Battle Cruiser

I met the truck only the afternoon before.  My friend Brad had named it the Battle Cruiser with the plate to match: BTLCRSR.  I must admit, it was certainly not a pretty sight. The yellow paint faded—exposed rust in certain places and green moss covering parts of the exterior and hood. It’s four and a half decades were evident; it was a work horse.

After some coaxing, the loyal truck came to life.  I was happy to see the life return as the deep throaty motor sounded like a tired warrior awakening as daybreak arose too early: Brad pumped the gas pedal and cajoled the old Ford pickup into being.

I had a mission—and needed the Battle Cruiser’s help.  The instructions from Brad were simply that first gear was not necessary—to low a gear to start. “Use second” he said. Easy enough I thought and nodded, as I climbed in the next morning and sat in the driver’s seat, starting the engine.  After decades of smaller and smaller cars—and trucks—this old relic was immense.  As tall as I am—and as long a reach as I have—I could not, even leaning over and stretching, open and unlock the passenger door from the inside.   Were the vehicles really this big???  Wow.

And, so it was, I shifted the truck into gear, lifted the clutch and headed up the wooded driveway finding my way to the 101 and to the Kingston-Edmonds ferry off the Olympic Peninsula and toward Bellevue; my childhood home. I thought about my mission to save the trash burner—a request out of my Mother’s house—before it’s fate met the awaiting bulldozer; demolishing it to the ground.  Another era gone.  As I pulled out of the driveway and on to the Sequim neighborhood graveled road, I felt my Father sitting in the passenger’s seat.  Perhaps, he felt my bit of nervousness, apprehension, or trepidation with the old truck?  At any rate, I felt the reassurance as the memories of familiar childhood adventures surfaced.  This time however, I was driving—and he was riding.  I continued my drive south 42 miles to the Washington State Ferry terminal; my mind concentrating on the road as I roared along feeling like something out of Mad-Max Road Fury.

I thought about the laughter that ensued when I voiced my request for the trash burner; I had my reasons and I didn’t really care what anyone thought.  I pulled up to the toll booth to purchase my round-trip fare.   “Lane six”, said the woman in the toll booth as she handed me my change and receipt.  I smiled and thanked her, easing the truck back into gear and driving forward into my designated parking lane to await the Ferry’s arrival into Kingston terminal. Settled, I hopped out of the Battle Cruiser and headed up to grab a cup of coffee—standing in line—I heard someone shout—“Here comes the ferry.”  I abandoned the line and headed back to where the truck was parked.  The adventure had been so smooth thus far and all was going as planned.  Or so I thought.

Lane five moved beside me and I turned the key in the ignition to start the engine.  Nothing. I turned the key off and on once again.  Nothing. I pumped the gas pedal and tried several more times to start the engine . . . nothing.  Not even a peep from the mechanical beast from which I sat behind the steering wheel slightly panicked and watching the other vehicles and passengers drive past me and onto the loading dock—and onto the green and white vessel that crosses Puget Sound so regularly.

“Are you in trouble?” the WSF* system employee shouted, I nodded—“yes, I think I am,” I answered back.

“I’ll get someone to help you.” And, I climbed out of the Battle Cruiser wondering, what just happened?

Within minutes, another, employee named Sarah had wheeled over a portable battery charger to jump the truck.  She stopped—and pointed to the winch on the front bumper.  I turned my head and stared, “Oh, sh-t,” there was smoke coming from the winch. Whirling back towards the terminal—she said—“I’ll be right back—stand back.” I looked at the winch with disbelief, and within moments she was back with a large fire extinguisher ready to douse any flame should it appear and this situation become worse.   With the 11:55 am ferry loaded—I watched my ride sail away—wondering how long I would be sitting on the Kingston dock—somewhat helpless and wondering what was next?

Before I realized, there was more than five WSF employees who appeared from almost nowhere—pitching in to work on the truck. Now, I will tell you, that I feel I have many talents—but auto mechanic—is NOT one.  I was raised helping my Dad with horses, not automobiles and besides having the oil changed, stopping for gas or running the car through the car wash—my desire ended there.  So, the fact that this help had arrived with a positive attitude and generous giving spirit brought me tremendous gratitude to my uncertain circumstances. I explained, that I had just met the truck the previous afternoon . . . it was on loan from a friend.

And, so with an obvious quick assessment of a trauma medic, it was agreed that the winch wires needed to be cut; disconnect the source of the problem! In agreement and with a plan, we began, focused on the task at hand.  I choose to look under the front seat for something that might be able to help cut the wires to the bilious dying winch—and happily came up with a small pair of wire cutters.  Phoning Brad, I explained the dilemma and what had happened.   He offered to come save me—but I told him I thought I was in good hands; I would certainly let him know if I needed his help.

As I turned around to offer the red-handled tool to my new “pit crew” a man two rows over held a crescent wrench, another pair of cutters and gloves.  He began to disconnect the battery.  I turned back around and another lady asked for water.  I handed her mine—and she worked with precision filling the dehydrated battery cells.  I glanced over and noticed that another gentleman was leaning over the front fender and working in hyper speed skillfully cleaning contacts and then rerouting the wires that connected the solenoid, to the battery and to the ailing winch.  (Which apparently was the reason the truck wasn’t starting when jumped.)  This man, wearing a bright orange T-shirt with motorcycle designs, white hair and beard, and half smoked cigarette hanging from his mouth worked with such expertise we all sort of stepped back; everyone seemed to sense his mastery.  Before long, the “bull” arrived and another attempt at starting the disabled Battle Cruiser began.  We—the truck and I— had definitely developed a bond since I had first climbed aboard hours before.  This time when I turned the ignition—the resuscitation of the Battle Cruiser was successful and it issued it’s healthy roar.  I literally welled up as the “pit crew” and other waiting passengers in line clapped and cheered at our triumphal achievement.  I stepped out with a big smile and thanked everyone. The battery cable clips came off and the hood came down—just as the next ferry was pulling into the dock.  The lady in the car next to me handed me a wet wipe—she said, “they’re really for make-up but I think they will work great for the grease on your hands.”  I hadn’t even noticed.  Another woman came up to me—and said, “If they load and you aren’t signaled—please go ahead to me.” I thanked her too.   This was a reminder of humanity at its best.

I waved and honked in gratitude as “Sarah” waved me on . . . I was the first one on the ferry for that crossing and I felt very honored.

I reflected back on all the chaos in Washington D.C—the hatred and vitriol spewed by so many these days. There was certainly no fence sitting anymore; all was being revealed.  You could not be someone you weren’t.  I believe deeply we are all the same; okay—we may look a bit different—but we are all pieces of the divine.  I believed humanity was proving it’s chance for goodness and light; in fact we seemed to be at war with the darkness: greed and lack of integrity and hatefulness.

The event on the Kingston Dock certainly cemented my belief in humanity’s goodness—something I wished the evening news focused on more—not the inherent fear, fear and fear they sold to their vulnerable audiences daily. It is our power of intent—our desire of compassion—and our tolerances and acceptances of our differences which make us strong.  Our common goal must be one of LOVE—which if you haven’t heard, is the most powerful force in the Universe.  LOVE changes physical things and it will change our world too.  The time is now—and we are the Ones! The powerful  difference we each make based on our choices every day changes our world. And, that’s the world I choose to see and live in.

The rest of the trip was seamless and the trash burner is safely stored in Sequim—waiting for its return to service.  I on the other hand—look forward to the next adventure—whenever and however it presents itself. Namasté.

“Inspired Wellness from Within”

Cathrine Silver, HC, AADP

Cathrine Silver is a Board Certified holistic counselor with a practice in Lauderdale by the Sea, FL. She is the author of the book, Riding the Light Beam: How Any Woman Can Find the Hero Inside available at Amazon.com. She can be contacted via email at cathysilverhealth@gmail.com. For more information visit www.CathrineSilver.com.

As a post note:  I learned that the man in the orange T-shirt name was Richard.  He was a master mechanic and forensic scientist from the Tri-Cities who had been visiting his wife whose daughter was due to have surgery.  I had gone upstairs on the ferry to use the restroom and have a snack.  I purchased clam chowder and a water—and upon walking up to the cashier—made a last minute decision to add a beer.  LOL—it had been quite a morning.  I sat down—and Richard walked by.  I called his name, and asked him if he drank beer.  He replied—“On occasion.” 

“Can I buy you a beer”, I enquired? He nodded.  I got up and went back to the cashier and returned to the cafeteria where Richard sat.  “It’s the least I can do.”  “Thank you for everything” I said—“I have a feeling—I would still be sitting on the dock without you stopping by.”  He said, “I saw the hood of the truck raised.  I travel with my tools.” 

 I will always be grateful for all who gave me help that day.  On some level, we are always watched over—and he was one of my Earth Angels that day.  I was glad I could offer the simple gesture of thanks. 

*Washington State Ferry

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Communication—Always—Everywhere—ALL Ways

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One of the many Washington State Ferries

Gone were the days of hopping onto the ferry for a quick ride across the Sound—unless of course, you were on foot. Riding the iconic green and white ferry this past weekend is not only a familiar, favorite pastime of many tourists to Seattle, including myself, but serves a vital transportation network for more than—wow— 23 million passengers annually in the Northwest.

The Washington State Ferry system is the only way to reach some of the islands around the Puget Sound*—technically now part of the Salish Sea and nestled between two picturesque mountain ranges:  Cascades and Olympics.  But in the meantime—you wait in line for a boat.

And so, I was invited to spend the weekend with a friend of mine in Sequim and as we waited and chatted catching up in the car, creeping slowly down the mile+ long line that ran up and around the hill, all the while inching toward the ferry toll booths to buy tickets to make the short crossing from Edmonds to Kingston— on to the Kitsap Peninsula, and then further west to the diverse Olympic Peninsula bordering the expansive Pacific Ocean.

We sat poised behind a 18 wheeler inching ever closer as the line curved down the hill—the many cars patiently waiting—-to board. Out of the blue, a white Ford SUV cut in line—right in front of the truck bearing the British Columbia plates. Ouch! 

Now, as notice to the reader, there are many signs posted—about no “cutting-in-Line,” and for good reason, if you have ever waited—hours sometimes to board and cross the water—depending on which route, time, day, and where you were headed.

So, when this SUV pulled ahead of the semi-truck, my friend Brad, and a frequent ferry rider, decided to let them know this was not only not cool, but the toll takers would turn them around to the back of the line.  Before we knew and he could get there, the Canadian truck driver had also jumped out to make this aberrant vehicle aware of the protocol breech.   In a quick exchange with the SUV driver and passenger, the truck driver shouted to Brad, “if I hit the guy—I am going to jail”—and got back in his vehicle. And so, good natured Brad took his turn.  His experience was no better and with the belligerent response and defiant attitude, he decided to turn to his other option: reporting the vehicle using the special hot line established by the WSF system—and that’s exactly we did.

As fate would have it, we had all progressed and stopped to a stone’s throw of the three toll booths, and it was time to alert the toll takers.  We again witnessed an attitude as two toll takers preceded to move the vehicle out of line and turned them around; about like hitting a nest of yellow-jackets.  (And, you don’t want to be anywhere close when the stick hits the hive.)  But, justice prevailed and I am sure the on-lookers were most amused. No one was hurt or hauled off to jail, although the woman inside the car had gotten out and was taking pictures of those who had offended her and foiled her cheating-cut-in-line intention—shouting something about hitting her car—what???

Later the next afternoon, Brad and I stopped to get sandwiches at a local Safeway.  We had passed a fiddle player outside the grocery store on the way back to the car and had enjoyed a few strums as we passed him heading across the asphalt when we realized in the row in front of us and a space to the right was a large pickup parked and playing his tunes in a very, very base—you know shake the windows—kind of style.  A few sentences into a conversation about how neither of us cared for this “genre”—the kids next to us in the mini-van with the door open—said that that was their brother we were talking about—and how this was America and they could do anything they wanted—and then filed out of the van—daisy dukes—tattoos and all, to let their brother know—we didn’t exactly embrace his music.  Quite a family, I must say . . . “Mom” came out shortly with a couple bags of groceries and within a few minutes they were gone.  However, big brother, spun his truck around, his Mother’s bags of groceries quickly tossed and rolling across the bed of his truck.  He was more concerned with us, as he pulled behind where we were parked, and walked up to Brad’s window.  “Hi, I’m sorry you didn’t like my music.  Next time, I’ll play it louder!”  I looked at Brad and he back at me in between bites of the sandwiches on our laps.  In a way it was almost humorous.  What the heck just happened, I mused?  It had been a weird kind of weekend—something that over the many trips to the Peninsula had always been quiet and peaceful—and again found ourselves innocently in the middle of a shifting and what seemed angry outburst.

Communication, I thought, how often do we realize that everything we do is a form of communication—both verbally and nonverbally alike.  I have known for decades that non-verbal communication is more honest and truthful that verbal.  We cannot hide the way we express ourselves, observed in—our dress—our hair—our cars—our houses— “our tattoo’s” if any—or our music to name a few.

But, does communication come to us in other forms as well?  What about the stars and their magnetic influence and pull?  Certainly the moon affects us as evidenced by ER visits. Or Mercury when it goes retrograde; it’s effect on electronics, travel, decisions and communication. Do the trees communicate with us?  We all know “tree huggers.” What do the trees say to them? Crystals are givers and receivers of information, especially quartz.  I have friends that have the ability to communicate with the rocks and crystals.  And, water—we know it communicates as well—certainly from Masaru Emoto’s work which not only supports this, but scientifically documents water’s messages.

But, what else communicates with us that we have no awareness, because of our lack of understanding or our multidimensional nature? Dreams? And, can we receive messages from the whales and dolphins?  Is that why we are so fascinated by these magnificent cetaceans?   What about the Sun?  I understand it is talking to the heliosphere of Earth, and this is talking to the esoteric grids—which is communicating to our DNA and consciousness.  Could that explain the weekend?  Our politics?  Our relationships?  Our desires—our wants—needs—our changes, endings and beginnings taking place at every level of our lives and beingness?  What about our intuition? What important ideas and thoughts come this way?

How do our intentions and words influence our daily lives? Have you noticed anything new? What is different in your life?  How do you communicate with yourself and others? We all seem to be individual receivers and communication—visible or not—is coming to us ALL ways and always.

“Inspired Wellness from Within”

Cathrine Silver, HC, AADP

www.cathrinesilver.com

Cathysilverhealth@gmail.com

 

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We are ALL WAYS communicating–whether we realize it or not–verbally & non-verbally.

*Unless you own a private boat

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