Sailing Home Sarasota – Sample Chapter

Sailing Home Sarasota

Written and Directed by God

Shared Through Jan

“Once upon a time they all lived happily ever after” makes a short read, even for my bright-eyed grandchildren. The best books have a lot of “Really Scary Stuff” in the middle. Using this as the criteria, you might just find the following to be a “Truly Good Book.”  I hope it makes you want to laugh, cry, and live long enough to tell your own story. 

Sailing Home is my own personal, “Tell Almost All” It is dedicated to my childhood sweetheart Tim, our children Lisa and Stephen, and our grandchildren, Enrique, Ivey, and Elijah, as well as our granddaughter Enli, who entered heaven just an hour after visiting earth. We appreciate both the romantic comedies and true-life love stories that have influenced not only us but our own grown children and are mentioned throughout this book. This would never have gone to print without a long list of friends and prayer partners. I also add a few puppies to the list, most especially Perky, Sneakers, and a precocious pup named, “Dear Abbey.”  And of course, those who came before me make the story what it is-a true tale worth telling.  Grab some chocolate and enjoy the journey. (People who eat chocolate on sailboats don’t start wars.) 

Worth Quoting:

 “What is she doing?”  “Writing, Maam.”  “Well, can anything be done about it?”- From the movie, Becoming Jane (Austen) 

“We have found, The Princess Bride, and she is living on, America’s Best Beach.” –Famous Movie Director (Who has yet to sail the Key Breeze) 

“The best part of this book is that it is true. –Jan in Tim’s arms,

“Indiana Jones Meets Meg Ryan on Siesta Beach” -Quote from the Sarasota Observer Article: “Love Birds Return to Siesta” 

“And while the prince and his princess DID live happily ever after, the point gentlemen, is that they LIVED.” -An aging Cinderella to the Brothers Grimm, from the movie, Ever After, with Drew Barrymore  

CHAPTER ONE: BACK TO THE BEGINNING (OTHERWISE KNOWN AS EAVESDROPPING 101)

Let us listen in now to the conversations of the past that (literally) made us the sailing couple we are today…. Home in a Helicopter

“Don’t cut the leg,” the soldier whispered as he awoke for a brief moment to the shock of the nearby nurse.” “But it might have gangrene,” the nurse responded with as much kindness as a war-torn girl pretending to be a woman could muster in a situation like this. “They may have to take it.” “Don’t let them,” the man repeated. I say, “Man” only because wars have a way of making men out of boys in a way, they don’t explain in the recruiting office. “You could die,” the WWII army nurse ventured with caution. “If I don’t,” the soldier answered with a steady gaze through the pain, “I’ve decided to serve God.”  And so it was that this bald-headed boy named BUD came to enroll in a small mid-western college called Ashland. 

Around the same time, another conversation was in progress: “We will be there shortly,” the bright brunette announced as she approached the US Highway 250 truck stop in Ashland, Ohio. Her violin was unpacked with her best winter boots, and her first stop was the chapel of Ashland College. Within the month, she would make fast friends with fellow students Ken Solomon, Jeanette DeLozier, and a wounded soldier named, “Bud.”  The sweetness of her soul combined with the sounds of her symphony violin strings would pull Bud’s heartstrings as only a woman can do. This beautiful music would lead them to the marriage altar of the Park Street Brethren Church, where Jean’s father, Rev. HH. Rowsey, served as the minister. Pastor Rowsey would give his daughter away and then perform the wedding ceremony, an act that would later be repeated by the next two generations in a brethren church further south.  

As history (and this author) would later write, Pastor Rowsey was also a dear friend of Jeanette’s father-Ashland College Professor Rev. Arthur De Lozier. These two ministers continued to minister both as fathers-in-law and mentors to the young men pursuing their seminary studies. Meanwhile, the two young wives continued their music education and began their teaching careers, in addition to pursuing a favorite 1950s fashion known as setting up house. You see, as in an ending fit for any movie, Bud and Jean’s college pals Ken and Jeanette would share a similar path to the same altar of the same church. But this ending would lead to yet another beginning. Together the two couples would produce, among other projects, a boy and girl who would someday marry and live happily ever after.

The First Photo

“Look!” The blonde shrieked as she checked the date on the photo. ”1958! I wonder if one of us is in it.” Tim and Jan were in town for a Board of Trustees meeting of Ashland University, in Ashland, Ohio, and the two had been married more than 20 years, working and playing in over 30 countries on every continent but Antarctica. The original gasp was soon replaced with a moment of respectful silence as the pair gazed into their past. Indeed, this historical photo, one among hundreds gracing the student union, library, and university walls across the campus which now consumed the growing city of Ashland, Ohio, shared a secret. Two families with babes in arms were beginning their separate lives with a providential future that would be shared together.???????

Second Encounter

The second photo was found quite by accident, although there were copies in both households: One copy in Argentina where Ken and Jeanette Solomon were raising Tim, Becky, Joel and Margi, and another copy in Sarasota, Florida, where Janet Hamel was growing up with her sister, JoAnne, and her brother John. 

Jean and Bud Hamel moved to Sarasota in 1960, where the symphony violinist and young pastor enjoyed the cultural benefits of a large city and the close friendships of a small town. They played host to many visiting Christian missionary families, especially those from the “Tango Territory” of Argentina, where the Solomons were serving with Jean’s brother, John Rowsey. Thus, Jan’s cousins were growing up with her future husband, who routinely called her own uncle, Uncle John, a continent away from his true nieces and nephews. Among the Christmas photo cards that were saved in treasured trunks both here and abroad was a photo more precious than rubies. It was a 1962 Sarasota Herald Tribune stock photo and accompanying newspaper article which showcased two young families as the print invited the town to share in a fellowship meal for the friends from afar.  

“Prove you remember me,” the blonde teased her husband with the historic photo in hand. After all, Jan was barely 5 years old when the couple met for the second time. However, Tim had been almost 7, and might well recall the miniature, “Meg Ryan,” as she was once called by a Sarasota newspaper. “Your mother gave me my first glass of orange juice,” he responded without skipping a beat. Well, that might prove Tim remembered Jan’s mother, but what proof was there that he had noticed her? “You had a horse at the end of the street,” he added triumphantly. At this, Jan gasped. You see, she never had a horse at the end of any street, but as a young girl in small town Sarasota, Jan had a big imagination. And the would-be writer used to tell her friends, a group that apparently included a certain future husband, the adventures of her imaginary horse. So, Tim did remember her after all. 

Jan struggled to recall those early years. Her first work, a kindergarten story, was yet to be published in the popular children’s magazine, Jack and Jill. And she hadn’t yet written the school play at Alta Vista Elementary, the puppet show for Sarasota Middle School, and wasn’t yet voted, “Most likely to write an international best-selling novel.” At this moment, non-fiction was on her mind as the truth sank in. The man standing before her now, her husband, Tim Solomon, clearly remembered knowing her, and even liking her at this tender age. Who needs fiction when the truth is this good?

Third Time’s The Charm

In the summer of 1973, there were three speakers at a church camp in the rustic hills of Pennsylvania. The first was Rev. Jim Black, soon to be named the executive director of the Missionary Board of the Brethren Church, Inc. The second was Rev. Ken Solomon, visiting missionary from Argentina, who planned to move his family from his calling as a seminary professor and church planter in Soldini, Argentina, to serve in what was then widely considered to be the heart of the drug capital of the world, Medellin, Colombia, the following November The third speaker was the international radio voice of, “The Brethren Hour,” a certain bald headed pastor wearing white shoes and a grin that spanned the great lakes-Dr. J.D. “Bud” Hamel. And, yes, since you were wondering, the shoes contained legs healed from war, both working just fine. A scheduling error had brought these three high profile leaders to the same small camp event. But true love and God’s Hand may write it another way. 

In any case, the youngest daughter of Bud and the eldest son of Ken were quickly introduced in a missionary merger over breakfast by Rev. Jim Black, a dear friend of both teens. From there, nature easily took its course with an innocent game of ping-pong and some light conversation. Jan, now a free agent, had recently broken up with her junior high crush the month before. Countless hours of the popular table game with her friend and youth group date had made her quite the expert and an easy win over Tim, and, she hoped, over his heart. But the young missionary boy had met another blonde in another church camp just one week before, and he knew something Jan did not-the campfire girl was slated to see him again at the national church conference, which would also be attended by the Hamel family in just two weeks! Oh, the complications of young love! Tim decided to play the “friends’ card” with Jan until the final night when Rev. Black preached his life-changing sermon on missions. During the invitation call to missionary service, Tim and Jan found themselves side by side at the altar and holding hands. Unfortunately, the next day, the pair exchanged the first of many goodbyes. 

Church conference came and went, and this time Jan thought the “friend card” wise, as too many girls were showing an interest in this young Missionary Kid (M.K.) with his long hair and bi-lingual, folk-singing guitar. When Jan came to the Solomon family for farewells, the week-before-camp blonde was in Tim’s arms. Instead of interrupting the semi-innocent so-long, Jan took her message to Tim’s sister, Becky. “Tell your brother I was here to say goodbye.” This simple but sweet, play-hard-to-get strategy had its affect. Tim says that was the moment he realized he did not want to lose what he never had-a chance to date this preacher’s daughter from Florida. 

Fast forward several months to Thanksgiving in Sarasota, as the Hamel family prepared to host the Solomon clan in their home, just as they had done in 1962, when the Solomons were traveling between the Americas. This time Jan was the one who had to deal with the complications of another date, but her heart was already clearly in Tim’s corner. And both families seemed to be in on the plans. Even though she was a straight A student, Jan should have thought it strange that her mother encouraged her to skip school and take Tim and his sister to the now world famous, Siesta Public Beach.

Jan quickly agreed with her mother’s wisdom. The moment she buried Tim in the crystal white sand of Crescent Beach, known by many to be pure cupid magic, Jan realized it was. Tim must have agreed, because he asked this girl, he had known for less than a week to wait for him to come back from Colombia-a commitment that might span several years.  It was a teenage marriage proposal of sorts. She said, “I will,” and to this day, Tim and Jan mark 11:20 a.m. of 11/20/73 as their true anniversary. This was the moment they realized they would never part. And then…sigh…he was gone. But Tim could not leave before the kiss, of course. If we are following the script of The Princess Bride, Casablanca, Spiderman, Titanic, and all love stories in between, there is always a kiss. This kiss stopped time, if not an actual airplane.  Not being an expert, I can’t tell you how it rated on the scale of skills. But if the movie is ever made, then yes, let us give it a 10. And then, sigh, he left. 

You CAN Get There from Here

“Here we go. It’s all up to us now. Where will we go tonight? Cheers to you and cheers to me, and what were we thinking? Look at what we’ve got ourselves into now…” Words and Music by Stephen Solomon, New Year’s Day 2008, New Zealand, while on staff with Youth with a Mission, (YWAM) Australia, on the journey of Life. 

CHAPTER TWO: CHILDHOOD DREAMS 

My name is Jan; I am in love with a sailor named Tim and, as my father’s friend, Paul Harvey, used to say, I hope you will want to read, “The rest of the story.” It is not my story only but, a tribute to the journey of life. For many years it has been my goal, and even childhood dream, to put these thoughts to pen. The Sarasota press believes I was born in Florida. Since this town has been my home for over 60 years, I have never felt a need to correct the media, as the math works in my favor. But this Sarasota native is a product of Indiana. I have no memories of those days, apart from photos seen later of a young family with a baby in the snow.  My first childhood memories are of Florida and in particular Hurricane Donna. I was a Sarasota resident for less than a year. 

Playing Hurricane with Mom’s Teapots

My mother was a creative woman. So, when Hurricane Donna reared her ugly head in the fall of 1960, my mom knew just what to do. When the going gets tough, the tough throw a tea party. As a few neighbors gathered for the storm in a nearby home, Mom gathered ingredients for the ultimate pretend tea party, complete with stuffed animals and children of various sizes, dressed up in their best tea party hurricane clothes. My first childhood memory is of hiding under a table with friends, pouring imaginary tea for my teddy bear with howling winds in the background and my mother’s apron and high heels all around. Was I afraid? No. My parents made life fun for us all. How they gracefully pulled this off, I will never know. But the winds subsided, and all was well. I still have my teddy bear.

Dad’s Up a Tree on the 6 ‘o’clock News

When I mention to friends that another of my earliest memories is of my father up a tree on the 6 o’clock news, I realize I have lived an unusual life. Dad was the official chaplain to the city police and county sheriff’s departments, the veteran’s organizations (who later named the bay front veteran’s park in his honor), the Sarasota Memorial Hospital (whose suicide prevention hotline rang directly to our home), and the Florida State Fire Department. If a cat was to climb a tree and get stuck, or if a man threatened the neighboring area with a loaded gun, the chaplain would be called 

The first call I remember came while Daddy and I were eating ice cream. We had just come from the hospital, where we did our daily visitation. Daddy would leave me in the hospital soda shop with the volunteer high school students who served as big sisters and trusted friends, while he would call on the sick, offering a prayer of encouragement. He did this two times a day, every day, for as long as I can remember. A former paramedic told me that he never recollected my father arriving after an ambulance. “Your father was always there when we arrived, and it seemed he was always everywhere at once.” Daddy had two car radios installed in his car by the city of Sarasota for emergency response: one for the fire department, and another, for the police department, along with lights on the dash for emergencies. Blue for the police department, and the red one Dad now added to the dashboard for this fire department call-to calm and talk down a disturbed man who had climbed up a tree with a gun.

My heroic father dropped me off with the owner of the local doughnut shop across from the hospital as soon as the call came through. He didn’t want to speed through town with his little 4-year-old princess. Sarasota was small enough that he could have dropped me off almost anywhere. I wonder how often I went from ice cream to doughnuts, and how I ever managed to be such a skinny girl throughout my childhood and teen years. 

I recall then my mother in tears, watching our black and white television, in a dress and heels, with bobbed brown hair. Mom was pretty even when she cried. Dad was on the news, climbing a tree and talking a depressed man with a gun to an actual descent. I didn’t understand it all, but when I asked Mom about the gun, she somehow assured me no one was going to get hurt. I remember being more concerned about her than what I was seeing on TV. I had forgotten about this story until after my father passed away. I was cleaning out his office and found the news clipping in an old desk file. My childhood was filled with many interesting and bizarre memories, and Dad’s office was a comforting tribute to the truth of my unique heritage. 

Most towns don’t have a circus lion, and you wouldn’t likely find one pondering the meaning of life near Ponder Avenue. But Sarasota in the 1960s was winter home to the Ringling Brothers’ Circus. One hazy memory of mine includes Dad and a police call of an escaped lion sighting. This was just another normal childhood day for this author.  

From circus lions to philanthropists like the Van Wezel family and writers such as John D. McDonald, my childhood is a mixed bag of memories: people in need finding their way to the parsonage couch, balanced with four course dinners at fine restaurants with the lifestyles of the influential and interesting. There were invitations to the White House and invitations to homeless shelters. There were photos with sports stars and stroke victims and hospital visits to pray with patients like Johnny Carson’s own, Ed Mc Mahon.  I found a note from radio commentator Paul Harvey thanking Dad for the putter. “When did Daddy have time to play golf with Paul Harvey?” I pondered with a smile. 

One Christmas a drunken father had thrown his child out of a moving car. Because I was always with my own wonderful father (Wouldn’t you find hanging with him more fascinating than, say, playing with your sister in the front yard?), I was at the police station with Dad and the men in blue, playing with the little girl. Nearby, the officers were discussing the situation with my dad. They had no idea who this child was the eyewitnesses had only caught the make of the car. There was no license plate number or description of the drunken father. On the way home, I casually mentioned the name the frightened girl had given me while we played. My father immediately turned the car around and drove back to the police station. I realized in that moment, each person on earth, every one of us, no matter our age or background, can truly make a difference in the life of someone else, every single day  

So why don’t we? Is it because we think only the good can change the world? Who is good? No one on this planet is truly good! Instead of beating each other up and ourselves too, maybe we should go about doing good deeds, even if we are not always feeling good about ourselves or even the goodness of our own character. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if these good deeds were done anonymously, with the power of the God who made us, and without the motive of any reward in return? This was certainly the worldview of Mother Theresa from an orphanage in Calcutta. These thoughts and actions were also modeled in my childhood home, from morning prayers through dinnertime stories. While never claiming to be perfect at the role, Mom and Dad were consistent and intentional about their parenting. 

My mother used to say faith was easier for children, and that was why Jesus said people needed to come to God with the faith of a child. Inviting Jesus to be Lord of our lives as children was like a small step in a stream. Yet, for the adult who had experienced the disappointments of life and consequences of poor choices, it was like a leap across Niagara Falls. As a little girl, I invited Jesus to come into my heart, and then went to the altar after one of my father’s sermons, asking to be baptized. In our church, babies were dedicated, but baptisms were reserved for those old enough to understand. My father must have thought I did not yet fall into the latter category, because I continued to come forward each week until one day I said, “My daddy won’t baptize me.” Realizing I understood what I was requesting, my father baptized me before my 7^th birthday, through triune immersion, in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Dad and I soon became inseparable, and I spent most afternoons of my childhood as my father’s personal pastoral assistant in helping the larger neighborhood of our community. 

In Junior High, my life consisted of; calling on the sick and needy with Dad and coming home each night to homemade meals with mashed potatoes made by my mother and sister. I avoided this task most days with a combination of flute practice and community service from Dad’s Christian cop car. Kids used to fight over who would get to ride home from school with us, and it didn’t hurt that dad would stop every single day to buy every single passenger the 7-eleven Slurpee flavor of the day. Back then 7-eleven was only open from 7 a.m. until 11 p.m., and nothing else was open much past eight. The sun went down, and families read books and watched television together on three channels. There was no way to record a missed show, and re-runs would be months in coming. When new technology brought color to the set, the peacock spreading its wings in full spectrum was the talk of each family’s TV dinner night.  

Life in my dad’s chaplain’s car was a non-stop adventure, a living police sitcom, as he would be called from one emergency to the next. In the early days, the police radio would often joke, “Car 54, where are you?” Later it was, “Agent 86, how quickly can you be at the corner of Fruitville Road and N. Shade Avenue? We have a situation in the Ringling Shopping Center!” And then when radar first came out it was more like, “Hey Rev! We just clocked you speeding off Tuttle and Weber. Slow down cause we really need you, Bud.” I miss small town Sarasota and the way everyone knew everyone. We now live in a completely different world, and conversation over police radio would never be so casual in this post 9-11 society.   

We were a typical family in many other ways, and in my early teens I learned to water ski and joined both the Student Council and National Honor Society at school. I was president of our church youth group, and still spent countless hours practicing my flute. I was also pretty much an only child in the home by this point. My sister JoAnne was in college and John was planning his wedding Fond memories of my brother include begging our parents to let us bring live turtles from our favorite Michigan lakes back to Sarasota after various summer vacations. Even though our plans were not met with success, since we rarely had vacations outside of church conferences, these diversions were priceless.  

JoAnne was five years older than me and a total brain. She enjoyed tormenting me by quizzing me like a game show hostess before allowing me to fall asleep, be it Bible verses or vocabulary words Later, her eldest son would snag a perfect score on his verbal S.A.T.’s, so at least someone would benefit from her efforts. I used to tell my kids, equally brilliant and talented, “Just live happily ever after.” They would smile and say, “Done” with thumbs up. But in order for Tim and I to actually marry, raise children and live happily ever after ourselves, we need to return to the Hamel-Solomon Thanksgiving table of 1973.  

CHAPTER THREE: LONG DISTANCE LOVE

Back to the Future

I may have learned my prayers from my father’s knee before I could utter much of anything, but in the fall of 1973, my skills were honed as Prince Charming left my Thanksgiving dinner table for Colombia. Every young girl who has ever experienced true love, whether it is for a puppy or a prince, has said a little prayer for God’s blessing. This was the case in November of 1973, when the Solomon family left the comfort of the Hamel home for the bright lights of Medellin, Colombia, where they were moving after 14 years of missionary service in Argentina  

Tim, in front of my parents as he pulled out the chair politely for me to be seated said, “I am so blessed to sit next to my sister in Christ.” I thought, silently critiquing his words, “Sister in what?” “I want to be the mother of his children! Is he just trying to butter up my parents or does he actually truly only want me to be his sister in Christ?” Within the hour I would know the answer, but shortly it would seem the answer did not matter, as the only song in my heart was the hit tune, Leaving on a Jet Plane, written by John Denver and made popular by the trio of, Peter, Paul and Mary. 

After our goodbyes at the Sarasota airport, I actually had to ask a church member to drive me home. I left my car there until the next day, so fraught with emotion that I could barely speak. No, kids, I am not exaggerating!  I was that smitten with his charm. So never give us old-timers your, “You don’t have a clue” look We do. Every woman with graying hair, even if we keep it dyed Teenage Natural Blonde, like I do, was once a young girl in love. In fact, I am so certain of the relationship between love and nausea that I almost believe a girl cannot truly be in love if her stomach is not churning and her palms sweating. If she cannot utter a sentence that makes sense or walk a straight line without him, they may actually live happily ever after. 

But before that can happen to me, we need to figure out how to get the guy out of Colombia. This will, of course, require me to go in first to scope out the scene. 

La Carta-The Letter

The letter screamed at me like a New Yorker who has just been cut off in traffic. “You are invited.” The National Band was a big deal. I had already won First Chair Flute for the State of Florida, in ninth grade, and was now to be given a chance to join the National Band representing Florida on flute. This international opportunity meant playing in an orchestra before an audience that would include the Pope in Italy followed by a presentation in Carnegie Hall back home in the States. All this could be mine before my 17^th birthday. My hands were clammy as they held the invitation. But my father had received another letter. “Uncle Ken has invited me to spend a month in Colombia.” This sentence stopped me in my tracks and led to the aforementioned sweaty palms. My mind wandered nervously. 

We kids had referred to my future father-in-law as Uncle Ken for as long as I could remember. I knew my future in-laws all my life, before I knew they would become my in-laws! Even our grandparents had been friends. We were part of the brethren denomination, and Christian missionary families were placed on church bulletin boards with charts and arrows made of yarn leading to faraway lands and spiritual adventures. Young girls would swoon over the family photos while pretending to be studying the map and contemplating their future callings. I was one of the most ardent followers of both missions and missionary kids-teen boys, and Brethren teen boys living in South America, to narrow the field. Now I had my sights set specifically on this curly headed dream boy and his exciting missionary life. 

My interest in missions began as a result of my mother’s enthusiasm whenever missionary news of her brother would come via letter or telegram. It grew each time a missionary family would dine with us as their first stopover after hitting the Miami airport on a stateside furlough. Among the memories of a loud but exciting preacher from Korea and a woman with a giant Bible from China, there is also a message by my Uncle John Rowsey, who influenced me greatly from the time I was young. Whenever my Uncle John came to the United States, our church would hold the kind of weeklong missionary conferences that later went the way of the campfire sing-along. But I was first in line for the latest news from the field.  So, it was in that environment of a close-knit global community that lived to help people in need that I first made my decision to move across the world. I was nine. 

Uncle John Rowsey came to Sarasota for a mission’s conference when I was in the fourth grade. He brought with him a map filled with tiny light bulbs over various parts of the globe, complete with a beeping sound to represent each time a person was dying. He said that many of these people were dying without hope. I went forward at the end of the service and stood directly in front of the map of Argentina, right next to the photo of the Solomon family where it appeared the eldest son, Tim, stared back at me in black and white silence as angels in heaven paused to smile. 

The next day it was my teacher’s turn to smile as I informed a young red headed Miss Tyler that I was, resigning from the fourth grade because, “The fields are ripe unto harvest.” She may have thought I was joining the farm workers east of what is now Highway 75, but she smiled kindly and told me that if I finished the fourth grade, I would be better prepared to serve. So, I did just that, and each day I continued to enjoy her lunchtime stories of faraway lands that included, “This is Venice,” “This is London,” and even, “This is Buenos Aires.” I not only graduated from the fourth grade but ended up teaching Grade 4 as well, and then later went on to teach high school, college, and finally graduate school. My doctoral emphasis was in the field of, cross-cultural studies, but that global interest began with daydreams of faraway lands and eventually, the boy who was living in one of them. In fact, you could count me among the fans of that Jesus Movement age when teens would hold their marshmallows near the fire and make ‘smores while snuggling near a nice young man of similar faith. Then everyone would sing about God and how we are all, “One in the Spirit!” “They will know we are Christians by our love!” What’s not to like. 

THE CONTINENTAL DIVIDE

“What did you say?” My mind went back to my father’s words… “Uncle Ken has invited me to spend a month in Colombia. Are you in there? Earth to Janet! They want me to speak at an international conference, preach in several Sunday services and open-air meetings, and participate in the church camp for missionary kids.” “He is talking about this summer?” I asked dreamily. 

“Yes, Janet, and that’s not the best part,” Dad announced with enthusiasm, as he pointed to the bottom of the letter. “Bring your youngest daughter. She can play flute.” Those two sentences changed my life and are worth repeating! P.S. “Bring your youngest daughter. She can play flute.”  

Do you ever wonder how it all works? You know, the, “magic” of love, like where Tom Hanks takes Meg Ryan’s hand in, Sleepless in Seattle? After all, the actual act of falling in love can closely mirror the illusion of falling in love in the movies. You cannot tell me you have never explored the “What if this or that hadn’t happened…” line of thought.  I confess to spending far too much time in that, “What if?” world. But in this case, I would never wonder. I did not go to Italy and play flute before the Pope. I did not perform in Carnegie Hall and have never even been to visit. In fact, because of facial nerve damage resulting from a Colombian kidnapping situation I have yet to share with you, I rarely even play the flute at all! 

But in the summer of 1974, just shy of my 17th birthday, armed with a brand-new diary from my sister and a shiny open-holed flute that had awarded me First Chair in the All-State Band, I flew to Colombia with my father. Even as I boarded the plane, I sensed this was one of those life-changing moments I would cherish forever. If angels watch love stories, this was surely their favorite that year, and if grandparents ever look down from heaven, both sets of grandparents, close friends on earth, were surely smiling their approval. I’m not sure how I feel about arranged marriages, but in the words of my husband, this one was certainly encouraged! 

The plane landed over the mountains of Medellin, Colombia. In 1974, Colombia bore a different culture than it does today. Before the days of internet, when styles, music and customs became international at a moment’s notice, each people group had their own flavor. What were my first impressions? The sounds and smells of the large city instantly overcame me, being used to quiet tourists and sunsets on the beach. How clearly, I recall the airport and customs agency-the noise, the adrenalin, and, especially, the complete chaos on the city streets as the taxi drivers and the homeless competed for my attention!  I had never been to New York, but I had spent a week the previous year in Mexico City with my high school band. My mind went back to that trip. 

I now smiled as I awaited the adventure before me. In whatever language or culture, Tim was the boy-man of my dreams. I felt as though my life itself was about to begin in this foreign airport, and that nothing that had ever happened before could compare to whatever lay ahead. 

CHAPTER FOUR: THE MOUNTAINS OF MEDELLIN 

And there he was. Amidst the noise and traffic, Tim Solomon appeared with his father, wearing black and white flared pants and a golden button down top. (Don’t laugh, kids. At least when styles changed, we could change with them. Today’s tattoos will follow this generation long after “La Moda,” “The Fashion,” has moved on.) Tim might as well have been Jesse from the film, Romancing the Stone, with Michael Douglas and Kathleen Turner I could have been seen as a damsel in distress in a foreign land, but as Tim and his father greeted my father and me, suddenly was on home turf…want to know the rest of the story?

PHILOSOPHY 101 The rest of the story (So Far) has been written, although the book has yet to be edited or published. Since the majority of our Key Sailing guests ask when the movie is coming out, Tim and I are moving forward in faith with this project (and with the next chapter of our lives) to see what God wants to do with HIS-STORY, as my friend Joy Irwin Schtakleff likes to say. She is a great example of a, “Show Me the Father” legacy of faith, too. After all, her father left a Bible on the moon! So, here’s my story, and what I have to bring to the table…

People say they want to sail through life.  But sailing is hard work, as well as a constant and often quick adjustment to circumstances beyond our control, and to a Higher Power, who, in our most honest moments, seems less than benevolent from time to time. (We tend to skip that chapter in Sunday school.) But one truth is easier to understand. Sailing and life are both intentional endeavors.  Both require our full attention. 

Each year my husband and I sail about 7,000 miles together on the Key Breeze, a 41’ Morgan Classic II charter yacht out of Sarasota, Florida. We take approximately 3,000 guests out annually with Key Sailing, an official five-star attraction, whose awards have included: National Tourism Week, Excellence in Guest Services, Siesta Key Chamber of Commerce Business of the Year, Sarasota Chamber of Commerce International Business of the Year, Woman Entrepreneurial Excellence, and “Top 10 Percent of Attractions on Earth” with Trip Advisor.  In reality, Tim and I are just, “Two kids with a boat.”  So, the secret to our business success seems to be that we forget we are running a business. Each morning seems like a literal dream come true. The scenery is the same, yet somehow every cruise is different. When our son first came home from serving on staff with Youth with a Mission, Australia, he enjoyed helping as crew and watching us, “work.” We love this mid-life crisis we call, “Sailing Home, “and enjoy getting to know each guest and hearing their own true-life stories.

Our family sailing adventures include a trip for charity across the Pacific Ocean on a 74’ sailboat, which put my husband and son together for five weeks at sea. They have now added a delivery of a 110’ cargo ship to their list-with our daughter-in-law, Vanessa, who has become quite the seafood chef! This was on behalf of Hope Fleet, for whom our son also made three trips to The Bahamas in December 2019 after Hurricane Dorian. So, I guess we aren’t “retired missionaries” after all. When you take a trip with Key Sailing, you are also vicariously supporting our sailing charity, www.hopefleet.org But some sailing trips ARE just for the thrill of the ride…like when Tim and our son Steve took on the Caribbean with John Kretschmer, known for his sailing adventures around Cape Horn and beyond, as well as the delightful way he puts those stories to pen. My experience on the sea is limited to places where, “Land Ho” is in sight, be it the Great Barrier Reef or an island near home. I don’t need to cross the Atlantic, but there are those who do. I think great sailors are a bit like those spies in the movies who are somehow able to gain career experience while still maintaining life and limb. I prefer romantic comedies because I could never believe that someone like James Bond would be able to survive long enough to actually become James Bond. So, in the real world, how can we become the people we were born to be without those nasty battle scars most of us seem to carry through life? These are tough questions indeed. Let the exploration begin! 

Both sailing and life require training, yet most venture through both projects on the fly.  Love is one of the reasons learning and growing is worth the risk, but love is perhaps the most elusive and mysterious risk of them all. Love, life, and yes, sailing, are each delightfully dangerous in their own right. This book explores the mix from Sarasota to both South America and South Africa and back. I recognize that I am living one of the great love stories of all times. Sharing the story is often easier than nurturing it, as through the years it has become difficult to separate my love of the story with my love for the man. 

In many ways it seems I was born married, but in other ways I am still the schoolgirl with the pigtails and sweaty palms. What can I say? The boy still makes my head spin with the dizziness of an amusement park attraction. 

“You reel me in like a hurricane crashing against the coast.” -Stephen Solomon, from his original music track, “Dancing with an Angel.” 

Love is having someone to scream with on, “Space Mountain,” because life is quite the ride, I would like to say that I throw my arms up with glee while giggling through the whole experience, but actually, I tend to spend most of the ride holding on for dear life. Because life comes with more than a few quick turns, it is really nice to have someone sitting next to you, so that you can scream together as needed. Every once in a while, you may also have the courage to look at each other and smile. This book contains a bit of both the, “Dare” and the “Dear” And although my story may not be the same as yours, that’s okay too, because each life experience is a unique adventure. In the end, we all do hope to sail through life in our own way. As the saying goes, with a small detour from the original Browning quote, “Come sail with me; the best is yet to be.”