You were here with us as a child. You live forever in our memories, but you are so much more. Beyond the limits of our clumsy human form, you soar above in the shooting stars and today that is what I have to celebrate.

Shiloh Devon Nii Kpakpo Mingle January 9, 1999 – June 21, 2005

Blue Ranger blues - Happy Birthday to an angel

Darth Vader stands tall on a random corner of Duval Street, strumming his banjo with the confidence you’d expect of an inter-galactic villain. A few blocks away, Spiderman sits cross-legged on the filthy sidewalk, a classic yoga pose, with his sitar on display.

Of course. The universe is at peace. This is Key West. Stray chickens dodge traffic. Hung over stag party gangs troll the streets like zombies. It’s a random Saturday in January.

But for me there is nothing random about it. In fact, for me, it’s a day like no other. 17 years ago - I can barely believe that number as my fingers stub the keys – that many years ago on January 9^th I gave birth to my baby boy Shiloh.

After a planned Caesarean, I awoke in a sick ward in a government hospital in Accra, Ghana, West Africa. Beside me, a man groaned as his elevated swollen foot oozed. I squeezed my eyes shut and tried to drive away the confusion, the terror. Why wasn’t I surrounded by other happy new mothers? Where were the cries of newborns?! Where was my baby boy?!!! The possibility washed over me, a cold sweat of terror. I was alone and my baby was not with me. Could he have… not…made..it?

An hour later, with the help of a pushy Canadian friend who’d rescued him from the incompetent nurses, I had my gorgeous boy against my breast, his heart beating with mine. His tiny body rising and falling gently with each of my calmed breaths. Apparently there were no beds left in the maternity ward. Sigh. What a scare!

Fast forward 17 years. I wake knowing my universe is not at peace. I wake with a deep dull pain. It washes over me. As I rub my eyes and look up at the white ceiling, there it is. No baby boy. No big boy either to call or visit. My worst fear has long ago come true.

I could be in Key West or St Lucia, Toronto or Trinidad. This birthday is full of terror. And resignation that an open wound will remain. It does not scab over. So I must protect it. Protect the pain as I would protect my boy. If only I could.

As the years go by, it gets deeper. Nestled in somewhere behind my heart. Somewhere that allows the sunshine still to enter. That lets me smile and know joy.

And there are memories. Memories that stay in another place. They rest like warm blankets all about my soul. If I’m chilly I only need to walk through them and wrap one around me. Bliss for a broken mama. 

But today on the 17^th anniversary of Shiloh’s birth, I choose to celebrate. A life force like that must not be mourned. A boy with the energy of the sun, the smile of a cherub and charm unmatched, THAT boy should be remembered and not swept away in sorrowful grief.

If Shiloh were here today is a game I like to play. It makes me smile. I know that my Blue Ranger is sky diving in heaven. My naughty little boy now an angel, the brightest star above us.

Shiloh would love Key West. All the action, the people, the madness, the life pulsing through this place. The messy along with the beautiful, the rough with the smooth.  He would stop me as we walked along, and stand by Spiderman on the dirty sidewalk with unabashed curiousity and wonder. He would stop and rub the back of a homeless person. 

I carry him in my heart all day today, like I do every day. I let him see it all through my eyes and in turn I see it all through his. Innocent but an old soul. Wise, wide eyed, Shiloh’s spirit soars. He guides me in his awesome way.

He has shaped who I am today, and through all the sadness I would rather to have known and loved him, than to have never held him or known him in all his glory.

Happy birthday my little boy, my omnipotent angel. May the universe hold you when you are sad and help you along your other-worldly path. And know that if I could just hold you again, for one brief moment, I would give anything and everything.

Your ever grateful mama.

Merry Christmas from Shiloh

Merry Christmas. It’s pouring, the dark skies are dumping big time, and the wind is whistling. We awoke to a leak in the hatch above our heads. Drip, drip, drip.

At 4:30am the Holy Church of Blasting Music set up their deafening speakers somewhere on the beach to enlighten us out in the bay through distorted gospel tracks and pastor/DJ on a power trip. Welcome to Christmas morning, Carriacou style! The good thing about the rain was that it drowned out the sound system. Hopefully that was literally!

If I sound a bit bah-humbug, it’s not intentional. I am on a boat in the tropics after all. It just doesn’t seem like Christmas to a Canadian.

There was a time when a storm outside at Christmas meant cuddling up in bed, with the fireplace crackling and the sounds and smells of the season wafting through the house. Baking, cinnamon, dry warmth, the smell of new plastic toys…. Here it means jumping up and peering through the pocked Perspex windows, watching our position in the bay, with a keen eye on our proximity to the others – have we dragged? Is anyone else dragging? Are any hatches open or leaking? Do we have the rain catchers out? 

Shiloh all dolled up for Christmas

There is no commercialism here. No shopping - it's difficult to find carrots! No traffic, no hectic rushing around. Nothing to stress about (except the weather!). But also no family.

This is the first Christmas without any of our children. They have grown and have made other choices, spending time with other families, other friends, other countries. It’s a good feeling to know they are happily living their lives, as are we. But I still have those small pangs – wishing I could see their sleepy faces on Christmas morning, gifts under a tree… playing silly games, their youthful banter.

I must say though, that sailing friends are special. We’re all in the same boat, so to speak. Each of us with stories, families, lives far away that we’ve left behind in this nautical pursuit of freedom and fun and adventure. We connect. We gel. We bond instantly. And we learn how to say farewell as easily.

We definitely know how to have fun. So Carriacou it is for this holiday. It could be any island really, it's the people who make it shine. Along with a lot of rum!

The gang - pre-Xmas party at Miss Lucky's

But last night, as Shiloh lapped calmly in the bay, Christmas lights aglow, and we mulled amongst the party goers on shore, another Shiloh called me. All the happy voices muted, the festive faces blurred. An angel of Christmas past touched me lightly and settled into my heart.

A time before boats and bays, when my little one would wake on Christmas morning excited for the day. When his gaze, so deep would meet mine and melt me. The boy I could never hold tight enough. Couldn’t keep him here for the many more Christmas mornings he should have seen.

 He visited with a grin though, a deep wide grin and I held him there, oblivious to the chatter and cheer around me. That was my Christmas present this year. 

I am headed to a party of 20 on a boat. Good friends and good cheer. My boys are in my heart and they give me the happiness at the end of every day, that makes the season truly joyous. Merry Christmas Quinci and Merry Christmas Shiloh. Love you forever.

Thanksgiving is not a physical place

I am breathing quite slowly, the subtle scent of sun baked earth assaults my nostrils. The shock of bright lime palms dazzles my eyes, but I am calm. The breeze is warm but prevents a sweat, even in this 35 degree heat. The sun is deceptively affectionate, beyond the roof construction above me. It sets the sea afire with a glint that excites and entices. 

This is where I am doing my laundry today, in paradise, on Thanksgiving Day. 

I can’t help but reflect.

I won’t be partaking in the traditional Thanksgiving feasts of Canada, or even the one organised at a local marina (due to my failure to be organised enough to book us in), but I am no less thankful. I don’t need a belly full of turkey and stuffing to know that I am a lucky girl.

My family is far away today, and though I will miss my sister flittering around the kitchen, with exotic hors d’ouvres on the table, and succulent flesh in the oven, I am really with them in spirit.

I miss my boy, all 19 years and stretch limbs, with his baby smooth skin and towering hugs. Miss his gentle spirit. But I am wrapped around him with love and he can feel it. 

My little mom, fragile but so strong, always colour coordinated and full of compassion for all of us, will be there, where I am not, but I hear her ‘I love you honey’ and feel her tight little hug.

And Dad, reserved, but wearing his love there, just under his sleeve. He will be cringing at the energy of his hurricane grandkids, racing around his knees, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. His little text messages speak volumes for me, a world or so away physically.

 We’re all connected. And it doesn’t end there.

Thankful covers so many things. So many emotions. So difficult to be thankful for the reality that separates me from my littlest one, lost to us and to this world. But my life is rich beyond words for having known him.

And so I am thankful for his small neck, with it’s peach fuzz blond hairs, lying in a graceful little pattern, on the burnished brown skin below. Yes, I am thankful for the memories that sit solidly inside me. Offering up his tiny hand, dirt under the round nails, he’s been playing in the yard with his friends, leading a parade. He is sweating and his eyes alight. I am overwhelmed by his charm. 

 Shiloh, namesake of our forward vessel, I carry you forever with me.

I thank the wind and the waves, for accepting us, into a life chapter of exploring, tasting, seeing, feeling… for all that lies ahead, and all that led me here.

Thanks to the love of my life, a partner in every sense. For the only one I’ve known who took a dream and polished it, formed it and brought it to light. I am thankful for loving and being loved. It truly is what makes life amazing.

And I’m off to collect the warm, soft towels from the dryer. Thankful even for the cozy smell that awaits me.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone. Stay connected and marvel at the beauty of love.

Sunday at Hog Island

Sand in my toes, sun in my eyes, I sit on a piece of driftwood, feeling the bass of the live soca band sounds, playing in the bamboo makeshift stage in front of us.

Various tourists, local rastas, long term cruisers and aged hippies sway to the music, beers or rum punches in hand. Children shriek and run about, kicking up sand and disrupting wafts of smoke from the dubious homemade cigarettes. Just behind us, the Sunday chicken dinner is being served up in huge tin bowls. Potato salad, mashed pumpkin, callalloo, barbequed chicken legs. It’s hot and the sounds and scents around us are overpowering. I’m in a trance.

Rogers Bar on Hog Island

People arrive by boat for the Sunday barbecue festivities

We’ve just made our first ocean journey from True Blue Bay, and Shiloh did well, despite some issues with the auto pilot and the many reefs we had to dodge to get into this bay. Shiloh is anchored out just beyond the island. Shining white in the sun. She’s easily the prettiest boat here, but then I’m biased. I keep worrying the anchor will slip and she’ll float backward to the reefs. It’s in my nature to worry about such things.

I turn to JW and shout over the music,

“Shiloh looks good here” but in my mind I’m watching the dirty ragged little boys run by, delighted with themselves and the day at the beach, and I’m thinking about our boy.

JW can’t hear me well. He squeezes my hand and says,

“He would have loved this life.”

And tears blur my eyes behind my fancy polarized lenses. We both can see him here in the sand, darting around, out in the waves, making fires back by the bushes with his friends.

I squeeze my eyes shut and feel the music. Shiloh is in it. He is there.

Later at night we sit aboard in the silence of the bay, I look up and a shooting star whizzes by. In the ocean of darkness and light above us, Shiloh has winked. He is playing among his friends and he does love this life.