#Gilligan and skipper Patch
#Gilligan and skipper full

It’s on the fritz again.” George is less attuned to sarcasm than Diana.Ĭontrary to Mariah’s magnum opus, the Pacific’s great expanse appears to claim no color of its own, instead simply reflecting the unbroken sheet of primer-gray clouds overhead.īlowing off Diana’s suggestion and lying to her seems an increasingly appealing strategy. “It’s so realistic I think I hear the surf.” “My daughter Mariah painted it,” George, the bartender, said. A maelstrom of pastel pink and aqua swirls, it looked like a color-blind toddler’s stab at impressionism. This is my first close look at the Pacific since arriving - unless the mural behind the bar of Waterfront Tap qualifies. Although I grumble about Diana crowding me in bed, two desolate nights on Hans’s futon have underscored how much I miss her body conforming to mine. How could I decline when the Goddess was offering me a new experience? This morning’s hangover is on her. I hadn’t planned on being recruited by the tavern regulars to judge what ratio of whiskey or brandy to bitters makes the best old fashioned. Last evening’s plan had been simple visit the Waterfront Tap for a beer and burger, then make it an early night. My breakfast of Excedrin and tomato juice has barely dulled the jagged throb above my eye sockets. The beach is relatively deserted, and I’m not in the mood for any human interaction, no matter how brief or superficial. There is an upside to the miserable conditions. My old Madras windbreaker lives up to its name, breaking the wind - shattering it, in fact, into chilling shards that pierce the thin cotton weave. The cold front pummeling this dune is relentless. “She wouldn’t give you more than you can handle.” “No chance of that.” Her tone is playfully acerbic. “What if this goddess offers me a nubile, 18-year-old nymphomaniac?” “Promise me you’ll say yes to any new experience the Goddess offers you this weekend.” “Do I need to dance naked in the moonlight, too?” “Already in the car.” She nudges me toward the back door. “Then the Pacific Northwest will become home.” Connect with its spirit.” She gives a warm smile. “Funny boy.” She extricates a skeleton key with an amethyst-crystal keychain from a rat’s nest of thread. “I can hop into the tub.”ĭiana drops a corroded AA battery onto the counter. “Why go so far for a little water therapy?” I say.

I’m beginning to regret confessing that I don’t yet feel at home in Oregon. She continues rummaging through the mess, excavating utility knives, candle stubs, an aggregation of Phillips head screwdrivers. I walk up behind my young earth mother, encompass her substantial equator with my arms, and inhale her scent - a fusion of cinnamon and clove. I’ll keep that opinion to myself.ĭiana begins digging through our junk drawer. Transitioning from Middle Eastern royalty to a self-satisfied jingle master hardly seems a reincarnation upgrade. Reincarnation is a sacred cow in this household. “A prince.” Her cobalt eyes flash a warning. “Your buddy Haiku Hans, the past-life Patagonian pimp?” “Hans offered me the use of his cottage at the coast while he’s in Nepal.” Diana believes microwaves destroy the spirit of water. Despite our dissimilarities, we mesh better than I had with any of my three previous mates-for-life - thanks mainly to Diana’s efforts.Īfter depositing our dishes in the sink, she fills the kettle and sets it on a burner. She celebrates the enlightenment in Siddhartha I embrace the reassuring defeatism of Beneath the Wheel.

#Gilligan and skipper Patch

We disagree even regarding Hesse, our only patch of literary common ground. She accepts the scratchy, deficient fidelity of my 78s and the olfactory smudge my occasional cigar deposits on the living room drapes.ĭiana samples a smorgasbord of gurus from Ram Das to the Dalai Lama. I tolerate - with minimal grumbling - her incense and the intrusive clarity of her New Age CDs. And, while she’s all things macrobiotic and organic - except for her nightly Butterfinger - saturated fat and empty carbs compose the mortar and foundation of my nutritional pyramid.

#Gilligan and skipper full

Diana, my latter-day flower child’s 25 years fall shy of my vintage by more than a full generation, yet she possesses wisdom beyond my years.

Although she makes the same barefooted table-to-sink stroll every morning, the sight of her generous hips executing a metronomic to-and-fro beneath her peasant skirt still overwhelms me with a flush of gratitude.Īs a couple, we’re the definition of incompatibility. Diana takes my plate and heads toward the sink.