I was talking to another cruiser, and our conversation was coming to an end. Comfortable in my own skin, I lazily stretched my back and smiled. From her boat, she cocked her head sideways and glanced at me with a knowing look.

“I didn’t know you were expecting.”

My brain recoiled. But, outwardly I possessed that open-mouthed OMG look that you would expect to see from an extrovert. “I’m not,” I said slowly, still smiling like I was being paid for it.

“I can’t be pregnant. I’m 53.”

“Oh, I thought you were much younger,” she said. Her husband chimed in with similar sentiments.

How we did laugh.

I exited the conversation. As I walked down the dock, I restrained myself from trying to soften my sense of overshare. I wanted to shout, “I do own sanitary napkins. They are mine.” Meanwhile, my ovaries felt like walnuts in a hoary wood.

For five days I stagnated. Then, the blaming began.

“Pregnant, Rick. I can’t believe she said that. I mean what was she thinking. Who says that? She’s married to a doctor for crying out loud.

As time passed, I was spending way too much time in front of the mirror. Looking sideways.

In truth, the pregnancy comment hit a nerve but it did not spark an epiphany. There had been several wake-up calls.

For example, in 2019 in Trinidad:

Lying in a parking lot at a trailhead, I met the eyes of a man whose legs looked like black onyx. Sweating profusely, he was wearing a face mask. He said something about oxygen and how his mask made his workout more challenging.

“My family is hiking to see the airplane, “I said brightly as though we had fitness in common. And, that is when he asked me where he could find the trail to the airplane. What followed was a boisterous display of pure core effort. As I struggled to roll over from my back to my side, his eyes changed. Shocked.

 I brushed my shorts off and pointed in the direction of my family.

Later, I searched the internet for a video about how to get from the floor to my feet. That should have been a strong signal. But, it wasn’t enough.

Another time:

Seeing myself in a shop window I thought, “can that really be me?” Maybe there was something wrong with the glass. I was busy with my kids, and I just wasn’t ready.

In 2023 in Fiji:

Standing on a scale at in a pharmacy, I felt the staff exchange glances. I coped with my discomfort by joking, “I want my money back.”

In early August 2024, the pregnancy comment hit a nerve.

So, after 5 days, I began doing yoga, walking for an hour, and paddling my kayak, almost every day.

When a doctor scoffed and said I would not lose weight at my age without elevating my heart rate, I introduced stair climbing, dodging bird droppings and sunshine on dilapidated concrete stairs.

Fitness in my 50s did not look like it did when I was in my 30s. When I began walking, I was saluted by a man on a motorbike, and offered rides on multiple occasions. Gone was my Jane Fonda-like confidence. But, I continued to walk and started to weigh myself at the grocery store. It cost 20 cents to do so.

At the time, we were staying at Pangkor Marina Island, which is a 4-mile circumnavigation. It was perfect, and plenty challenging. I learned about how the tides affected the flow of the river. Fishermen would shout out to me, “Where are you from?” and one man asked, “What is that white stuff on your face?” I was using diaper cream as sunscreen.

By September 2024, I was waking up at the crack of dawn and kayaking with a headlamp. In short order I was seeing a doctor about a trigger finger, which is a condition that results from inflammation of a tendon. My ring finger would lock into a bent position and then snap back into position. My age and gender make me prone to this condition, but the repetitive gripping motion of kayaking aggravated it.

In November 2024, I saw an orthopedic surgeon who suggested a different diet. It was all in the spirit of reducing inflammation around my joints.

No sugar. No pastries. No bread. No gluten. No milk.

I tried.

The next time I saw him he added to the list: no fruits, no root vegetables, no round vegetables.

He said he had been eating this way for 18 years, and that I could eat up to 10 eggs a day.

To me this diet seemed grim, and I folded.

With my trigger finger getting worse, I had my first cortisone shot. “It’s a short-term solution,” said the doctor. “Your trigger finger will return in about six months.”

He was right, and it became bad enough that I could no longer hold a pen, or braid Karen’s hair without my finger locking. I would have to unhinge it with my other hand. Trigger fingers don’t cure on their own. Another cortisone shot could have weakened my tendon with the risk of breaking. A few weeks ago, I flew from Langkawi to Kuala Lumpur and had surgery. Rick came to support me.

I was worried that I would have to give up kayaking. However, the doctor told me that kayaking will be my physiotherapy. This was good news. I am looking forward to paddling again in a few weeks.

My diet has changed in that I tend not to eat sugar.

My niece asked me recently why I stopped making bread. “I remember, you used to make bread every day.”

The truthful answer is: I have become more selfish.

Sailing life can be rather sedentary. So, I have made an effort to make exercise a priority. I am 30 pounds lighter, and I am happy to move with greater ease.  

Most posts like this would end with a before and after picture. I’ll skip the collective gaze. My clothes can tell and that is enough.

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