Wind over Tide

By Alycia Ripley

Known for her novels Traveling With An Eggplant, The Final Alice, and Alices Army, Alycia Ripley brings her sensitivity and eye for detail to this unique memoir. Written in the form of letters, one each week over the course of a year, it captures her grief following the sudden death of her mothers thirty year companion, the man who raised Ripley since childhood. Theletters shed light on the special relationship between author and stepfather and
translate the pain and loss that brought on fugue states and panic attacks following his
death. They examine the powerful impact of childhood upon our identities and the
valuable lessons loved ones teach us.
Framed within four nautically titled chapters, each representing a stage of the year, the
books title signifies the rocky sailing conditions which well reflect the authors life and circumstances. Gripping and raw, yet peppered with humor, Wind Over Tide illustrates
theunusual way a creative mind interacts
with grief. It serves as a fascinating look
into a poignant, personal conversation, one which can help readers examine their own coping strategies to find peace after loss.
Wind Over Tide is a heart wrenching book that takes the reader through the emotional waves of mourning a loved one. The authors penned letters are a tribute to Joe, her stepfather, keeping his spirit, significance and lessons alive.Ripleys words are both validating and healing. We learn, as she did, how to continue living even when faced with darkness and layers of loss. A must read that is hard to put down.
-Michelle Pawkett, MA, LMHC

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Apr 25, 2017
• ISBN: 9781490781990

Alycia Ripley

Alycia Ripley was born and raised in Buffalo, New York. She is a graduate of Syracuse University and received her MFA in creative writing from New York University. She is the author of Traveling with an Eggplant (2006) as well as The Final Alice (2011). She has written for numerous online and print publications, and more information can be found at www.alyciaripley.com.

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Copyright 2017 Alycia Ripley.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

isbn: 978-1-4907-8201-0 (sc)

isbn: 978-1-4907-8200-3 (hc)

isbn: 978-1-4907-8199-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2017905757

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

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Trafford rev. 04/24/2017

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CONTENTS

Wind over Tide

October–January Point Of Sail: In Irons(Into The Wind)

10/19/2014

10/26/2014

11-4-2014

11-10-2014

11-15-2014

11-20-2014

11-25-2014

11-28-2014

12-7-2014

12-21-14

12-29-2014

January–April Point Of Sail: Close Haul/ Close Reach (Aligned With The Wind)

1-4-2015

1-8-2015

1-15-2015

1-22-2015

2-16-2015

3-4-2015

3-17-2015

3-25-2015

3-29-2015

April–August Point Of Sail: Beam Reach/ Broad Reach (Wind Behind Vessel At An Angle)

4-5-2015

4-12-2015

4-18-2015

5-7-2015

5-19-2015

5-27-2015

6-1-2015

6-13-2015

6-27-2015

7-14-2015

7-29-2015

8-5-2015

August–October Point Of Sail: Running Downwind (Wind Stationed Fully Behind Vessel)

8-7-2015

8-12-2015

8-15-2015

8-21-15

8-29-2015

9/1/2015

9-7-2015

9-16-2015

9-25-2015

9-30-2015

10-12-15

11/15/2015

About the Author

This book’s original format was of letters written over the course of a year. My hope is that others may use the experiences described throughout to make sense of their own lives, loss, and self-concept.

Many thanks to those who ameliorated the tough times described and kept me moving forward:

Kevin and Shelly Kozacek

Darin and Lynn Benaglio

Gina Freitas

Taj Greenlee

Patrick Ward

Charleen Marabella

Huge thanks to both my editor, Brian Van Buren, and illustrator, Lara Nedeltscheff.

Special thanks to my mother for her guidance, love, and support and setting a tremendous example of grace under pressure.

And to Stan Bialek for one fantastic voice mail.

From October 2014 until December 2015, the author composed a weekly journal letter to the man who raised her since childhood, her mother’s boyfriend of twenty-eight years, in an attempt to make sense of his sudden death.

Each entry has been included both in its entirety and original chronological sequence.

On the death of a friend, we should consider that the fates through confidence have devolved on us the task of a double living, that we have henceforth to fulfill the promise of our friend’s life also, in our own, to the world.

                                                                                                        —Henry David Thoreau

Wind over Tide (definition):

—nautical term describing sea conditions with a tidal current and wind in opposite directions, leading to short and heavy seas

WIND OVER TIDE

OCTOBER–JANUARY

POINT OF SAIL: IN IRONS

(INTO THE WIND)

10/19/2014

You wouldn’t have wanted me at your wake. You once told Mom that no matter what my age, twenty minutes at a wake was more than sufficient. I didn’t need to see loved ones in that state. Didn’t need to pace the room, stuck in sadness. You would never have wanted me at yours.

It shouldn’t have happened like this. It was unrealistic to believe you’d live until I was elderly, but the way this transpired was strange. Mom believes that if she could just get you to eat, to walk, to not be in that damn chair, she could turn things around. We weren’t even aware of how sick you were. You didn’t seem to be either, until the end. You told me in the hospital that you had a feeling you and I were getting gypped. I stood in that funeral parlor for six hours and avoided looking at the casket. The white shirt and dark suit were too damn stark for a man who favored warmly colored shirts and ties. At least one thousand people stopped by, and for that, you’d be happy. But not happy I was there. I couldn’t leave Mom alone. Her eyes were unfocused, and her face molded into a mask of vague panic, and I just remained frozen in shock and anger that the person who made me feel most safe, who I had the most inside jokes with, who saved me from my worst times, that after all you had done for me, I couldn’t save you. After all that time we spent together, it couldn’t end like this. You were my constant.

The furthest part of the room was overflowing with flower arrangements. You always remarked what a waste of money funereal flowers were. Each organization tries to outdo the next, and the arrangements end up bigger, brighter, and so expensive. You believed they should be donated to a church or hospital instead of being taken home to die. It all felt like a terrible joke to confuse or make me despair. I read a book once that portrayed the devil’s main goal as to create despair within us so that we weaken into an easy target. Mom had already been asked to move to a non-family section and I eventually made my way forward. I wasn’t waiting in any line. I stood staring that damn box down to prove you weren’t really inside, that the real you was standing behind me, stating my twenty minutes were up and it was time to go.

Being without you was never a valid concept. The only time we discussed it was at Dairy Queen. I told you that at my wedding, we should dance to Heart and Soul because Big was the first movie we ever watched together and the last scene of the two kids reminded me of you and I. You told me that even if you weren’t at my wedding, you’d still be there with me somehow and would set aside money so Mom wouldn’t have to worry. Even then, I was in denial that you might not walk me down a beach aisle in Florida or dance with me to that specific song. I scooped out the last of my ice cream and said, Well, I wouldn’t want a wedding you couldn’t be at.

The last night you were alive, I whispered how much I wished I could save your life because you’d once saved mine. Your eyelid flickered a little, and your finger slipped onto my palm. I choose to believe you heard me. I need you to understand how I feel about all you’ve done for me. Especially when I was a kid. I never like thinking about those days. Meeting you was like a kid’s version of a fairy tale. I had little in terms of good male role models. My father wasn’t a consistent presence in my life. For all the creepy plastic snakes in his house, he also had a fun pinball machine. For all the times he’d sing with me in his truck, he’d also bring me to a bar and give me tokens for the video games of the time so that I’d entertain myself: Pac-Man, Centipede. We had no idea what to say to each other. Once when I was at his house, I colored four eggs and wrote I love you, Dad on them. Those words don’t even make sense to say when you don’t really know a person. His version of love was analogous to the attention you’d show a new dog, checking to ensure it didn’t go to the bathroom in your house/car. I just wanted so much to believe that all I needed was a magic button and we would be like the dads and daughters I saw at my elementary school. So I was excited to give him the eggs. He was on the phone, so I placed the carton on the kitchen table. He looked at them and waved and said to the voice on the other end of the phone, My kid made me something, she’s having a great time. Yeah, she’s off playing pinball now. But I wasn’t, I was standing right next to him. He walked into the other room with the phone. I crept around the house