I Am Outta Here The Hancock Mariners Guide to Running Away from Home

By Sam Q. Adams

Time to get out of Dodge. That was the message from my Primary doctor, my family therapist and the guy down at the coffee shop. For twenty-four years my wife, Stephanie and I have cared for our high functioning autistic son. We fought to include him in every forward-thinking program that existed. In a way, we were lucky. Stephanie had a long and varied career in the disability community. But even with that, and a network of supports, we were no match for dealing with son Jack’s 18th birthday...an event he viewed as his emancipation. Now he could refuse to participate in the programs designed to help him. Free at last. Free at last.
An unfortunate side-effect was that he checked any shred of civility at the door. There was no respite from the daily regimen of f-bombs. Helping out around the house...inconvenient. Helping shovel the drive way ....no way. Followed by the inevitable screaming match. More F bombs, wince-inducing epithets, and a flood of tears.
Upon arriving home from nine days in the hospital for cardiac surgery, the concept of a stress-free zone held firm...very nicely... for about two hours and then the carpet bombing returned with renewed vigor. The in-home medical support team highly recommended that I leave the area. When I appealed to the Elder Affairs Council for protection, I was told I could move into a nursing home. What?
One if by land two if by sea. Those were the choices. Either I could move into some (to use the Donald’s words} “Shithole” apartment or hit the high seas and live on a boat.... think Bahamas, Cuba, New Bedford ... anywhere. In the whole scheme of things, it didn’t seem like too big a deal that I didn’t have a boat and so I began research into the liveaboard lifestyle. This culminated in a road trip from Maine to Key West in search of the perfect boat for me.
Chronicled in this tiny tome, are the misadventures of our trip which, in hindsight, were their own reward instead of what I had hoped for.... a boat. Knowing that this was the worst investment in the world, made pulling the trigger that much more difficult. Well, there was that and the fact that the volatility index in the stock market had gone bonkers...and the money tree in the back yard had shown signs of withering due to....... an infestation of long horn beetles? or maybe it was the Fed hinting at an interest rate increase. Those money trees get all skittish when that happens.
Our return home from the trip served as a reminder of why we went. At 1 am all of the lights were on in the house.... a very thoughtful gesture. How nice of Jack to light the place up so we wouldn’t trip over the wreckage which awaited us inside. And leaving the doors open so we wouldn’t have to fumble for our keys was a nice touch and leaving the tv on. What can I say? It all would have been wonderful, had someone been home and it were some month other than January. I could only wonder how many days we had been heating the house, the driveway, the neighborhood, the western world.
The whole boat buying process unfolds in the second part of the book which includes the quirkiness of the participants: the broker, the seller and other bit players. Learning the boats systems, was a humbling experience made more so by the seller who wanted to make it crystal clear that he knew scads more about this boat than I ever would. Neither of my two earlier boats had radar, refrigeration, an electric windlass or solar panels. But weighing the humiliating verbal beat-down attendant to asking a question, made Steph and I nod, “We’ll handle it”
Over the days and weeks, we learned about all the systems, the sails, the running gear.... the head, the mantra: “Look out, look out, look out.” Coaxing the outboard to start on command was less than a resounding success so the tip of the day is: “Don’t forget your oars.” Other running away tips, stories of near misses and vaping recommendations are also discussed in this Mariners guide.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sam Q. Adams
• Release date: Feb 28, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370787685

Sam Q. Adams

Robert Hancock and his wife Marianne, until late, lived in a very old, very large house in southeastern Massachusetts.This provided him with an ample “To do list,” and it is with personal pride that he did not let this three hundred year old house fall down during his watch.Though it is still officially winter, outdoor tennis is "game on". As a senior citizen, he is now dedicated to doubles tennis where he has staked out a small area of the court, formerly dubbed his: “Area of Responsibility” from which he has vowed never to stray. That pressure proved to be too great and he has since downgraded that area to the “Cone of Concern”. He's concerned, but not actually responsible. Once he gets accustomed to playing in a full hazmat suit, he could be a force to be dealt with.

Book preview

-1-

Part One

Every once in a while, there is that fight or flight moment which trundles down your primrose path bumping up against a flurry of your best efforts to dodge the moment: Not at home, wrong door. It is a visitor who poses the question and without missing a beat and without providing enough time for proper analysis offers a choice, not quite a Sophie’s Choice but one which can immobilize some and yet can set others to planning a future course. My choice is the latter, borne out of necessity and, well, in no small part, a court order.

Books are scattered about the Men’s club, a 16 by 18 ft. structure I built as a workshop, a clubhouse, a sanctuary and meeting place for men-only to get together to drink beer, play ping pong and bitch incessantly about the outrageous and mundane. An aside here, while the place is crammed with many manly tools and sports equipment and a vintage 1984 Rigid Tool Calendar featuring a nubile, bikini clad model lovingly holding a… Rigid Tool…all are welcome providing they don’t try to tidy up or impose some organizational structure on the place.

The titles of these tomes, languidly lying about: Knowing the Ropes, Coastal Piloting, The Use of the Sextant in Coastal Navigation, Looking at Sails, Colgate’s Basic Sailing Theory all point in my mind to one inexorable conclusion… I am running away from home.

Call it kismet, call it synchronicity or even a convenient coincidence but today, Sunday, our UU Pastor spoke of the AA prayer: GOD, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference. For me the takeaway was this: there are some things you cannot change and I looked squarely into the jaws of this axiom and knew it was time to go, to set a new course. That my primary doctor and family therapist had independently come to the same conclusion added substance and fuel to my plan to tunnel out, don a disguise and flee the area.

-2-

Heeere’s Jack

It’s 1:45 pm on Friday. Jack is still in bed. His hours are…let’s see? irregular. When he gets up depends on a lot of things, none of which include getting to a job or going to a class. How the on-line video gaming went last night would be the most predictive indicator with the magic eight ball a close second.

His demeanor is one of petulance, entitlement and exasperation that the staff at this flea-bitten hotel is not worthy of his time. But this dump will have to do ‘til his ship comes in. That he arrives downstairs only in his underpants is testimony to our total inability to get him to do anything which might conform to the norms of society. In all fairness, he doesn’t crush beer cans on his forehead. That would seal the deal; he would then be…a total reprobate.

But Jack has made progress since we all appeared in court. That was just about 10 months ago. It resulted from an unfortunate event on his first day of class at a local community college. He lost all of his books. We asked him to call the campus police to see if anyone had turned them in to lost and found. He refused. He wanted us to drive there instead. I told him I would drive there after he called and he flipped out, obliterated the front screen door and attacked me. I went to the Police station for protection and ultimately was charged with assault and battery on my son. What? What? He was also charged with assault and battery…on me.

My hunch is that the local police got tired of intervening. They were on our speed dial and had been invited to our house dozens of times to mediate our disputes. Maybe putting us both in jail would put an end to it?

But, yes, things have improved. He no longer calls my wife a f**king c*nt, but simply you bitch. While I confess that I don’t know all the gradations of the name calling scale, my eternal hope is that someday he’ll get to the point where he can simply say, Mom I am not happy with what you are saying. Can’t we come to some middle ground?’ Then we’ll all sing Kumbaya" around the campfire and have some gluten free S’mores.

Yesterday the screaming caught my attention, so I put down the coast guard recommended Sailing and Seamanship, and left behind the sanctuary of the Men’s Club. What became apparent, was that son Jack had crossed over the line, an assertion which puzzled me. Frankly I didn’t know there were any more lines to cross over. That line involved the unauthorized use of my wife’s credit card…which explains a lot…like, why he won’t look for work. He gets social security and supplements that with her credit card. It’s all good. He even said as much the other day, wearing his Aspergers diagnosis on his sleeve like a get out of Jail free card.… I don’t need a job. I’ve got Social Security.

-3-

A Run for the Marlboros

This running away from home can either be very complicated or not at all. The latter approach can be exemplified by Paul Giamatti’s character in the movie, Duets, in which he returns from a harrowing business trip to an indifferent family wrapped up in the internet, Facebook, and tweets. His quick analysis was spelled out in the cloud over his head: This is bullshit, as he tells the family he’s going out for cigarettes. That nobody listens and that he doesn’t smoke speaks volumes, and without a fleeting thought to a change of clothes, he flees the area, and latches on to the competitive Karaoke circuit.

Now that’s running away from home….no pretense,no planning, hop in the car and I am outta here. That is a bit abrupt for me, but my step by step approach should in no way be confused with a lack of resolve, though deep down inside I am holding out hope for some change. I am also hoping that the Easter bunny will bump up his largess to the Godiva line of candies,