A Soft Underbelly & Two Gleaming Fangs
This is an Ask & Give post—stories of asking for what we need and giving what we have. On the road, there’s a thinness of margins, between you and me, between “all’s well” and “no, no, no.” People, often strangers, show up for each other.
The road is, of course, life. It’s yours; it’s mine. And the thin margins are, of course, now. We need, in this moment, to be and receive and hold up to the light kindness among the neighbors we cross paths and share our lives with, all of us fragile creatures sharing this planet. I’m honored to feature stories of kindness from around the globe. Please let me know if you have a story to share.
Today’s guest poster,
lives aboard STEADFAST, a 56-foot Classic Wooden Sailing Yacht, where she learns something every day, her respect for the ocean grows, and her passion multiplies. On her stack, Sparring with Mother Nature, she writes about the power and mystery of the waters we travel upon, both literal and figurative.Start with “Spars and Sparring” to learn about life aboard STEADFAST, a life guided by nature and the multiple meanings of spar. Then check out other pieces, like “Found: Message in a Bottle,” where you can anchor in Bahamian waters next to swaying seaweed and search among the detritus of countless vessels. The title of “The Power of a Single Phone Call” says it all; ponder with Janice, What phrases delivered over a phone line have changed everything? All throughout Sparring with Mother Nature, Janice shares photographs of the boat, the places the giant beauty takes her, and the creatures from the spots less traveled, where she, like they do, thrives.
Here’s Janice.
A Soft Underbelly & Two Gleaming Fangs
“Your hair is still stuck in the windscreen,” the impossibly young car rental receptionist said to me, as if talking about the weather.
I glanced stiffly back at my two companions. The other American was limping with a borrowed cane, his knee swelled to twice its normal size. Dark sunglasses didn’t hide the surreal greenish blue-black of an eye that had been ruptured by a powerful force—in this case, the rapid expansion of nitrogen gas inside an airbag, triggered when he drove, on the wrong side of the road, head-on into another vehicle.
I don’t remember shattering the windscreen with my elbow and my forehead, but that’s exactly what happened; back in '02, only the driver’s side had air bags.
The third member of our trio looked his native part, frankly, with his slight build, boundless energy, and professorial demeanor. This Tasmanian meteorologist (right? best job title ever) had come running, first aid kit in hand, from the Launceston, Australia, Airport Weather Tower upon hearing our rather spectacular crash, complete with jarring horn no one could stop. Without regard to self, he’d removed us from the gasoline-soaked vehicle and then stood above me, shading my stunned eyes while I lay on the hot tarmac and stating calmly to the paramedics that he thought I’d probably “lose that arm.”
The hours in the ER ticked by slowly as the other driver screamed with pain, making us shrink in guilt-ridden horror. The medical team tended to her needs until she was wheeled into surgery, and a modicum of peace returned. Only then did Andre, the strikingly beautiful young doctor, peer down at me, sewing kit in hand. “There’s no skin left on your forehead to stitch, love, so we’ll just have to bandage it and hope for the best.” She paused. “Let’s just have a look at this mess.”
Three and a half hours, fourteen interior, and forty-seven exterior stitches later, she was done reattaching the ragged patchwork of skin on the back of my left arm. Ribs broken by the dashboard impact made it hard to breathe, nearly impossible to hold still, especially when she nodded at my midsection and added, “There’s nothing to be done about those bloody things, either. They’ll hurt like ’ell.”
I nodded.
A nurse efficiently cleared the shattered glass out of my shorts and discharged us, at midnight, into a town we had never seen. The Americans, they called us collectively, no names required.
“There’s someone waiting for you,” the receptionist told us.
“For us?” I shook my head, certain she was mistaken.
“He’s been here for hours.” She pointed.
To our drugged amazement, there sat the Tasmanian meteorologist, alongside our kit of luggage pulled from the destroyed car, complete with a torn, blood-smeared map of one of the southernmost, most fabled islands in the world. With ten days left to explore, we all knew we weren’t going anywhere.
The meteorologist had kindly arranged for us to stay in the house next to the hospital until we could reconsider our situation.
At dawn, we did just that, and were at a loss, could not conceive of renting another car, ever, in a municipality that drove on the “wrong” side of the road. (Twenty years later, I still hold fast to that rule.)
A crisp knock sounded on the door, and a man with one of the biggest hearts I have ever known stood there expectantly. “You’re coming home with me,” he told us. “My wife is an American. We kicked my daughter out of her room, and you’re staying with us. It’s all settled. Let’s go. Are you packed? Need help? She’s making breakfast.”
We were far too stunned and grateful to turn him down, regardless of the burden.
He gently loaded our bruised selves into his aging Scout and sped to a fairy-tale destination twenty minutes away. Graceful ancient tree ferns framed the cottage, complete with a planked water collection tank and gently rocking deck chairs. A classic matching teapot, cups, saucers, sugar bowl, and creamer were awaiting us on a round tiled table like something out of The Hobbit. Fuzzy green moss filled every crack. And the colors, especially to my concussed eyes, looked surreal. Plants I didn’t know bloomed brilliantly.
Our tremendous good fortune continued. Our Tasmanian meteorologist was also a zoologist/biologist of sorts and took us, night after night, to see the famous creatures of this mysterious place. Two shy platypus were quick under the surprising flashlight beam and proved to be exactly the combination of oddities we’d learned about as children on the other side of the planet. The devil who dwelled nearby briefly showed itself to be nothing like the cartoon version celebrated by Looney Toons; these mammals are black and white and elusive. We caught just a quick glimpse of two gleaming fangs prior to departure.
The Tasmanian wombat, a marsupial with several subspecies, was absolutely endearing and gave us a truly unexpected thrill. If you are quick enough (and of course he was!) you can flip them over, and they inexplicably grow calm, allowing enthralled tourists such as myself to rub their tender tummies. I shit you not. It was one of the most amazing moments of our two months Down Under; bandaged, stiff, and sore, I knelt in the moist darkness to rub the soft protected underbelly of such a creature—an honor indeed. And when we were done she left us there, pondering the wonders of both Mother Nature and this unplanned adventure.
Our brilliant and interesting hosts will always have a place in my heart and were thoughtful and welcoming enough to fill page after page with their unreturnable kindnesses. We stayed in that healing, peaceful home for the remainder of our time in the country, sharing life in common as well as the contrasts, seeing less territory but learning far more than we ever could have wandering about on our own.
I can only hope I have done enough in my life to pay forward what those generous people did for “the Americans” as we were known around town. Introductions proved unnecessary, as folks clearly knew who we were everywhere we accompanied that prominent family. We always fulfilled the unspoken and unnecessary obligation to apologize for the transgression against one of their own. The damage to another human being was regrettable, and my nightmares persisted for years.
As we journeyed to our next destination, the Great Barrier Reef, each remarkably warm, blunt and vocal Australian universally greeted us with, “Looks like ya been in the wars.” Because we did.
While those “war” injuries and the blonde hairs I left in the windscreen are long gone, the amazing memories we took with us will remain in my mind’s eyes for life (the Scout was always moving far too fast for photos). Turns out, it wasn’t just the colors that were surreal. It was the whole damn island, and the occupants thereof.
Isn’t this a marvelous story? Did you feel like you’d entered a fairy garden when Janice described the meteorologist’s home? Have you been invited into the home or taken under the wing of a stranger? Would you like to rub the soft underbelly of a Tasmanian wombat? Spot the gleaming fangs of the devil? Could you imagine yourself living on a boat?
Thank you, all, for reading, liking, commenting, and restacking! And for being, accepting, and seeing kindnesses. Please hit that restack button (looks like a recycling symbol) or otherwise share Janice and this kind-hearted meteorologist. Thank you, Janice. Thank you, Tasmanian angle. We need to remember we’re in this together and that “we” is comprised of some pretty fantastic members.
Coming up
Rolling Desk
I have a hot calendar (loosely) scheduled for the Rolling Desk—all of which I’m thrilled and grateful to share with you:
A handful of reported essays I’ve been working hard on for months, stories from among the we currently in peril
Pieces exploring the whys of the road—gritty, grinding, and glorious
And the sometimes quirky, sometimes oh-my-god-I-had-no-idea-I-could-write-that magic that comes from writing in caravan, as I will be joining in (and sometimes hosting) the weekly write-ins with
, starting next Saturday! Join me.
Which brings me to
Caravan
It’s June! Wowsa. Classes and events are about to start. So much to get into.
— On Different Pens: Seeing Your Work with Fresh Eyes
Wanna explore (1) the tools of a professional editor and (2) how to treat your work like it’s that of a client (aka apply those tools like a pro)? As novelist Zadie Smith says, “The secret to editing your work is simple: you need to become its reader instead of its writer.” But making the necessary switch in relationship to what you’ve written and then fixing what, to your reader self, feels flat or not quite right or like it’s missing something isn’t so simple. Over four weeks (Tuesdays in June), On Different Pens: Seeing Your Work with Fresh Eyes aims to make both a little easier. And you should leave with both new tools and a piece shaped by the practice of self-revision.
— Why Not This? When Revision Is Play
Feeling stuck in a rut? Blank page messing with you? Would you love to create a piece that sounds or feels or looks like nothing you’ve ever written before? Here’s an answer that can work wonders: Play! Yep, let loose. Have fun. Experiment. Why Not This? When Revision Is Play is a weekend bootcamp—two hours each on Fri, Sat, & Sun, June 20, 21, & 22. And it’ll be a weekend of cavorting with form and structure, frolicking with genre and style, practicing taking your work along new paths, and discovering how play can lead to seriously good stuff.
Along with my classes, check out all the Caravan courses on tap this summer!
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— June Lit Lib: Setting
Along with my two classes, I’ll be cohosting June’s Lit Lab on Juneteenth with
and . In this single immersive session on Friday, June 19, delve into one of the most important, most overlooked, aspects of craft for nearly all genres—setting. We’re three writers who love to take readers there, and we can’t wait to get into it!— June Write-Ins
If you haven't yet gotten on the list for these, (they’re the magical prompt and co-creating sessions I mentioned), get on it!
As my colleague Marya says, “we’ll leave with not just some new work but the knowledge that we devoted at least 90 minutes to writing this week.”
First Saturdays are always free! The link below takes you straight to that Zoom. Cuz you’re my peeps, and I wanna make it easy-peasy.
We’d love to see you at any (or every!) Saturday Write-In.
Drop in for $10/session, or use your calculator: your $50/year paid subscription to Caravan Writers Collective covers all the Write-Ins you want (a $360 value). Become a founding member and you’re paid up for both the Write-Ins and the monthly craft- and community-centered Lit Labs starting in July (a $960 value)!
Have a story for Ask & Give?
Want to write about a time when someone, perhaps a total stranger, had your back or when you helped out someone in need or witnessed such an exchange? Hit me up here or by DM if you’d enjoy having your work included in the collection. (Not yet published pieces may be given priority.)
Get lost in the wild. Remember kindness & the beauty of we. Go on the road with the Rolling Desk.
 | A guest post by
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Thank you, Janice, for contributing such a vibrant story to this collection--one that adds to my list of places I'd love to see someday!
I am honored to have been invited into this innovative, interesting, respectful space by you, the very talented Holly Starley. May we continue to collaborate as I learn the tricks and trades of the 'Stack; I so appreciate your guidance and willingness to share. THANKS! What fun. ~J