The day began at 3:30 a.m. when I woke up with my mind in a frenzy over several unresolved issues that had been tormenting us the day before.
We were in Baja when we were supposed to file our taxes last spring, so we filed an extension, postponing both the paperwork and the annual stress that accompanies it. Unfortunately, postponing something doesn't make it disappear. It just gives it more time to grow teeth.
The extension deadline was October 15.
For a variety of good and not-so-good reasons, we hadn't filed our taxes on any of the multiple occasions we'd planned to tackle them. Now we found ourselves standing at the edge of a cliff, scratching our heads, beating our chests, staring into the abyss, and wondering how on earth we were going to get to the other side.
Yesterday, we'd had an opportunity to take advantage of excellent Wi-Fi at our Harvest Hosts location at Webster Lake. Instead, we decided to set sail for Rhode Island, where we were assured there would be good internet access at Fishermen's Memorial Campground.
Alas, that was not to be.
There was much consternation, gnashing of teeth, and muttering of unprintable words.
Last evening, in desperation, we drove the motorhome to the local library, hoping to access its free Wi-Fi from the parking lot. After 90 minutes of frustration and a signal that seemed to be transmitted by a carrier pigeon with a broken wing, we surrendered.
We decided to return the next day, go inside the library, and use its quiet room and presumably stronger signal to complete the monumental task of bridging the great tax chasm.
But at 3:30 this morning, the worry fairies were back, armed with calculators and sharpened pencils.
Rather than surrender to their torment, I decided to develop a plan.
First, I discovered that TurboTax had an app promising a 30% faster filing process. Even better, we had excellent cellular service at the campground!
Then came an even more comforting revelation. Since we didn't owe any taxes, there would be no federal late-filing penalty if we missed the deadline.
No black helicopters would descend upon the campground. No men dressed in black suits and ski masks would rappel down ladders, armed with sharpened pencils and machine guns, ready to seize our motorhome and whisk us away to a secret prison hidden inside an off-the-grid Walmart.
Phew!
With the tax crisis downgraded from DEFCON 1 to a manageable inconvenience, I turned my attention to the next great challenge.
How in the world were we going to get home?
While staring into the tax abyss yesterday, we'd also begun pondering another rather significant chasm: the approximately 3,000 miles separating Vermont from Roseburg, Oregon.
We wanted to get home in time to vote.
We've thoroughly enjoyed our long, somewhat leisurely cruise to the East Coast, stopping to explore, visit friends and family, chase fall colors, and savor the journey. But now it was time to turn westward, raise the sails, and chart a course for home.
We had 12 days to reach our destination without hitting any icebergs or provoking a mutiny aboard the Goodship Lexington.
Yes, I realize I've abruptly changed metaphors. Our beloved Chariot of the Dogs has temporarily become the Goodship Lexington. Sue me.
On second thought, please don't sue me. Just sigh mournfully and carry on.
I consulted Google Maps, which suggested that the quickest and probably most weather-friendly route would take us southwest through Salt Lake City and then home to Oregon.
Google estimated approximately 40 hours of nonstop driving.
Of course, that assumes the three of us (Taddy included) would wear enormous adult diapers, eat while driving, and tape our mouths shut to minimize wind turbulence between meals.
Seemed doable.
Fortunately, I came up with a somewhat more civilized alternative: average about four hours of driving each day, with two full days off along the way.
That should put us on our doorstep in time for Halloween!
Feeling considerably better about having developed reasonable solutions to two seemingly insurmountable problems, I rolled over around 5:30 a.m. and fell back asleep.
I didn't wake up again until nearly 8:00!
Unbeknownst to me, Janice had already taken Tad out at 6:00 and quietly returned to bed.
I slipped out of bed, dressed in the living room, and took our First Mate for a stroll on a beautiful Rhode Island morning.
We walked about a third of a mile to the park headquarters.
The previous evening, we'd decided to extend our stay another night rather than sail off to Connecticut as originally planned. We figured that forcing the crew to pack up and hit the road immediately after navigating the tax crisis might provoke a full-blown mutiny.
Janice suggested moving to campsite #73 because our current site, #80, wasn't available for another night.
I'd already reserved #73, and when Tad and I checked in at headquarters, the ranger told us we could move as soon as the current occupants departed rather than waiting until the official 2:00 p.m. check-in.
Things were looking up!
On our way back, Tad and I met another camper named Bob and his dog, Stanley.
Bob was from Florida and had recently retired. His wife had retired four years earlier and had finally convinced him to join her. They were headed to Bar Harbor and looking forward to many adventures together.
As a seasoned sailor, and with Dr. Rick nowhere in sight to counsel me against becoming my parents, I puffed thoughtfully on my imaginary pipe and offered Bob some imaginary nautical wisdom.
"Do your taxes before setting sail, batten down the hatches when storms are brewing, and above all, keep your crew happy. There are cannibals on some of those islands, and a mutinous crew might just decide to drop you off on one!"
Having generously shared my considerable seafaring expertise, Tad and I returned to the motorhome.
I made coffee and breakfast and shared my brilliant plan for bridging the tax chasm with Janice.
And then...
Fast forward!
We moved to campsite #73, a beautiful spot overlooking the harbor.
And, wonder of wonders, I successfully filed our taxes!
Not only that, but we were getting a refund!
There is a long and somewhat comical story behind the final stages of this triumph, involving considerable frustration and the removal of approximately 12 of the remaining 100 hairs on my head.
I'm now down to 88 hairs, a much more manageable number.
But the important thing is that we'd crossed the abyss. The tax monster had been vanquished. The crew was safe. The Goodship Lexington was still afloat.
And we had a spectacular new campsite with a view of the harbor from both our kitchen table and our firepit.
Life was good!
In the afternoon, we took Tad for a long walk around the campground. The weather had changed considerably from the previous day, when temperatures reached 75 degrees with a somewhat muggy atmosphere. Today was cooler and more refreshing.
After our walk, Janice and I hopped on our bikes and set off on an 11-mile ride to explore the Rhode Island coast.
For some reason, I'd imagined Narragansett as something resembling Coney Island, complete with a seaside boardwalk, old-fashioned Ferris wheel, and crowds of happy vacationers enjoying the last warm days of autumn.
Well, it wasn't quite that.
In fact, it seemed almost abandoned.
We encountered only a handful of people. The shoreline was peaceful and quiet, but there was something strangely unsettling about the absence of activity.
It was a stark contrast to Bar Harbor, where we'd recently enjoyed bustling streets, shops, restaurants, and people everywhere.
We decided to make a loop through some nearby neighborhoods on our way back to the campground.
The houses were impressive, many quite substantial and beautifully maintained.
But where were all the people?
The streets were eerily deserted.
It reminded me of an old Twilight Zone episode in which the main characters wander into a town that looks perfectly normal, only to discover that something is terribly wrong.
We passed a hired lawnkeeper mowing a lawn that didn't appear to need mowing.
Suspicious.
Then an electric Amazon delivery truck glided silently past us and stopped to deliver what I assumed were empty boxes to an abandoned house with cars parked in the driveway.
Highly suspicious.
There could be only one reasonable explanation.
Aliens had invaded Narragansett!
Clearly, they'd abducted most of the population and left behind a handful of caretakers to maintain the illusion that everything was perfectly normal.
The lawnkeeper was probably an alien. The Amazon driver was undoubtedly an alien. Even the empty boxes were likely part of some elaborate extraterrestrial deception.
Janice and I pedaled onward, anxious to return to the safety of our island campground and the reassuring company of normal Earthlings.
Fortunately, the people at the campground were wonderfully friendly. Most had dogs, and everyone seemed happy to smile and wave as we passed, just as they had when we walked with Tad.
Unless, of course, they were exceptionally convincing aliens.
Back at our campsite, I built a fire while Janice prepared dinner.
The sunset was magnificent.
We sat beside the crackling fire, enjoying our dinner and looking out over the bay as the last golden light faded from the sky.
Tad was thoroughly entertained by a bunny sitting just a few yards beyond the reach of his leash. The bunny seemed completely unconcerned about the large Irish Setter watching its every move.
Perhaps the bunny was an alien, too.
As darkness settled over the campground, a slender crescent moon appeared overhead. A cool breeze drifted in from the harbor, gently suggesting that it was time to retreat to the warmth of our floating home.
Janice promptly defeated me in a game of Spite and Malice, proving once again that the crew was fully capable of staging a successful mutiny whenever it suited them.
We then attended two Zoom meetings back in Oregon, one for KQUA Community Radio and another for our environmental education work.
It felt good to see our friends, share updates, and check a few accomplishments off our collective to-do lists.
Even though we were 3,000 miles apart, we were still working together toward the same goals.
One of the remarkable things about this adventure has been discovering how connected we can remain to our community while traveling across the continent. The miles may separate us physically, but our shared purpose travels with us.
Later, we called our dear friend Ken Carloni and made plans to meet him and Jenny on Saturday in Cavendish, Vermont, for a hike at Cavendish Gorge.
Ken and Jenny are visiting family in Connecticut, and we'd begun discussing this rendezvous months ago.
Now, somehow, here we were, just days away from making it happen.
It amazes me how much has come to pass since we first began dreaming about this Grand Adventure. So many places, so many experiences, so many wonderful people, and so many unexpected twists and turns.
And still, the adventure continues.
Finally, we climbed into bed and listened to a couple of chapters of our audiobook, The Visitor, about an alien stranded on Earth.
After our bicycle ride through the mysteriously deserted streets of Narragansett, I couldn't help but appreciate the irony.
Perhaps it wasn't a coincidence after all.
Outside, the harbor was quiet. The Goodship Lexington rested peacefully at anchor, metaphorically speaking. The taxes were filed, our westward course was charted, and the crew was content.
We'd begun the day staring into an abyss, overwhelmed by worries about deadlines, distances, and obligations.
We ended it watching a beautiful sunset, enjoying the company of friends from afar, and drifting off to sleep together on calm waters.
Sometimes the greatest adventure isn't conquering a mountain, crossing an ocean, or discovering a new place.
Sometimes it's simply finding your way through the worries of everyday life and emerging on the other side with a little more gratitude, a little less hair, and a renewed appreciation for the extraordinary gift of being together.
Fair winds and following seas, my friends. Tomorrow we sail again!
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