Ladies and gentlemen, as you find your row please step out of the aisle to allow others to pass, so we can get everyone seated and depart on time. Thank you.

I thread my way between the seats and show my boarding pass. With a smile I am gestured upstairs to the quiet bubble of business class seats in the upper cabin of the jet. Thankful to escape the bustle and noise of the main cabin, I heft my bags and make my way up the staircase to the top, where another flight attendant is waiting. I proffer my boarding pass once again.

“12A, this way please.” She looks at my boarding pass again, and looks up, grinning.

“Oh my God, Sondra, hi!!! It’s so great to see you again! It’s me, Frederica Mozzi!”

The sound of her name makes my blood freeze. I force my features into a smile. She looks different, but it’s definitely her. I follow her down the aisle in a daze. What are the chances? I didn’t know she was working as a flight attendant. I fight to stay the panic that’s rising inside me.

“Here you are. Let me take your coat. Get settled, and I’ll be back with some champagne, we have to celebrate this coincidence!”

She smiles conspiratorially at me and I nod a smile back, still mute from shock. I cram my duffel in the overhead bin, take my seat and slide my backpack by my feet. I stare at the seat back in front of me, my mind racing in a thousand directions. I try to calm my breathing.

“Here you are, I poured you some extra.” I jump at the sound of her voice.

“Hey, didn’t meant to startle you,” Frederica winks at me as she hands me the champagne. I don’t want it, but I take it anyway and mutter a thanks with a smile.

“OK, gotta take care of the other passengers!” I raise my glass in a toast because I can’t think of anything else to do. Grateful that she’s busy with other travelers I look out of the window and scream silently. Fuck it, I think to myself, and down the champagne in two gulps.

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Ladies and gentlemen, boarding is complete, and the cabin doors are now closing. Please turn off your electronic devices, stow any hand luggage, and make sure your seatbelts are securely fastened across your lap.

The first time I’d met Frederica Mozzi was the day my parents dropped me off at boarding school. Mum and Dad had told me over and over how expensive the school was, and how much they were sacrificing to send me there so that I would have the best possible start in life. I hadn’t felt that I could tell them how scared I was, or that I didn’t want them to leave me there. We had unpacked my things into the little locker by the bed I’d chosen in the dormitory. My trunk had been taken away and my tuck box had been put at the foot of my bed. My new uniform had been too big - my Mother had insisted on buying larger sizes because I would “grow into it.” My shoes had been two sizes too big for the same reason, and had clomped when I walked. Then all of a sudden my parents had been saying goodbye to me, as were the parents of all the other girls in the dorm. Some of the other girls had been crying, begging their parents not to leave without them. I had wanted to do the same, but how could I, given what my parents had said?

Welcome aboard SwissAir flight LX243 bound for Zurich. Our flight time today is 6 hours and 45 minutes, your flight crew today is led by Captain Müller and First Officer Schmid. Please give your full attention to the safety briefing, even if you fly regularly.

The announcement jolts me out of the reverie just as Frederica leans in with a smile.

“I see you enjoyed that. Don’t worry, I’ve got you. Anything you need, just let me know.” I smile back, unable to form a sentence. She takes my glass and turns to the passenger across the aisle from me.

How is it that after all this time I’m still mute in her presence? I shake my head to break the moment and take out my book and Bose headphones. Maybe if I pretend to be engrossed in it she’ll leave me alone.

The girl on the bed next to mine had been sobbing uncontrollably. I had felt bad for her, and another girl had sat down next to her, putting an arm around the crying girl’s shoulders, consoling her. I had wanted to help but hadn’t been sure how. The two girls both had dark hair and sallow skin. Hoping to break the ice and begin a friendship, I had leaned in:

“Are you two sisters?” I had asked.

The girl with the glasses had whipped her head around.

“Of course not, who would ask such a stupid question? Can’t you see she’s upset? Leave us alone.” she had hissed at me.

Shocked at the intensity of her words, confused and hurt, I had retreated to my own bed. Some of the girls had been boarding already and knew each other well. They had congregated around the sobbing girl and introduced themselves. A handful of us were “new girls” that year, including me. The one with the glasses was Frederica, and she was clearly the queen bee. None of them had asked me my name.

Ladies and gentlemen, we have reached safe cruising altitude. The seatbelt sign is off. You may now move about the cabin, however when seated please keep your seatbelt fastened in case of unexpected turbulence.

Frederica is working her way down the aisle, taking dinner orders. I bury my nose in the menu, pretending to read it carefully, and keep my headphones on in the hope it will minimize conversation.

“Chicken or fish?”

“I’ll take the fish, and white wine with it please. Pinot Grigio if you have it.”

“Certainly.”

She turns to the next passenger, and I’m spared conversation. Do I just treat her as if nothing happened? Do I say something? Do I make her run back and forth to that galley, the nightmare passenger that is never satisfied? Is this my chance at payback? The thought strikes me, and I have to stifle a laugh. Could I?

“Here you go, enjoy - and let me know if you need more wine.” Frederica gushes friendliness at me as she sets down my dinner tray. I know that smile so well.

Ladies and gentlemen, we are passing through an area of possible turbulence, so for your safety the captain has turned on the seat belt sign. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts.

I had been sitting at the long benched, crowded table with the other girls from my boarding House, with Frederica a few seats down, holding court as usual. I had always tried to sit as far away from her as I could but this time, I hadn’t avoided her. Mealtimes had been hectic affairs, by the time the food was passed down the table we only had a short time to eat before we had to walk back to the House for homework. I had started eating my dinner, listening to the conversations around me, when Frederica’s voice rang out.

“Ugh, Sondra, stop shoveling food into your mouth so fast. You look like a chipmunk with all that food in your cheeks. You’re so disgusting I can’t even look at you.” And with that she had pantomimed having to look away and being sick. The whole table had stared at me, and laughter had started at the edges. The heat had risen in my cheeks but I hadn’t been able to think of anything to say. I was just eating my dinner, minding my own business. I couldn’t understand why Frederica had signed me out for her barbs, or why she needed to be so cruel. What I had known at that moment was that from then on mealtimes would be another battleground. I had spent the next two years either avoiding Frederica, or enduring ridicule. Once we got into senior school the cafeteria had been free seating. For those five years I had eaten my meals alone.

I reach up and push the attendant call button. Let’s see how far I can push this. Frederica appears moments later, all eager smile and twinkling eyes.

“Frederica, this wine is great. Would you mind grabbing me another glass?”

“Absolutely!” She takes my glass enthusiastically and disappears. I take a few more bites of fish and she’s back.

“Here you go,” she places the glass on my tray.

“You know, those nuts were delicious. Could I get some more of those?” I’m starting to enjoy this.

Frederica brings back the nuts and I ask her to clear my tray, which she does without complaint. She’s working her way up the aisle, checking drinks and clearing trays. She returns with another passenger’s drink. I deliberately wait until I’m sure she’s back in the galley and reach for the attendant call button again.

“Sorry to bother you again Frederica, I’ve changed my mind and would like that cake dessert after all.”

She brings it without complaint. Again, I wait until she gets all the way back to the galley.

“Some of that chocolate sauce would be great, too.”

If she’s getting annoyed, she doesn’t show it. I tuck into my Black Forest Gateau and chocolate sauce and keep an eye on Frederica as she serves coffee and tea to the rest of the passengers. Once I’m sure she’s completed her rounds I give her a few moments to get settled in the galley post-service and reach for the call button again.

“I would love a coffee,” I grin innocently.

The coffee appears, and I quickly hide the cream and sugar. I wait a full five minutes, and press the call button once again.

“I seem to have dropped my cream and sugar, would you mind terribly getting me another one?” I fake the politeness when really what I want to do is stab her in the eye with my dessert fork.

The Captain has turned off the seat belt sign, you are now free to move around the cabin, however when seated please keep your seatbelt fastened in case of unexpected turbulence.

The nights were the worst. Once the Housemaster had done the nightly rounds at “lights out” and left, the girls in the dorm would wait a few minutes before starting to talk. With no adults around to modulate her behavior, Frederica had used this time to mercilessly ostracize whoever had been her target du jour. Most nights, it had been me. She had used fear to intimidate the other girls; no-one had ever wanted to be on her bad side. So they had all followed her lead, even as I had laid in bed crying silent tears of loneliness. In the mornings the other girls had avoided my gaze as we got ready for school, and walked from the House to the cafeteria in groups. None of them had ever risked waiting for me, in case it brought Frederica’s ire on them.

The Housemaster, unaware of what was happening under his nose, had consistently put me in the same dorm as Frederica for six of my seven years at the school. The severity and nastiness of Frederica’s taunts had grown in proportion to her age. Frederica hadn’t been afraid to share her insults and scorn in her friend circles, either. I had often heard whatever new insult she made up the evening before hurled at me the next day in school, by boys and girls outside of our House. There was no escaping her.

Ladies and gentlemen, we will begin our descent shortly. Please look around for any remaining service items, the flight attendants will be coming down the aisles shortly to collect those.

One Saturday, still in junior school, I had arrived in the dorm to find all the girls gathered there but no Frederica. I had taken my chance.

“Frederica is really mean, not just to me, but also to each one of you at times. I think we should give her a taste of her own medicine.”

They had looked at me in surprise.

“I mean it. She needs to learn her lesson and learn what it feels like to be bullied.”

They had looked at each other, questioning. They had known that for this plan was going to work it had to be unanimous. They had agreed. When Frederica had arrived at the dorm sometime later, she had been faced with a barrage of complaints from all of us about her meanness. She had looked truly shocked, especially to see me, her primary target, as the ringleader.

‘Why are you being so mean to me?” She had cried, running out of the dorm, across the corridor and into one of the bathrooms, locking the door behind her. Loud sobs had started behind the door.

‘Let her stew in her own medicine.” I had said and ignored them.

The other girls gathered around the bathroom door, asking Frederica to open it. She had kept refusing. Finally, one of the girls had turned to me.

“You have to ask her to come out. You have to apologize!”

Deep down I hadn’t believed that Frederica was upset at all. But those girls had all clearly thought she was, and in that moment, I hadn’t had it in me to be the bully that she was.

“Frederica, I’m sorry. Come out, we didn’t mean it.”

The door had unlocked, and Frederica had stood there, smiling, not a tear in sight. She had looked at me with such gleeful triumph that it was clear the rest of my time at the school would be as her enemy number one.

“Is there anything else I can get you before we land?” Frederica’s voice jolts me again, my nervous system instantly on alert.

“No, thank you, I’m fine.”

Ladies and Gentlemen, we have started our descent into Zurich. Please put your tray tables and seats in the upright position, make sure you seatbelts are fastened and stow any items you may have taken out, we will be landing shortly.

I have a few more minutes left on this flight to decide how I’m going to deal with Frederica as I leave. I know she’s going to greet me on the way out, that’s airline policy. What do I say to her? I want to believe that everything is in the past and she doesn’t have any power over me anymore, but seeing her has unnerved me. As the plane starts to descend, I gather my things and pack them away. I watch Zurich rise up to meet me, this airport that was always the gateway to hell every time I flew back to boarding school. We land, taxi to the gate, and I gather my things and join the other passengers in the aisle. The line starts moving.

“Sondra, I’m so glad we bumped into each other! I would love to keep in touch. Here’s my card, I’ve written my personal email address on the back.” Frederica is holding the card out to me, smiling.

Can she really be this dense? I’m aware of the impatient line of travelers behind me, yet I can’t pass this opportunity up. I look her in the eye, and taking a deep breath, say calmly, and loudly, so that the entire cabin hears me:

“Frederica, you made my life a living hell for seven years. You are a bully and a nasty excuse for a human being. If you were the last human on Earth I wouldn’t deign to have any contact with you. So keep the card, I want nothing to do with you.”

And, with that, I shoulder my backpack, turn, smile at the line of shocked passengers behind me and walk down the stairs.

The hummingbirds congregate at the orange honeysuckle, buzzing each other like tiny fighter jets, splaying threat displays with their tails. The ones waiting in the branches commentate the action with their metallic, high-pitched squeaks. One by one they dominate the flowers hovering in and out until they’ve sucked their fill.

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The mule deer wander through languorously, comfortable with the landscape, enormous ears radaring for potential threats. Their heads bob down and up as they alternately search for food and scan for danger, their tail position showing the current threat level. In the spring, their lanky-legged babies, still spotted, careen along behind them, un-surefooted and searching for their mother’s milk. In the evenings they bed down in the salal, finding pockets of comfort in the meadow, ready for the morning sunshine to warm them.

The coyotes lope at a comfortable pace down the game trails trodden into the forest floor, yipping to their companions and leaving poop trail markers as they go. The pack converges where trails meet, greeting each other with songs and growls, licking and jumping in excitement at the prospect of a hunt. The nearby homes’ dogs pick up the scent and the noise, and start barking in warning.

The Great Horned Owls watch stealthily, camouflaged against the tree bark, as the raccoons hide, safe in their hollowed out dens, both waiting for the cover of darkness.

The owls welcome night with their low whooohoohoo, and the hunt begins.

Today’s prompt was: list story

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On the other side of the glass Mick was gesturing wildly towards the door. I could see Anton and Sarah, first aid kit bags on their backs, ready to jump down to me with the antivenom. I said a silent prayer that we had enough. A single coomela had enough poison in it’s claws to fell a large human in two steps. This many? It was a death sentence, and we all knew it. I looked back at Mick and slowly, so slowly, moved my head a fraction to the left and right to say “No. Don’t do it.” To risk startling these creatures was suicide. For all their fearsome defenses - poison claws and teeth so sharp they cut through metal in a single bite - they were, claws down, the scardiest creatures on this wild planet. I would have to wait them out, and pray that my air lasted long enough. Mick held up a sign. “Air 2 hours”. I nodded almost imperceptibly. Mentally thanking my EVA instructors for the breath training, I dropped into a slow box breathing pattern and felt my heart rate slow. With luck, this hundreds-strong family group would wake from their post-dinner snack and be on their way before my air ran out.

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I didn’t remember falling asleep. The buggy had broken down, it was a long walk through the alien forest back towards the science base, and finding the fresh carcass right outside the mess window, I stopped to take samples. The little coomela had approached me as I knelt next to the dead effusa. Knowing where there was one, there would be others I’d cut some meat from the carcass and placed it, agonizingly slowly, in front of the coomela. At the sounds of its excited squeaks more coomelas had come out of the undergrowth - hundreds of them. In seconds I’d found myself surrounded by an excited sea of scaly brown shells on furry legs, their small clawed feet tink-tinking against the metallic gravel. Their ferret-like small eyes had moved from me to the carcass and, smelling the easier meal, they had congregated on the dead effusa, efficiently starting to clean the carcass to the bone. Coomelas, easily startled, react aggressively to any animal taller than about 3 feet. To get up and walk would have been an aggressive move risking an instant, ferocious, pack animal defensive attack. My only option had been to move slowly from a crouch to sitting, and then lying down. As the coomelas had eaten their fill they looked for a warm spot for their post-meal nap and my 36.6C body temperature was a perfect spot. And that’s how Mick, Anton and Sarah had found me, lying just outside the mess window, covered with hundreds of sleeping coomelas.

“Thank you, Dr. Brown. Is there anything else?” The inspector’s stern face stared at me through the video link.

“No, that’s everything, thank you” I answer, glad this is over.

“We’re very glad you recovered. You were extremely lucky. Of course, it will take some time to manufacture that much replacement anti-venom, but we’re sure we can get that to you in the next cargo shipment.”

“Thank you,” is allI can think of to say.

“And in future, please don’t feed the animals, Dr. Brown?” His tone is stern, but I can see his eyes are smiling.

“Yes sir.”

The screen buzzes to signal the end of transmission and goes dark. I sigh, looking out of the window at the beautiful, alien forest outside.

Anton sticks his head around the door.

“Did they buy it?”

“I don’t know. But they’re sending more anti-venom.”

“Better safe than sorry. Ready for your venom dose?” he says, handing me the tiny, purring coomela we had named “Jack”.

“The data is good - it shows we’re building tolerance just as you predicted,” Anton smiles at me, “in another year we should be in the clear.”

“Then let’s not give HQ any more reasons to investigate us,” I smile back at him and rub little Jack’s shell, encouraging him to wake.

Today’s prompt was: opening lines

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Her dirt bike was still running, up in the tree, when the first of the guys came around the corner. Seeing her lying immobile on the trail, Phil rode up in a cloud of dust, killed his engine, leapt off the bike and, tearing off his goggles and helmet ran over to her, kneeling carefully by her side. His face was white with concern, brows knitted together.

“Are you OK?” He yelled to be heard through her helmet and earplugs.

“I’m OK, I’m OK, just a bit winded,” Zosia replied, starting to wiggle her toes and fingers, testing for pain and finding none. She moved her knees and elbows. No pain there either, but she could feel her gloves and boots, her sleeves and pants and their armor. This was good. Thank God for body armor. She knew she’d have some bragging-rights bruises by dinnertime.

“Hey, take it easy, move slowly,” Phil admonished her as she began to sit up. He looked around in confusion.

“Where’s the bike?”

She pointed at her dirt bike, still running, up in the tree.

There was a moment of silence as Phil took in the scene. A small giggle escaped his lips.

“How in the world?!”

The relief that Zosia was OK bubbled up in him and he laughed, a full belly laugh. He laughed harder and harder, doubling up as tears of mirth broke free of his eyes.

One by one the reset of the group rode up to them. They took in Zosia’s amused embarrassment, Phil’s laughing tears and the dirt bike that was still running, up in the tree. One by one, dirtbike engines died and laughter filled the thin canyon.

It was going to be an excellent dinner party tale, but first they had to figure out how to get the dirt bike out of the tree.

Today’s prompt was: Dramatic event

What would it be like, to lose your mind? Is it a slow fading of familiar things? Does everything simply become confusing? What are the first things to go? What could she watch out for? How will it happen? When will it happen? It happening already?

Booze. Now that she’s not drinking because of that indisputable, direct causation link to dementia she’s realizing how ubiquitous it is. Celebrations, commiserations, get-togethers, leaving parties…they all center around booze. Swirling the yellow liquid in her glass she thinks about all the times she’d swallowed the poison in the past and how her new knowledge stops her. Her parents are still sharp in their nineties and they barely drank. So unlike her college years when drinking was a team sport and they’d buy extra pints at last call to chug before getting thrown out onto the street. How much damage had she done?

They say exercise is the best protection for the brain. Her alarm beeped her back into existence at 5am sharp this morning and she forced her legs over the side of the bed even as her mind hugged the pillow for just. One. More. Minute. She sleepdressed herself into leggings, sports bra and t-shirt and stumbled into the living room where she’d laid out the TV remote control the night before in anticipation of this moment. Flicking on the dance video she halfheartedly followed the smiling instructor. How much actual effort is needed to protect the brain? Was it heart rate zone 2 or zone 3?

Bridge kept her aunt sharp well into her eighties. The weekly Bridge night with the ladies. There are apps to learn the game nowadays, maybe she should learn? Would playing against the computer be the same as playing with friends? Maybe there’s a bridge club in the neighborhood.

Today’s prompt was: Mundane preoccupations

Look through the turn; delay your apex as much as you can; keep the bike upright for as long as you can then dip in to make it turn; don’t look to the side; watch where you want to go; if someone crashes in front of you don’t look at them, look where you want to go through the debris; connect your corners; each corner sets you up for the one after the one after the one that you’re in; think ahead; pay attention to the noise behind you, protect your line; ride your line not someone else’s. Lean off the bike, get that knee on the ground; extra contact patch means you’ll feel when the bike wants to slide out; catch the bike on the low side; don’t let the rear catch and send you on high side; if you crash let go of the bike; don’t try to stand up, first make sure you’ve stopped sliding.

Those are the air fences; if you’re going to crash try to do it there, you’re less likely to die; if you’ve crashed and you’re still on the track make sure you look before moving so you don’t get hit and run over; if you’re badly hurt don’t move; if you’re OK get off the track and we’ll have the medics check you out; if you don’t have a concussion you can get back on the bike and race again; if your motorbike is badly broken someone else will likely lend you one.

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Today’s prompt was: An initiation

Her week in Japan had been fruitful; the contract negotiations would move forward because the customer was willing to test their new tech. There was budget available, but she needed the team to build out a customer-specific demo to get through the next round of approvals. To do that, she had to convince the head of software development to free up some of his team to code the demo, given how stretched the team was already, that was going to take all the persuasion skills she could muster. Getting resources for an international customer - even one as big as this one - was always tough when the company had US government contracts that dwarfed this one by orders of magnitude.

The room shook. It was a short shake, the kind of earthquake she’d experienced many times in Tokyo.

“Ooh, earthquake” she typed into the messenger screen, unconcerned.

“Big or small?” Simon had grown up in Japan, so he knew the drill.

“This one feels weird, it’s lurching side to side…I have to go.”

The roar reminded her of distant train bearing down on a station. It grew louder as the floor began to undulate under her feet. The pulsing wave moved concrete like water, deforming the walls, bending them in and out in rhythm with the crests and troughs of the floor. Laptop, water glass, flower vase, telephone, bedside lamp all joined the TV on the floor, bouncing and rolling with each successive crest in a frantic random motion ballet. As the pulses changed into jagged sideways jolts the walls moved away from their positions and the contents of the bathroom shelves were suddenly left in midair to fall to the marble floor and shatter. She watched the door frame bend into successive parallelograms around the door which shook but didn’t pulse. Cracks appeared in the walls and dust filled the air. Looking out of the window she could see the buildings around her swaying like drunken grass reeds.

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I didn’t set out to be a social chameleon but I became one before I was aware of what was happening.

When I was four years old my family managed to get permission from the Communist authorities to travel to the United States for a few months. I suddenly found myself living in a different house with a family that communicated using entirely different sounds to the ones I was used to. It took me a while but by watching the boys who were similar to my age I was able to figure out the meanings of the sounds they made and mimic them. They were all very happy when I did that.

Then suddenly we were back in the place we’d come from, and in the sandpit in the park I used the new sounds when I asked if I could play with the kids there. They looked at me in confusion and shrank away in fright. This was how I realized that the sounds used in this place weren’t the sounds used in the other place. In my mind the two sets of sounds bifurcated. In my kindergarten class the teacher told me to hush because I knew all the answers in the other sounds, and none of the other kids did.

When I was seven years old we flew away from Poland, this time for good. My mother and I stopped in England and I got to use English again, re-remembering the sounds I’d forgotten because none of the other kids wanted to hear them. Here we spoke English but it was a different English to what I’d learned before, and the customs were different to the USA as well. Again, I copied what other kids my age did, laughing when they laughed, learning their humor and mannerisms.

Then we flew on to Abu Dhabi. The wall of heat hit us as we stepped off the plane into the desert air, the muezzins singing the evening call to prayer and the men in long white robes speaking a different set of sounds, this one punctuated with a guttural h sound. Once again I was thrust into a different set of English, a different set of mannerisms, humor and affect. By this time I was really good at mimicry and assimilation. I copied everything I could.

There were so many languages and cultures there. Arabic and Arabs from all over the Middle East, Indians, Pakistanis, Uzbeks all speaking differently accented Urdu, Hindi, and many other dialects. Aussies, Kiwis, Latinos, Europeans of all flavors all smooshed together in a nationality salad of expatriate workers. Every day brought so many opportunities to mimic, blend in and learn.

Every day was an opportunity to create a new version of me, based on who I was interacting with. I learned a smattering of Urdu, Hindi, Arabic, Kiswahili.

I learned how to blend in, a chameleon.

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Today’s prompt was: How To List

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“You really shouldn’t have tried to run away,” she growled at the innkeeper.

“And you really shouldn’t be so overconfident,” he answered, smiling, staring insolently back at her. “It seems to put you at a disadvantage.”

She felt the prick of a blade in her back as a strong hand grabbed her dagger out of her grip and twisted her arm up behind her. Whoever the goon was, he was taller and stronger than her, but she was faster. Running up the wall to the side of her she kicked with both legs, bringing her body up and over her captor, the element of surprise giving her a momentary advantage. As the goon dropped her dagger, she swung her foot towards it and kicked it into the air. With a flick of her wrist she send the dagger singing through the air towards the innkeeper.

“And what do you think you’re going to do with that, exactly?” The innkeeper was pointing her dagger blade at her. His grin was wider now, his eyes twinkling. He had caught the dagger mid-flight, plucking it out of their air by the handle as if she had given him fair warning of its impending arrival.

She gasped. “How?…..How did you do that?!”

“He come, he come,” he reassures me with a big smile.

I’m not smiling. I’m feeling very conspicuous, conscious of the stares of passersby. I’m alone in this market in the middle of Nairobi, waiting for a man to bring a statuette, and every time I try to leave I’m told to sit down. I don’t want to make a scene, but with every passing minute my feeling of unease worsens.

I’d landed in Nairobi late the night before, my first trip to anywhere on the African continent. Seasoned travelers in our family’s circle of friends had warned me about the culture shock that I’d inevitably experience on my first visit. I’d believed them, but also thought “How bad could it be?” I’d travelled a lot by this point, including a round the world trip at age 11. Surely, I was beyond that.

The driver from the hotel had been waiting for me as arranged, a piece of cardboard with my name grossly misspelled on it. I was used to this: Anglophiles have a horrible time with all the consonants in my last name. Add to that English as a foreign language and the result is wildly unpredictable. Luckily, this had happened to me for so many years it no longer phased me. I’d opted for the hotel pickup over a taxi since I was traveling solo, and as a tall, twenty-something blonde haired, blue eyed European I stuck out like a sore thumb. Only months prior the remains of Julie Ward had been found in the remnants of a camp fire in the Maasai Mara game reserve. I wasn’t taking any chances.

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The drive to the hotel had been uneventful and I’d checked in and collapsed in my bed, eager to rest and greet the new day early to explore Nairobi before the midday sun made it too hot to walk around. I wanted to get some shopping done before we set off on our safari. We were headed north through the Rift Valley, past the foothills of Mt. Kilimanjaro up through Marsabit to the southern tip of Lake Turkana. From there we planned to head north along the lake, near to the border with Ethiopia. The final route would be determined by the amount of cross-border raid activity. Everywhere we would go, we would meet with the local Maasai and Kikuyu and other tribes, and we needed to bring gifts. I’d learned from other travelers what I needed to bring with me - Biro pens, pencils and soap were the best. Candy, though all the kids would ask for it, was a terrible idea. There are few dentists in the bush.

I’d woken early, eaten a generous and delicious breakfast in the hotel’s restaurant, and chatted with the concierge about the best walking route to the market. The concierge had been somewhat surprised at my plan to walk to the market, and had suggested a taxi. I had insisted that since it was less than a couple of kilometers away I could walk. He had been dubious, and again suggested the taxi. I had declined, and he’d shaken his head in that “She’ll learn” way that I had recognized from other travels. A voice in my head had said “Take the taxi,” but I had not yet learned to listen to that voice as closely as I should. That knowledge would take a few more years, and a few more adventures, to sink in. Stubbornly, I had stuck to my plan.

So, I had thanked the concierge for his help. I’d slipped on my wide brimmed safari hat, laced up my desert boots. Making sure my money belt was securely hidden under my shorts, I’d walked out of the lobby. The doorman had helpfully gestured to a taxi to pull up, but I’d declined and told him I intended to walk.

“In this heat? Madam, that is not a good idea.”

“Sir, I live in Dubai, I am used to the heat,” I’d answered as politely as I could, and shoving my map in my pocket, set off down the sidewalk.

500 meters later I had been very sure of the error I had made. It was not the heat.

I had been walking down a busy street in downtown Nairobi, the only white person in sight. I was a spectacle, or at least I felt like one. A lot of people had been staring, some nodding their heads my way and sharing comments. I had clearly been Doing. The. Wrong. Thing.

It had felt like I was walking naked down the street.

Keeping my chin high and feeling superlatively grateful for the sunglasses hiding my eyes I had looked for an opening in the melee of cars, bicycles and scooters. I’d crossed the street so as to avoid the shame of doing a too-obvious about-face. Turning back towards the hotel it had taken every ounce of my willpower not to walk fast or break into a run. I’d walked at a steady pace as if enjoying myself, my insides awash in anxiety.

I’d reached the hotel and the doorman had smiled from ear to ear.

“Back so soon Madam?”

“Where is the bar?”

With a chuckle, he’d pointed through the lobby, “Straight through Madam.”

“Thank you,” I’d looked at his name tag, “Mugane.”

As deliberately and nonchalantly as my jangled nerves would allow I’d walked across the hotel lobby. The bar was deserted save for the barkeep. I’d pulled up to a stool.

“Good morning, Madam,” he’d smiled. It was only 10:00am. “What would you like?”

“Whiskey, straight up.” I was going to get to the market today, but it was going to take some courage to make that happen.

To be continued….

Today’s prompt was : discomfort.

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My mind is racing with a never ending list of to dos, emails to respond to, bills to pay, a million other business of life chores that I just can’t keep up with. My reading list, usually a source of joy, currently feels like just another long list of to dos. All these things are whizzing around in my brain but I’m incapable of getting up and addressing a single one of them.

And I’m supposed to post happy pictures on Instagram, think up witty 140 character stories on Twitter while I feel like this? Please. I don’t have the energy to get off the floor.

Insomnia and a full work schedule.

The two should be mutually exclusive.

I turn my head and my eyes feel like marbles dropping to the bottom of a bowl. A stray dust bunny of dog fur betrays my feeble attempts to clean up. At least it’s under the couch where only I can see it.

I fantasize about falling asleep here on the floor, and sleeping for as long as my body needs. Waking up refreshed and ready to face the day, bouncing up bright eyed and bushy tailed.

A while ago it was like that, but not now. I so want to get back there. Sleep was so easy and dreamy and restorative, just like in the commercials on TV. Now it’s night after night of crying with exhaustion, bargaining with the Universe to let me sleep in peace.

Just. One. Night.

How long could I sleep here, really, before someone called a wellness check?

At least a couple of days?

And then the cops would probably break down the door to get in. Would they?

Should I leave it unlocked just in case?

If they found me asleep, curled up dreaming happily, would they just tiptoe out to avoid waking me and lock the door behind them? If I left them a note saying “If you find me sleeping please let me sleep, I’ve had insomnia for the last 8 months. Thank you.”?

Sleep, please sleep. I try my regular mantra “You’re tired, go to sleep. You’re tired, go to sleep....”

Today’s prompt was: Exhaustion

“Yes we did honey, and you almost burned yourself when you were two years old, trying to grab one.”

Instantly I’m transported.

The shiny bauble hangs in front of me. Vertical colored vertical stripes are separated from each other by twinkling gold glittery lines.

One stripe is silver and that is the one that has caught my attention. Things are moving in it, and I want to see what they were. As I crawl closer I see that the shapes inside the bauble are moving too. Steadying myself to lift my right hand forward towards the shiny thing, I see myself lift my hand towards me in the bauble. This confuses me. How can I be in the bauble when I am so very obviously here? Frowning, I focus my attention more.

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Now I can see that I am in the bauble in many colors. I am in every stripe, my face divided by the little gold glittery lines. I recognize myself from the me I’ve seen staring back at me in other places in this house. I smile, and the me in the bauble smiles. I laugh, and the me in the bauble laughs. This makes me very happy and I laugh even more. I clap my hands. Reaching out to grasp the bauble, I maneuver myself upright.

“Don’t let her grab that ornament,” says the man’s voice that belongs to my Dad. “It’s made of glass and she’ll cut herself if she breaks it.”

“Or she’ll pull the Christmas tree down on herself,” I hear my Mother say laughing, as she kneels down next to me and gently pulls my hand away from the bauble. I look at her and smile and look back at myself in the bauble, pointing so that she can see.

“I think she recognizes herself in the reflection,” says my Mother.

“Don’t be ridiculous, she’s only two years old,” says the other male voice, the one that belongs to the other man that my Mother is obviously connected to somehow.

I giggle at how silly he is, and point back to my reflection. There I am! See?

The strong smelling green tree is dropping little sticks on the carpet and onto the bright squares piled underneath it. It has silver string and lots of baubles all over it, and tiny little flickering things that are very bright. So bright, I want to touch them.

“Watch she doesn’t burn herself, either.” My Father’s voice again.

The little flickery things are in many places in the tree. My Mother said they were very hot and not to touch. But I really want to. I lurch forward, stepping towards the nearest one and reaching up, but my mother grabs my hand and pulls me away and up into her arms.

Like a veil, the memory drops away leaving me staring dumbfounded at the candle clip in my hand.

“Mum, I think I just remembered a really early childhood memory,” I say, recounting the scene that had played out in my mind’s eye.

‘Yes, that really happened. I remember you saw your reflection in the tree ornament and I had to swoop you up before you pulled the tree over. You were absolutely mesmerized.”

“How old was I?” I ask.

“You were not even two, I think.”

“And we really put real, burning candles on the Christmas tree? Indoors?”

“Yes, we really did.”

Today’s prompt was: Candlelight

Putting aside my laptop I headed to the front door where we stashed our headlamps in case of power outages. Grabbing one, I headed back to the double doors leading to the deck, which was lit up by our night lights. No coyotes on it, so safe to go outside. The lamp’s beam was immediately met by two eyes staring back at me, long ears above them twitching this way and that. The deer stood stock still, looking from me back into the thicket just below and behind our deck, ears triangulating and nose working. I swept the beam across the darkness of the red cedar and the thicket where the deer usually slept at night and saw nothing. Waiting a few more moments, I stepped back through the deck doors and left the deer to her fate.

Inside, the cats were still on high alert. Our smallest was walking cautiously across the living room, low and slow, his belly a mere inch from the ground. Looking carefully around the furniture as if the coyote could leap out from behind the coffee table to surprise him. The older boy sat still on the couch, ears straining for the sound. Our queen had already made her escape high into the ceiling beams. Smart girl.

“Aoooooooooo” it came again, this time from the front of the house and even closer, with a second “OooooooooOooooooOooooo” joining in. The pack was on the hunt. Cats scattered, couch cushions flying and claws scraping for purchase on the hardwood floor as they raced for cover. Putting on my headlamp again, I stepped out of the front door and shone the beam in a wide arc into the forest. Sure enough, another pair of eyes stared back, long ears twitching. Another deer, hiding in the bushes. Two more sweeps across the forest but the coyotes were smarter; no eyes stared back at me.

I retreated back inside. Picking up my laptop I started to type as one by one our cats made careful entrances back into the living room. Low and slow, they carefully picked their way back to the couch for reassurance. All three piled onto the cushion next to me, vying for the prime spot touching my leg. There’s safety in numbers.

We didn’t hear the coyotes again that night, but they are frequent visitors. We see their scat carefully placed in the middle of the trails on our property, as if to remind us who really owns the forest. Occasionally we’ll hear the neighborhood dogs barking and then hear the pack’s cacophony of snickers, jeers and yips as they celebrate a successful hunt or greet each other.

The very first time I heard coyotes I was camping in Colorado. I’d never heard such an eerie sounds in the wilderness before, and it had kept me awake the entire night. It’s still a very strange set of sounds but I’ve grown to love them. They tell me the forest is alive and thriving.

Today’s prompt was: Dark

“Hey, we’re safe, and it’s a ride home. Quit yer whining,” she joked with the group.

“Get ready for a long ride home,” Wilhem smirked, putting words to everyone’s thoughts.

“I just hope it’s one of those ones with the superstructure on top so we can get some shade,” Sue piped up, “Y’all look like a bunch of freshly-boiled lobsters.”

She was right. The hours they had spent floating in the ocean had rubbed off whatever was left of their sunscreen and all of them had terribly sunburnt faces, ears, lips and in the case of Wilhem, bald head. She started laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Jim looked at her.

“Nothing, I’m just thinking what this will look like to the villagers when we get to the boat swap.” She giggled again. “A bunch of lobster-faced westerners clad in skintight black rubber suits, jumping from one boat to another with a load of weird metal bottles and equipment.”

“Well clearly they’re going to think we’re nuts, but as long as that dhow is heading to Dibba with us on board today I don’t really care how they remember us,” Dave was grinning from ear to ear.

Sure enough some thirty minutes later the Captain slowed the boat as they neared shore, carefully raising the engines as they got into shallow water. Their dive boat lay sadly on its side on the sand further up the beach, the deep furrow showing where Steven had run it up the beach at full speed. Steven stood up on the bow and jumped down into the water, rope in hand as the Captain cut the engines.

“Piper’s gonna chew you a new one for beaching that boat,” she said looking at Steven. They both knew their boss had a temper, especially when it came to equipment issues.

“Let him, it was that or sink and lose all of you.” She knew Steven was deadly serious.

“Yeah, I’ve got your back on this one Steven. All of us do.” She knew that was true without having to check with the group. Piper’s reputation was well known in the dive community.

“So, where’s this majestic yacht that’s taking us back to Dibba?” Rajesh had jumped down too and was starting to transfer all the gear to shore.

“She’s right over there, Rajesh” said Steven, pointing down the beach to where an ancient fishing dhow was languishing, its bow pushed into the sand. Green fishing nets were piled up on its stern. It had no superstructure at all.

“That thing?” Rajesh’s voice said it all. “Is it seaworthy?”

“Well, when I asked “Dibba?” The Captain pointed to it and said yes, so I guess so?”

Steven was obviously trying to convince himself as well as everyone else.

“It’s the only big boat here and it appears it’s the only one with enough fuel to get to Dibba, so it’s that, or you can start swimming.”

He had a point. The fishing village was not reachable in any way other than by boat. There are no roads in the mountains behind it, and the cliffs rose up hundreds of feet in the air either side of its slim flat bay.

Right then, another older Omani came walking up the beach towards them, gesturing to their equipment and the dhow.

“That’s our Captain. I think he wants to get going.” Steven smiled and gestured to say yes, we’re coming.

“How much did you say we’d pay them for the ride?” She wondered how much cash she had left in the car back at Dibba port.

“He started at five hundred Dirhams but I got it down to two hundred. Let’s see how far this old boat gets us.” With a quick grin, Steven grabbed the nearest bunch of gear and started walking towards the dhow.

“Chop, chop, can’t keep the Captain waiting!” He said back to her over his shoulder.

Sighing, she grabbed her BCD and tanks and started walking down the beach. By this point it felt like the whole village had come to see the spectacle. Men, women and children stood in a long curious line between the two boats. They stared curiously, some pointing and laughing. The women were covered from head to toe in black robes, their faces obscured by the black and gold leather masks used in this part of the Arabian Peninsula. The children wore mismatched hand me down clothes, their hair long and unkempt. The men, their head coverings pulled up around their heads, stood closer to the action, chewing khat.

Once all the gear was loaded and everyone was on board the men in the village stepped into the shallow water and together shoved the now heavy dhow backwards into deeper water. The Captain cranked the engine and on the third attempt it coughed hoarsely to life, belching a giant plume of black diesel smoke out of the side exhaust. It settled into the typical slow cluck-cluck-cluck-cluck she knew from all her previous dhow rides.

“This is going to take a while.” Dave summed up what she was thinking.

“Well, at least we’re heading upwind,” she thought to herself. Diesel fume seasickness was the last thing she wanted.

The dhow pulled out away from the village, distanced itself from the cliffs by a few hundred yards, pointed south and been the journey back to Dibba port. A short while later the sun dropped behind the horizon and the blackness enveloped them.

She felt something crawl over her foot. Then another.

“Cockroaches!!!!” she yelled as soon as her brain made the connection.

Everyone was up on their feet, shaking off the crawling insects.

The dhow was infested.

Out they came, pouring onto the deck now that the sun was gone, looking for the next meal. This was a fishing dhow after all, and the deck stank of fish. The cockroaches feasted on the guts and scales that usually covered the area where they had been sitting. At least the Captain had sluiced the deck before brining them on board, but the cockroaches hadn’t gotten the memo.

“Can this day get any worse?!” Rajesh was dancing up and down on the deck.

“DON’T jinx us like that!” Sue was doing the same.

“Well, this boat could sink.” She said it deadpan and was glad the darkness concealed her failing attempt to keep a straight face.

There was a moment of silence and she worried it was too soon for gallows humor.

Wilhem’s giggles broke the dam. They couldn’t hold it in any longer. The stress of the entire afternoon, the uncertainty, the sunburn, the pirates, the sharks, the boat rides, the staring villagers and the cockroaches all came out of them as laughter, growing and intensifying until they were doubled over holding their stomachs and crying joyful tears.

Even the Captain was chuckling, caught up in the infectious laughter.

Eventually, the lights of Dibba port appeared on the horizon. As they drew closer all of them stood on the deck, grateful to be reaching safety with a story to tell.

The End.

This article is part of a series. Here are the previous installments:

Part 1: When the dive boat is sinking

Part 2: When the dive boat has sunk

Part 3: Has the dive boat sunk?

Part 4: When the dive boat can’t float

Yes there’s an elephant in the boardroom, and it’s called “Compassionate Management Is Weak.”

Often when I talk about compassionate management in professional settings someone raises the concern that a compassionate leader is, or can be seen as, weak or vulnerable.

Nothing could be further from the truth.

Compassion demands bravery in the face of difficulty and being resolute in the face of challenges. Compassion is not for the faint of heart. Rather, it demands that we are lionhearted, willing to show vulnerability and strength in appropriate measure as needed. Compassion also connects us with our fellow human beings.

“Look after your people and they will look after your business.” - Sir Richard Branson

Compassionate leaders understand this, can and will make the tough calls when needed. But they will also treat colleagues, friends and family in a way that enables everyone to create their best work and life.

Mark Bertolini, Former Aetna Chairman and CEO is an excellent example of a compassionate leader. When he realized Aetna’s staff were struggling to make ends meet he increased the minimum wage and instituted wellness programs, at a yearly hard cost of $75 million to the company.

Staff wellbeing improved, and so did the company’s stock price: from $30 to $153 per share.

No-one could accuse Bertolini of being soft or weak. He had to sell that strategy to the Board, with no precedent to fall back on. That’s not for the fainthearted.

“Fight for the things that you care about but do it in a way that will lead others to join you.” - Ruth Bader Ginsburg

The inimitable RBG understood that compassionate leadership is about fighting for the things we care about in ways that enroll our colleagues, friends and clients in our future vision.

It’s about taking a stand for what’s good not just for us but for the wider community.

It’s about creating moments of engagement and flow that enable peak performance, not just for us personally, but for those around us as well.

And, it’s about building and aligning a team and community with something bigger than ourselves, which gives our work and lives meaning.

None of us succeed alone.

Josh Weiner, former CEO of LInkedIn, talked about compassionate management a lot. He defined it as a blend of two things:

1. Not letting others off the hook, meaning ensuring we take the steps and make the effort to be curious, ask questions, have the difficult conversations, get to the bottom of things and hold others accountable for their actions, and

2. Not letting ourselves off the hook, meaning holding ourselves accountable in the same way.

Taking the compassionate approach helps us avoid knee-jerk reaction judgments of good vs bad or right vs wrong, and gives us much more information to work with. In doing so, we are more able to enroll others in our vision and mission. There is, indeed strength in numbers.

Self-Compassion, The Hardest Compassion Of All

Most importantly, compassionate management extends not just to those in our sphere of influence, but also to ourselves.

Is your inner voice your harshest critic, or your best friend? If you’re like the vast majority of humanity, it’s likely the former.

You probably would NEVER use your inner critic voice on anyone in real life, and certainly not your best friend.

Perhaps you've used it online.

Perhaps you have used it on colleagues or family in a moment of pique.

And perhaps right afterwards you dialed up the volume on that sucker and pointed it back on yourself. Self-attack is so easy to do.

This is where self-compassion comes in.

Unsurprisingly it is the bedrock on which compassionate management is built. Just as compassion doesn’t equal acquiescence or weakness, neither does self-compassion. Self-compassion is not about letting ourselves off the hook – quite the contrary, it’s about holding ourselves accountable while extending kindness and understanding towards ourselves. Just as you would towards your best friend.

That, again, is not for the fainthearted.

And, it’s the key to elegantly quitting the overwhelm-productivity see-saw (teeter-totter for my American friends). More on that topic in a later post.

When compassion enters the discussion, we find ourselves stating problems differently than when we started, and creating solutions that we never even dreamed of. Here's what I've seen happen for individuals I've worked with:

• Self-compassion helped maintain motivation in the face of challenges,

• It enabled them to bounce back faster from setbacks and regain a sense of inner balance, and

• Applying compassion to the day-to-day and to the toughest career challenges brought new ideas and creative solutions to the table.

Compassion is like muscle memory. The more we practice compassion, the more accessible it becomes. In time, it becomes a habit that allows us to maintain our composure in the most difficult of circumstances. In those moments we are able to show great courage and make hard decisions.

Compassion stays with us. Like an elephant, we never forget.

How to begin cultivating compassion:

Begin by taking a moment to settle your body into a comfortable position. Rest your eyes on something pleasing to look at, or if you feel comfortable to, close them. Allow your spine to lift and your shoulders to soften.

Take a full breath in and let a long slow breath out.

Bring to mind someone that you care about. Imagine them well and happy. Say to yourself: May they be well. May they be happy.

Bring to mind someone else that you care about. Imagine them well and happy. Say to yourself: May they be well, may they be happy.

With that same sense of care, kindness and generosity that you felt for another, invite a sense of well being for yourself.

May I be well, may I be happy.

Over the next few breaths allow these offerings of kindness and goodwill to sink in. Notice how that feels in the body.

Finish with a full deep breath in and a long slow breath out.

Starting the New Year watching the sunrise became a new ritual for me 7 years ago today. The first year, we were on the beach in SoCal. Our plan was to do 108 Sun Salutations to greet the dawn. However, we were woefully unprepared for the almost freezing air temperatures and laughed our way through maybe 28 Sun Salutations before calling it and huddling to avoid frostbite instead.

This morning’s dawn was so magical, I want to share it with you. Here’s 30 seconds of eagles and other birds greeting the sun, and waves coming to shore. Enjoy.

May 2024 bring peace and become our favorite year yet.

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Rituals to mark thresholds and life transitions exist in every culture. While out on a no-frills safari in northern Kenya I had long conversations with Alois, a Maasai warrior traveling with our group. He told me how he and the friends he’d grown up with were sent out of their village at age 13 or 14. Their task was to hunt a lion and bring back its hide as proof they were men. The only tools they had for the task were long spears. Alois’ face, chest and left arm wore four long parallel lines - scars where he had not gotten out of the way of the lion’s claws fast enough.

Prior to the Julian calendar which started in 46 BC, the Roman calendar ended the year with a week long festival of Saturnalia. A time of gift giving, feasting and celebration, it fell roughly between our Dec 17th and 23rd, right over the Winter Solstice. Then, on roughly the 25th of the month it was the feast of Sol Invictus “the victorious Sun”, celebrating the return of the light. It’s easy to see how these festivals were integrated into the Christian Christmas rituals and continued into the Gregorian calendar we still use today.

In Roman Catholic religious societies there is the ritual of the first Holy Communion and Quinceañera for girls passing through puberty into womanhood. In the 18th through 20th centuries, and in some places even today, the débutante presentation ritual still serves to mark this transition. In parts of Africa and Asia scarification, tattooing and even genital mutilation of boys and girls marks the transition from childhood into adulthood.

Here in the Pacific Northwest region where I currently live, the indigenous Coast Salish nations have their own rituals. One beautiful story I listened to on the radio was a Coast Salish elder describing the ritual where young men in one of the Coast Salish nations are sent out to hunt to mark their transition into adulthood. On their return, they present the spoils of the hunt to their mother. She tells them to feed the elders, because they cannot provide for the tribe any longer. Then, their mothers send them out again, and on their return their mother tells them to give the food to the children, because they are still too young to provide for the tribe. Once again, they are sent out to hunt and forage, and upon their return their mother instructs them to give food to feed the rest of tribe, because the tribe is what sustains them all. Finally, they are sent out to gather food one last time and upon their return, their mother encourages them to eat, and congratulates them on becoming men.

What strikes me as I think of all of these rituals is how Western culture has become engrossed in commercialized rituals of purchase and performative religion - entirely losing any spiritual connection to the very act of a ritual.

One of my dear friends who lives in Seattle creates beautiful flower mandalas on the path leading from the sidewalk to her house. The colors of the flowers are extra vibrant against the grey of the concrete. They last only a few days, but even when the flowers start to wilt and lose their potent hues they inspire a brief burst of wonder and joy every time I see them. My friend tells me th meditative aspect of building symmetry and color transitions is the magic in this ritual, and I believe her. Similar rituals are seen in Indonesia, India and many other countries - mandalas made of flowers, colored sand, and even animal bones.

One end-of-year ritual I have shared with my closest friends is completing the Year Compass, a free guidebook that I find enormously helpful as a way of closing out one year and welcoming the next. It’s not about resolutions, it’s a guide for reflection and naming what’s important in your life.

Some of my new year rituals also revolve around the dawn and the ocean. I love walking in the predawn twilight, hearing the birds greeting each other in the first light. I love the quiet before the world wakes up. I also love the sting and bite of the cold Puget Sound, and all the creatures I see when I swim in it. So I will be going to bed early tonight, ready to wake for the dawn and greet the sun as she makes her Puget Sound entrance over the Cascade mountain range on January 1st.

Wishing you a very happy new year. May 2024 be your best year yet.

It was empty.

A fold out bed hung down on chains fixed to the far wall. The paint on the walls was once white, but showed its age through the yellowish-beige, not-quite-a color hue. A single bare bulb had been screwed into the ceiling light fixture, and it shone with that slightly blinding glare that always makes you wish for a lampshade or a pair of sunglasses to reduce its sharpness.

The guard motioned for me to go inside.

Clutching my little stuffed killer whale, a souvenir from Sea World, I looked uncertainly at my mother. She was standing at the next door down the hall, a guard at her side. I don’t remember exactly what she said but I know she was trying to reassure me.

I looked in the room again. It seemed safe.

What would happen once I went in?

I looked at the guard. Again, he motioned me in.

Telling myself I had to be brave and not show my mother how scared I was, I stepped over the threshold into the cell.

I turned around to see the heavy metal door swinging shut, its little window closed to the outside world.

Clang.

The lock turned. Click.

I was locked in.

Unsure what to do, I did the only thing I could: I sat on the bed.

A few hours earlier we had eaten dinner, a messy, sloppy affair of unfamiliar Chinese dishes in the airport cafeteria, armed guards standing at each corner of our table. We were a spectacle; a family unit of Mother, Father and young daughter under heavily armed guard, automatic rifles slung over the guards’ shoulders. We were obviously European. Very tanned. Tourists and business travelers alike stared at us, curious as to our crime. What had we done to deserve this? Were we terrorists? International criminals? Malcontents? Why were we dangerous enough to warrant armed guards?

One of the guards tried to interact with us a little, to provide a little humanity in this awkward, stressful moment. He was admonished by one of the others, in Cantonese. They were all stone-faced from that point on.

The only reason we ate in the airport cafeteria was because of my Father. Furious at being treated like criminals simply for having the wrong passport, he had taken the head of immigration to task when our evening meal had been delivered to immigration detention. It had been cold, spilled off the plates and not at all recognizable as foodstuff. He had argued and persuaded the authorities to let us eat like humans in the airport cafeteria. Hence the armed guards.

Now my Father pointed out that we had nowhere to go since the authorities had our passports and luggage, and besides, where would he run to with a wife and young daughter in tow? He asked the guards to step away from the table and let us eat. Reluctantly they relented and moved to an adjacent table, sitting warily in the chairs, hands on rifles, ready to jump into action at the slightest sign of trouble.

As soon as we finished eating we were escorted back to immigration detention, drawing curious stares from passersby in the departures terminal. And then I was shown my cell.

Once locked in, somehow even at the age of just 11, I knew it would be best to fall asleep to make the time pass by. We’d had supper, after all, so it must be time to go to bed. I looked at the bright bulb in the ceiling and silently asked the guards to keep the light on. Being alone in this cell, in a foreign country, separated from my parents I could manage. But being alone with those things in the dark was another matter entirely.

Somehow, I did fall asleep.

I was woken up by the barking voice of the guard telling me to get up. I grabbed my stuffed toy and walked out of my cell into my mother’s arms. We were handed our belongings, and marched without ceremony to the boarding gate where Qantas was boarding for our flight to Sydney.

My Father, ever the negotiator, recounted the entire experience to the gate agent. We had bought round the world tickets. The airline and travel agent had assured us that our 23 hour layover in Hong Kong would only require a transit visa. This was before the internet, when such knowledge had to be gained from travel agents and airlines. My Father had double-checked. No problem, we had been told told. You’ll be issued transit visas at the airport. We had arrived, tired from our flight, and handed over our Polish passports to the immigration clerk.

It was 1982.

Poland was under Russian-aligned Communist rule.

Hong Kong was under British rule.

Qantas could not have been more wrong.

The immigration official had taken one look at our Polish passports with their Cyrillic protestations of validity in the Soviet Block, and called for immigration to arrest us. We were denied entry to Hong Kong, and held in immigration detention for daring to try to enter the British colony on passports from a Communist country for a layover between flights.

A family judged as inferior because they came from a place that was ruled by a regime they were vehemently opposed to.

A child separated from her parents, because she was from the wrong place.

A family denied freedom because they had the “wrong” passport.

Survivors of World War II, with parents and ancestors who had risked and lost their lives fighting the Russians and the Nazis, denied entry to a British colony, an outpost of democracy adjacent to a Communist country.

Understandably, the Qantas gate agent was horrified. We were upgraded to first class. The rest of our holiday went off without a hitch, including my toy Koala bear being shipped back to me in Abu Dhabi after being forgotten in our Singapore hotel room.

How ironic that I write this some 40 years later, 40,000 feet in the air, flying over Hong Kong as a British citizen.

Hong Kong is no longer British.

Poland is democratic and part of the European Union (for now at least).

Nothing stays the same.

Change, like death and taxes, is guaranteed, it is the one constant.

As is passport chess, the expats’ never-ending game of “guess how geopolitics will turn out 20 years from now.”

Today’s prompt was: Change

“Hey, over here!”

“Yoohoooooo!”

“Yalla, yalla, imshi!!!”

“Oh look they’re waving, they see us!!!” Rajesh spoke fast on their next drop into the trough.

“Yeah, I saw that too” agreed Jim, just as the swell lifted them up again.

Sure enough, she could see the silhouette of the man on the bow of the boat waving and pointing directly at them. It had to be Steven. As the boat inched closer on every swell top view she slowly started to make out Steven’s shape. It was definitely him. Somehow, he had managed to get the sinking dive boat to shore and found a Captain willing to take his boat out on a Friday to come look for a lost group of divers who could be anywhere, far from shore. No mean feat.

Some twenty minutes later the boat slowly pulled alongside the group. Engines still idling, Steven looked down at them, smiling.

“Sorry I’m a bit late guys, had some boat trouble.”

“Got lost did ya mate?” Jim teased. His grin was infectious and one by one they all started laughing.

Hearing their laughter, the Captain’s features broke into a grin. He was an older Omani, a red and white headdress wrapped tightly around his head, dressed in the loose robe known as a dishdasha. HIs face and hands were sun baked and leathery and his eyes were hidden behind a pair of Oakley sunglasses that looked remarkably like the ones Steven usually wore. The boat was small - a fishing boat equipped for short trips from shore and certainly not big enough to take all nine of them all the way back to Dibba port. But that was a problem to deal with later - for now she had to get everyone out of the water without incident, and get everyone to shore, wherever Steven had found this boat.

“OK guys, let’s disconnect from the BCD chain one by one as the person before you gets on the boat. Sue, you go up first. I will go last.” There was no telling how this local Captain was going to react to two women in skin tight wetsuits climbing aboard his boat, and she wanted to stagger the shock as much as she could.

One by one they passed their fins up to Steven, clambered aboard and removed their BCDs and tanks from their backs. The boat had no tank holders, and with ten of them on board the gunwales were closer to the water than made her comfortable. The Captain was quick to take charge. In Omani he talked as he signaled for everyone to pile their equipment into the center of the boat, and pointed to who he wanted to sit where. He studiously avoided contact or even looking at her and Sue, but pointed to where he wanted them to move. Everyone complied. The man clearly knew his boat and knew how he wanted his cargo distributed. Satisfied that the equipment was stable the Captain clicked the engines out of idle and turned south west.

“Where are we headed?” She asked Steven once the Captain had the boat up on a plane, “What happened? Where did you go?”

“I didn’t know how bad the hull breach was but once you got into the water I knew my only chance was to get the boat up on the plane and run as fast as I could to that little fishing village we pass on the way to Oakley Rock and Shark Island,” he said, his expression betraying the fear and worry of the last hours. The fishing village was nestled in a break in the cliffs and the only place to pull out of the water between where they were and Dibba port. Steven had been incredibly lucky.

“I was just praying I would get there before the boat sank. It wasn’t losing the water that was already on board, so I knew it was bad. I literally ran the boat right up onto the beach sand when I got there. Found the hole. It was pretty bad. We must’ve hit something on the way out, it’s the only thing I can think of. Unless the dive center knew about a bad repair and didn’t tell me, which I find hard to believe.” She gave him a look that said everything he was thinking.

“Yeah, I know I know. Anyway - once I beached the boat I had to find someone willing to take me back out. But it’s Friday afternoon! So imagine this: me, a white dude with blonde hair and blue eyes, wearing a wetsuit, frantically running around an Omani fishing village, knocking on people’s doors and pointing out to sea, babbling something in a foreign language.” He started to laugh.

“I bet that was something they’d never seen before,” laughed Jim.

“Let’s just say that it took a while to make myself understood, and even longer to find someone who owned a boat and had the fuel available to go out and get you.” Steven was laughing at the memory, but it was laughter tinged with relief.

She considered the logistics. “So we’re headed back to the village?”

“Yes. The good news is that there’s another boat that we’ll switch to, to get back to Dibba port.” Steven looked only slightly pleased with himself, which she found suspicious.

“And the bad news?” she almost didn’t want to know.

“The bad news is that it’s a dhow.”

To be continued…

This article is part of a series. Here are the previous installments:

Part 1: When the dive boat is sinking

Part 2: When the dive boat has sunk

Part 3: Has the dive boat sunk?

The first corner is always a mess of bumps and near misses as the pack settles into its rhythm and each individual racer jockeys for position. On a dry track that jockeying is done while braking in a lean, with everyone trying to maintain as much speed as possible while diving for the apex where they can “gas and go” and get a clean run into the next corner.

In the rain, it’s a different story. With wet tires and a slick track the trick is to get as much of your braking done as upright as possible. This minimizes the lean angle of the bike under braking, giving the tires a larger contact patch with the ground thus lessening the chances of a low side slide, or worse, a high side ejection into the sky. Racers tend to have different tolerances for risk when it rains - some are super confident in their tires and ride fast, others tiptoe around the track as if riding on ice with glass elbows. There’s no way to tell ahead of time who will go which way.

So as all 28 of us ride into the first corner in the rain some of the riders lean way over while others stay upright braking. The effect is one of a confused caterpillar whose legs have suddenly decided to work out of sync. Rather than moving through the corner in a coordinated wave, the pack splinters and chokes, some riders running wide, others diving in to take up the vacated positions, some coming almost to a stop to avoid collisions.

I pick my line by looking where there is room and move through the confusion as quickly as I can. The leaders are already halfway to the next turn and if I’m to stay in touch with them I have to get closer.

I love riding in the rain. It forces more precision and smoother inputs, and for me there’s something magical about dragging my knee over wet asphalt and feeling the sting of the raindrops hitting my neck at triple digit speeds.

Passing two slower riders who clearly feel nervous in the wet conditions I focus on smooth braking and being fully off my brakes before leaning the bike over to ride through the turn as fast as I can. Knowing the race line because I’ve ridden it literally hundreds of times in practice I hit my markers and smoothly connect to the next turn, shaving precious seconds off my lap time as I do so. If you can set up for corners two or three turns in advance you can ride the shortest line through them, rain or shine. That’s one of the secrets to really great lap times.

And then it happens.

Flow: that elusive feeling when my body starts to make gear changes and steering decisions as if on autopilot. My mind is disconnected from the minutiae of fine motor control, auditory and visual input.

I am free to observe and marvel at the sensation of floating around the racetrack.

I float through two more laps, observing but not interfering.

A rider going off the track into the wet dirt pulls me back into the raw, loud, tense reality. I deliberately look away from where he’s crashing, step down a gear, line up for the next corner and smoothly let off the brakes as I lean into the turn, hit the apex and accelerate onto the front straight and through the finish line.

On the cooldown lap the rain finally lets up and as my concentration relaxes I realize that my leathers are soaked through and water is sloshing about in my race boots. With the adrenalin still pumping I don’t feel the cold yet; inside my helmet I’m grinning from ear to ear. There really is no better feeling in the world than this.

Today’s prompt was: Wet weather