Amy Waeschle's Blog, page 3
June 7, 2017
The Lost Sicily Diaries v.1
Living Without Wilderness, May 2006
Note to reader: In 2006 I moved to Sicily with my husband for a job opportunity. Recently I recovered a journal that I thought was lost.
I’ve been living in Sicily for about a month and the shine has worn off. Yes, the food is amazing, yes, the architecture is sublime. But I miss my walks in the woods, my wild ocean beaches. I miss my wild spaces.
My husband is working for the Navy as a fire chief on the NATO base in Sigonella. He works a 24-hr shift, so when he’s home we explore near our temporary apartment, and when he’s gone I try to write, entertain our two Labradors, and try not to sulk. I’m learning a little bit of the language, which is the brightest part of my day. I enjoy saying, “Va bene cosi,” to the barista dolloping my macchiato (the real kind, not that milky Starbucks crap) with a touch of foam, and “buongiorno” to my neighbor.
Our apartment complex is made of concrete and sort of resembles a prison, complete with bars on some of the windows, dead plants, and litter piled up in the corners of the parking lot. There is steep, open land behind the complex, but it is mostly scrubby, dried plants littered with garbage. The view is of an abandoned building project serving as a toxic dump site. Our back yard does have one tree, though when my dog OJ ate some of the caterpillars that live in it, he almost died.
On our journey to Sicily, both dogs had to travel in giant crates. It was a hot couple of days, and not a smooth trip. In the taxi from our hotel in Norfolk to the Naval airport where we would catch our military plane, it was so crowded with our duffels and the crates and us that I had to ride in one of the crates with Sophie on my lap. The day after we arrived, half of the living room was taken up by the crates, which I hadn’t broken down yet. The dogs gave the entire room a wide berth, and shot me mistrustful stares for days.
On our first outdoor excursion, my husband and I drove up towards Monte Etna, an active volcano and the highest point in Sicily. In the past, eruptions had sent lava flows down the mountain, destroying roads, cabins, and ski lifts. Apparently an acceptable cycle of rebuild-destroy exists here, because after the last eruption, they rebuilt the ski lifts in the same place. I’m used to mountains = wilderness. Or at least mountains = trails. Not on Monte Etna, where the black, pointy lava has created a landscape that looks like a carpet of shattered beer bottles. The view from the ski lift base was breathtaking, though, and the volcanic steam vents billowed puff after puff, as if a sleeping dragon lay just over the ridge.
I found a book called “Walking In Sicily.” It’s become like my bible. I pore over it on Kurt’s shift days, looking for anywhere on this island that could satisfy my need for wilderness. Cava Grande looked so promising; it’s a narrow gorge with trails along the banks.
Trails.
The “marvelous canyon cut deep through the limestone plateau” beckoned. We arrived, me with my backpack ready, only to find the trail was a mere 1 km long and the steps carved into the stone wall leading down to the gorge were chock-full of Italians buddy-carrying their coolers down to the valley bottom for a stylish picnic. In heels, linen pants, and Sunday shirts.
Today we’re on our way to a different mountain. This area promises lush beech woods and is famous for some huge chariot battle during the Middle Ages. Apparently there are cork trees—the last remaining on the island. We arrive in a parking lot and follow the double track. Hey, at least it’s not a paved road. And I can hear birds singing, and smell the trees. The track parts the rolling terrain. I start to relax and think that maybe this could be my place. A place I can come when I need to reconnect to what is so important to me: wildness. A place where the trees haven’t been cut down and the flowers still bloom and the birds are happy. Where water can flow free of garbage and human meddling, and mountain clouds snag on limestone cliffs.
Suddenly, the dirt road is paved with ancient-looking stones. The kind you might see in a book about King Arthur. Maybe this is okay, I tell myself. Maybe a little history mixed in with my wilderness is acceptable. After all, Sicily is home to plenty of amazing history. I should embrace it. The road leads down to a lake, which is ringed by bare dirt and a few sparse trees. The water is murky and I’m not sure if I should let the dogs swim in it. On the shore are a handful of scruffy-looking men, huddled around what looks to be a small fire. More people, I lament. There is a pile of wood nearby. When I say “wood,” picture sticks—maybe as big around as my arm and about as long.
I notice that their fire is to brew espresso with the little steam percolators that are ubiquitous in Sicilian kitchens. Coffee? In the afternoon, in the wilderness? I think. One of the men speaks some English, and we learn that the men are woodcutters who work for several Palermo restaurants. They supply the wood needed for their ovens.
I am instantly depressed. Doesn’t anyone on this island care about wilderness? Doesn’t anyone just go hiking…for fun? Does it always have to be exploited: for an adventurous picnic, for firewood, or grazing livestock?
I will not survive here.
The leader who speaks English insists on brewing us coffee. And sharing their simple food—fresh tomatoes and fresh-baked bread and prosciutto and some kind of salty cheese. These men probably make $5 a day. One is missing a tooth, another is wearing boots with threadbare soles, and the other hasn’t had a decent haircut in some time. And here they are, trying to make conversation with us foreigners, sharing what little they have. Being good ambassadors. It’s immensely humbling and I’m ashamed later that it took me so long to engage with them, crack open my grieving heart to them.
Maybe I can survive here. It’ll be hard. I have no trails to run, no mountains to climb. But I have pockets of beauty to hold close to my heart. I have strangers who care for me like family. I have the blue Mediterranean Sea. It’s not enough, by any means, but maybe it is enough—just in a different way.
I tell myself that I can at least try.
April 28, 2017
How To Pack for a Surf Trip (With Kids!)
Food. My kids have allergies to foods like dairy and gluten. I wish I could tell them to “get native” and try the street tacos, but such a risk would flop miserably. When we go to Mexico, they eat a lot of fruit (washed, of course!), tortillas, eggs, beans, and stuff I bring from home like granola bars and almond butter. I bring special treats to snack on when we go out to eat so they don’t come unglued while we’re waiting. Sure, it can dampen their appetite and thus their enthusiasm for trying the huachinanago but they’re on vacation too.
Entertainment. For the plane, sure, bring the iPad. But then, make it off-limits. Being in the water and interacting with the locals is the best part of a surf trip. I’ve told my kids their devices don’t work in Mexico, and they’ve accepted it without question. My oldest is extroverted and makes friends with anyone so she’s completely in her element when we travel. My younger is a thinker who is quite shy, but enjoys the peace and space we experience. I also make sure that there’s paper, colored pencils, and time for drawing and writing. As a writer, they see me journaling all the time, so this is something they see as a natural part of adventuring.
First Aid. I teach wilderness first aid courses and have a background in leading wilderness trips with kids. My kit is a collection of items I cannot live without and is backed by years of experience. Here are 5 must-haves: A) BandAids, in all sizes. I like the fabric vs. plastic. They stay on in the water better and are more comfortable. B) Athletic tape. Great for sprained ankles, adding security to wound dressing, and it’s impossible to buy in third world countries. C) Op-Cite wound kits. I make a kit with one Op-Cite and a package of steri-strips. These are available at Rite-Aid or other drug stores, or online (amazon, of course). Op-Cites stick to skin for days, even in the water, and are see-through so you can monitor the wound for signs of infection. D) Baby soap. Don’t clean your wounds with real soap or dish soap. Baby soap is gentle and safe and won’t prevent healing the way the super-concentrated regular soaps will. I take a tiny Nalgene bottle (the 1 oz) and fill it with unscented baby liquid soap. Even though it’s gentle, I use it sparingly. E) Meds. You gotta have: kid/baby Advil and adult Advil, kid/adult Benadryl (the kid form is a liquid and is bulky, Pepto-bismol (I like the chewables), Imodium (use only in emergencies, like for travel days, otherwise, unless you or your patient is at risk of severe dehydration, let the bowels flow). If you have a family doctor who is willing, asking for a prescription for Cipro and a mild narcotic (for adults only, if your kid is that sick or in pain call for a helicopter evac) isn’t a bad idea.
Gear. Bring any kind of board you think your kids might like to try. Even if they haven’t started surfing yet, they may get inspired. Boogie boards, longboards, foam boards, plus yours. Laird Hamilton once told me, “to get your kids to surf, teach them to swim.” So hopefully you’ve done the groundwork. To get them to love surfing, be wiling to give up a session or two in order to show your kid the ropes. Also bring your patience! So many kids give up on learning a new skill because the environment is hostile. Don’t be that parent. Let them explore, try, and then celebrate their successes, even if it’s just wading into the shorepound to jump waves 100 times, or swim with you beyond the breakers. Connecting with the ocean, in any way, is the best gift you can give them. That and your smile after you come in from surfing. That smile will make them curious, and hopefully lead to a desire to join you in the lineup someday.
March 14, 2017
Birthday Wave
The morning sun was just a hint of light shining through the tropical mist when the Buddha-bellied old man paddled up. I was immediately terrified of him because he was a local, or at least he looked the part. He sat hunched over his longboard, wearing a meaty-lipped scowl, and made zero eye contact with me.
We were the only two surfers out at a longboard spot on Oahu’s south shore called Pop’s. The ocean was producing what I call “desperation surf,” two-foot-high waves with enough time in between sets to take a short nap. Even though the waves weren’t stellar, I didn’t care; it was my birthday and I wanted to start it in the ocean.
The old man kept his distance. I minded my manners, deferred the bigger waves to him, kept my head down. The waves were dismal, most of them dying out the minute I stood up. The old man caught a few decent rides and I wondered if he was one of those locals who knew the spot so well he could surf it in the dark.
During a particularly long lull, the old man turned to me and said, “Bit of a current today, eh?”
“Um, yeah,” I said, surprised. Then, for some unknown reason, I added, “It’s my birthday.”
He surprised me further by wishing me Happy Birthday, his smile revealing a tiny gap in his front teeth that was almost cute. I began to relax.
“How old are you?” he asked, squinting at me. “Twenty-one?”
I laughed, which felt good. “Try thirty.”
The next wave was rightfully his, so I stayed put while he dropped in. After disappearing, his head and shoulders floated down the line as he swayed with the wave, carving smooth, seamless turns then finished with a graceful, no-frills exit.
We chatted a little bit between sets, but mostly just sat and appreciated the morning. I tried to memorize the delicate sound of the waves spilling over a distant reef, tried to savor the feel of warm water against my toes. Back home in Washington, it was freezing cold and windy.
We’d been waiting a long time for a set when the old man gave me a wry grin and said, “Well, a cup a’ joe is starting to sound pretty good, I guess.”
A ray of sun snuck through the mist behind us, casting a pale pink glow across the water and revealing the patchwork of coral and rock beneath our dangling feet.
“I bet,” he said, “that if I leave, you’ll get waves.” He gazed at the blue horizon for a moment. “Consider it a birthday present.” He flashed me a grin over his shoulder before paddling towards the southern scoop of Waikiki beach.
A few minutes later, as if by magic, a perfect little wave appeared out of nowhere. A buzz of adrenaline flooded my bloodstream as I spun and slowly paddled forward to catch it, the water so smooth and warm flowing past my hands, the air so peaceful and still around me. I dropped into the wave and watched the rolling ripple of silk unfold, feeling my spirit soar, my smile stretch my salty cheeks. I danced with the wave until it died out a few yards from the sand.
Shivering from excitement, I immediately looked for the old man and spotted him, a black silhouette in the looming shadow of a high-rise hotel. He was smiling a huge, bright-white grin. We waved at each other, and then he was gone, tucked into a puff of smoky-gray mist.
February 8, 2017
HOW NOT TO WRITE A BOOK
In a few months, my new novel Going Over the Falls will be published. The story idea came to me on my honeymoon, and the first draft was terrible (the honeymoon was amazing). Over the next fifteen years, I attempted to rewrite, back-burner, forget, revise, and in between, market this terrible story. Here are five lessons that I’ve learned:
#1. Don’t try to publish your first novel. It’ll suck. Okay, maybe if you’ve just graduated from an amazing MFA program and all your instructors have assured you that indeed you are a genius, go ahead. If you’ve just quit your job as a teacher, or a waitress, or a brain surgeon, put that first novel in a file or a drawer and forget it. Or try to.
#2. Don’t try to sell an unedited novel to agents and editors. Investing a few hundred dollars on an experienced editor can save thousands of dollars in the long run as well as prevent thousands of hours in wasted effort. It also will improve your chances of getting published.
#3. Don’t try to write a book while living with children between the ages of two to four years old, especially if they are your own. It’s too hard, and your creativity is not at its best (blame sleep deprivation and dealing with tantrums—your own and your toddler’s). Keep from going insane by writing a blog, or journaling, or find other creative outlets, but don’t try to write the next bestseller until after your kids are in kindergarten.
#4. Don’t join a critique group of unpublished writers, unless you are only looking for a social outlet. Good critique partners are hard to find, but can stall a writer’s career. Many inexperienced writers don’t know how to give constructive feedback, and can hamper the growth of the work by being overly negative to the point of damaging. Find a partner or a group of writers in your genre who have publishing credentials. Writing conferences, writing courses, and social media are all good places to start.
#5. Don’t give up. Opportunities will pop up all the time if you pay attention. Maybe you meet a published author who offers to read and critique your book. Maybe you attend a conference and learn a tool that fixes the book’s weak ending. Maybe, after struggling with a story problem for weeks, you put it all aside and go for an epic run and a solution pops out of thin air. Maybe, even though you’ve tried like hell to forget it, one day you take the beaten, tattered manuscript out of the drawer and decide it’s time to get it right, and you do, and it is. Finally.
