This cop story happened  in 2006 on the Saturday of Labor Day weekend—the day of the wedding of our son, Andrew, and his bride-to-be, Karen. At eight in  morning I was cruising along in a rental SUV in Letchworth State Park in western New York State.  The Park is about 12 miles long and two miles wide, situated along a  canyon rising above the Genesee River, and hailed as the “Grand Canyon of the East.” I was headed to a small town at the southern end of the park to purchase food and supplies for a wedding event later that morning. The road was like a two-lane interstate highway in the wilderness–wide shoulders, flat, and few signs of civilization anywhere. I had been driving about 15 minutes, had not seen a single vehicle, and admittedly had not been paying attention to the speed limit when suddenly I realized the flashing lights of a police car were flashing behind me. I immediately pulled over on the shoulder.

You know the routine. A young officer got out the car, asked for my driver’s license, and informed me that I was going 75 miles an hour in a 15 miles per hour zone, which would result in maximum points and a $500 fine and probably the loss of my license.

“Where was the 15 MPH speed limit sign?” I respectfully asked. “There are no houses anywhere and no side roads.”

He replied that if I had been paying attention I would have seen it since it was only about 25 yards past the 55 MPH speed limit sign. Okay, I got it, speed trap, but for the life of me I could not figure out where the cop car had been hiding. There were no intersections or side roads. Not a good start to the day. He took my driver’s  license and went back to his car where he remained for at least 15 minutes. I remained grimly in the car, bracing for the worst but not for what happened next.

When the cop approached the car, I realized how young he was. He could not have been more than a year or two out of high school, clean cut, and serious.

“Well, buddy, you are in real trouble now! You are driving without a license, and that is a felony in the state of New York. You will do time for this.”

“Wait a minute!” I responded, trying to be as respectful as possible. “I just gave you my driver’s license.”

“Yeah, but it is not valid. It is for a city, not a state, and we require a state license. I looked up the list of states myself, and The District of Columbia is not listed.”

I could not help smiling, held back a chuckle, and with some effort managed to maintain my contrite composure.

“You are exactly right officer, it is not a state, but it is like a state.”

“That is not enough,” he replied, “Being like a state is not the same as being a state. I am going to have to arrest you.”

“Look,” I answered, coming dangerously close to losing my composure, “Washington DC is a city, but it is also the capital of the United States of America. That is where I live, and the closest thing we have to a state driver’s license is one from the District of Columbia. That is just the way it works.”

“Well, it should be a state; and it isn’t, and there is nothing I can do about that.”

“You and I agree on that, officer. But before you haul me off to the jail, could I plead with you to talk to your supervisor and see what he has to say about my license?”

He thought about it for a while, shrugged his shoulders, and headed back to his car, with a final comment that he would try,  but it would not make any difference. Fifteen minutes later he returned with a defeated look on his face. He said I got off this  time but still would pay big time for going 60 miles per hour over the speed limit. He handed me the ticket and stated I would have a chance to argue my case in court in a week or two.

The wedding happened that afternoon. I officiated at the event, which was a huge success despite the fact that for this outdoor wedding which was supposed to happen next to a huge waterfall, Tropical Storm Ernesto dropped over a foot of rain starting before noon and not ending until after midnight. (Fortunately, two tents were set up for the reception, and that is where the wedding took place, to the delight of small children running back and forth through the waterfall that was happening where the two tents were attached.)

However, I was still stuck with a big bill and points that would go on my record. I was guilty as charged, going 75 MPH in a 15 MPH zone.

The next week the letter came from the county courthouse, setting a court date for the following week. I surely was not going to go back to New York to argue a case that I had no chance of winning, so I responded with a letter that went something like this:

“Your Honor, I plead guilty as charged. I was speeding well above the speed limit. I deserve whatever fines you give me. I am very sorry for this and can only throw myself at your feet and beg for mercy. I do not have an excuse except that I was distracted and preoccupied because my son was to be married that afternoon and I had been asked by him to officiate at the wedding. This, of course, is no excuse, and all I can to is respectfully ask you to consider the circumstances associated with the case.”

In the letter I enclosed the write-up of the event in the Buffalo newspaper and circled my name where I was mentioned as officiating the ceremony.

Two weeks later I opened a thin envelope from the courthouse stating that the judge had rejected my guilty plea of going 75 miles an hour in a 15 MPH zone but instead would accept a guilty plea of going 39 miles per hour in a 30 MPH zone, no points and a fine of $100. I mailed the check that afternoon along with my revised guilty plea.

Justice served.

 

 

 

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In the late 1980s and 1990s, one of Howell Associates’ most important clients was a large, faith-based, seniors housing company based in Evanston IL.  On one trip up there in 1990 a young associate and I were headed back to O’Hare in a rental car to catch the 7:30 PM flight back to Washington and were patiently waiting for a red light to change. I was driving when we were passing through Niles, a white, working class community adjacent to the more affluent Evanston.  It was in the winter on a Friday evening, a little after five, and the sun was close to setting.

Wham!

A car rammed into the rear end of our car throwing me into the steering wheel and my associate into the dashboard. Fortunately, we both had on seat belts, or we could have been injured. We were dazed and shaken, and it took several minutes to regain our bearings. Stunned, I did not try to restart the car or know what to do next. Our car and the one behind us, which had plowed into us probably going 10 miles an hour, were blocking the intersection. Horns from the cars behind us were blasting, and soon we heard a police siren. The cop who arrived, a thin guy, in his 30s and balding, ordered us to move both cars to the shoulder, which relieved my concern that our car might not start. He came to my window, ordered me to stay put, and then ordered the driver of the other car to get out and follow him to his police car.  I could see from my rear-view mirror that the car was packed with a lady in the front seat and several children in the back seat. The driver who emerged from the car wore a large brim, black hat, had on a long black coat and had a full, reddish-brown beard and  pigtails on both sides of his head reaching down almost to his shoulders.

I commented to my associate, “Well, this guy is in deep trouble. He is obviously a Hassidic Jew tying to beat the sunset on a Friday evening, which starts the Sabbath, plus he is surely guilty of reckless driving. The cop is probably going to really let him have it.”

In less than five minutes, the driver emerged from the police car running, jumped into his car and roared off. I noticed that the front of his car was smashed and was surprised that the motor even started.

“Well, that was interesting,” I commented.

I was next. The cop rolled down his window and motioned for me to come to his car. As I left the car I glanced at the rear end. It was mangled so badly I figured the trunk  would  not open. Fortunately, we had thrown our bags into the back seat.

The cop scowled at me and in an annoyed tone, asked for my driver’s license and proof of car insurance. I handed him my license but told him I did not have my proof of insurance on me.

“What? No proof of car insurance?”

“No one has ever asked me about that before.”

“Well, buddy boy, you are not in DC, you are in Illinois where everyone is required to have proof of car insurance on their person. Everyone. No exceptions.  Not to have it is a felony.”

“So what should I do?”

“It is the slammer for you, kiddo. I am going to take you to the Cook County Jail where you will stay until you produce the insurance information!”

I was speechless. Then, I burst out, “Look I was stopped at a red light, minding my own business, and obeying the law, and some guy plows into me. We could have been injured. And you let him go in five minutes and you are threating to put me in the Cook County Jail? Why did you let him off? I can’t believe this. This is outrageous!”

“Letting him off is my business, not yours, and I’m not threatening to throw you in jail. I’m doing it! Watch me.”

He then paused for a minute and looked me in the eye. “Do you have anything else to say to me?”

“Well, I want to call my lawyer.”

Another pause and then he shook his head.

“Well, your lawyer better have a license to practice in Illinois or he is worthless. I will give you 10 minutes to make the call. You can go back to your car, and when you return, you better have  a plan for providing proof of your car insurance. Tell someone to Xerox it and then fax it to police headquarters.” He then scribbled down a phone number and handed it to me.

Of course, I did not have a lawyer and certainly not one licensed to practice in Illinois.

I raced back to the car, explained to my associate that we had a problem, which I would describe to him later,  and frantically called Embry on my cell phone. No answer. She was probably on her way home from work. I then fumbled through my address book, hands shaking, found my insurance agent’s contact information and called him. No answer. I realized that it was an hour later on the East Coast, and on a Friday no one would be working at 6:30. I noted that the sun had just set. I wondered if the  guy who plowed into us made it home before sunset. I then made a desperation call to my client in Evanston and got him just as he was leaving work. He said he would look into getting a criminal lawyer for me, but it might be Monday before he would have one. He volunteered that he was unaware that not having proof of car insurance on your person was a felony and confessed that his proof of insurance was in a drawer at his home. But that was little consolation. I was about to be taken to the Cook County Jail.

I felt my stomach churning. The Cook County Jail! I would be toast for my fellow inmates whom I imagined to be murderers, rapists, armed robbers, violent gang leaders, drug addicts and spouse abusers. I considered bolting, turned to my young associate, and told him that he would have to drive the car back to the airport if I did not return in a few minutes or if the police car drove off with me in it. He looked at me in disbelief. I stumbled back to the police car with one minute to spare, got into the front seat on the passenger’s side and sadly reported that I had been unsuccessful in getting someone to fax the policy, explaining that my insurance agent had left the office. I would not have a lawyer until Monday. I gritted my teeth, preparing for the worst.

The cop looked at me and paused, showing a faint touch of sympathy. “Okay,” he said, “I will give you another 20 minutes, but if by six o’clock if the folks at headquarters haven’t gotten the fax, I am taking you to the jail and that is a promise, and that is where you will stay until the proof of insurance is received. One second late and to the slammer you will go. Do you understand? No exceptions. Zero. None!”

As I was getting out of the car, he pulled on my coat. “You are not going back to your car. You are an escape risk. Make your calls here.”

By this time I had only 18 minutes and no one to call other than Embry. I was pretty sure I knew where the proof of insurance was—in the glove compartment of our car. But what if she was still en route home? On the third or fourth feverish attempt to reach her, miraculously she answered the phone. She had just walked in the door. I explained that I was sitting next to a cop who in eight  minutes and 11 seconds was going to take me to the Cook County Jail where I would be locked up indefinitely, told her where she could find the insurance certificate, and that she should copy it on our home copying machine and then fax it to the number I gave her. I held my breath. She had less than eight minutes to get all this done.

The cop then commented, “I don’t know what your wife will be able to do, but frankly, I do not give a damn. The only thing that counts in my book is a call from headquarters saying they have received the fax. Otherwise, it is the slammer.”

He concluded his comments with a smirk, “Good luck, buddy boy.”

He then looked at his watch and commented, “Seven minutes and counting.”

If you are wondering how the conversation went with Embry, here is my recollection. Note that the cop heard only what is noted in black:

Me: Hey, Embry, great to reach you! I am in a bit of a pickle.

Her: What’s happening and where are you?

Me: Well, I am sitting in a police car in Niles, Illinois, besides a policeman, who will have to put me in jail if you can’t come up with a fax of our car insurance certificate. You have about six minutes to fax a copy of it to the police headquarters in Niles.

Her: Are you ok? What is going on?

Me: I am fine except I need you to fax the car insurance right now to police headquarters in Niles. Right now!

Her: What have you done? Are you sure you are ok?

Me: Well, not exactly, but I will fill you in later. I am sure the police officer  wants to do the right thing. Some guy  rammed into our car, but because I do not have proof of insurance, he has to put me in  the Cook County Jail where I will remain until the Niles police receive proof of my car insurance. 

Her:  Are you serious? Are you sure you are ok? What is going on? You are going to jail? This makes no sense.

Me: I am sitting next to him as we speak and do not have time to go into detail…. You have to go now, NOW, we only have five minutes. Get the policy out of the glove compartment of our car, copy it, and fax the copy to….

Her: Oh, good heavens! 

The phone went dead. I looked at the cop and tried to manage a confident smile. He had a smirk on his face and was looking at his watch. “It will never happen. Impossible. You have only four minutes…”

The next four minutes were like a countdown for a blastoff at the Kennedy Space Center. I was petrified.  At every minute, the cop’s grin grew wider and with 30 seconds to go, he announced. “Your goose is cooked. It’s over.” He started up his engine.

With 15 seconds to go his cell phone rang. The call was from headquarters. They received the fax!

The cop looked at me and frowned. He snarled, “Well, this time you got off, you lucky bastard.”

 

Post Script: I learned from the criminal lawyer who   called  me on the following Monday that not having proof of car insurance in Illinois only applied to Illinois residents and that  it was not a felony. We managed to get to the airport with a few minutes to spare and turning the car into Avis with its mangled rear end did not raise any eyebrows. “Hey, “ the agent said, “we lease more cars at O’Hare than anywhere in the world. We get wrecks like this all the time. No problem.”

Several months later I was telling this story to a friend who lived in Chicago. His reply was this: “You did not realize what was going on?  Everyone in the Chicago metro area knows the Niles Police Force is corrupt. Cops there  get paid so little they depend on bribes to put food on the table and pay the rent. Why do you think in only a few minutes he let off   the guy who rammed into you?  The driver of the other car had to have paid him off , and the cop  gave you the opportunity too, but you missed his signals. Being from out of town, you did not understand the way things work in Niles. Good heavens! It probably would not have cost you more than $100 and would have saved you a world of worry.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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In 1967 we lived in New York City where I was a graduate student at Union Theological Seminary, and Embry was a senior at Barnard College. We had been married about a year.

The country in 1967 was going through some challenging times—similar in some respects to the times we are in today. The main difference was that the crazies then were on the Left. Today they are on the Right. The Civil Rights Movement had split into many groups, some of which, like the Black Panthers, were advocating violence. Cities were burning from violent protests— Los Angles, Newark and Detroit had all experienced what was called by some “civil disturbances” and by others “race riots.” The Vietnam War was heating up, and all young men had to sign up for the draft. At Union, many of my fellow students were burning their draft cards, not to avoid the draft but to protest the war and the fact that it was being fought mainly by the white working class and African Americans. Anti-war protests were happening all over the country, and far Left groups like the Weathermen were talking about overthrowing the government. Police brutality was an issue then as it is now though the issue of brutality against African Americans did not gain the attention that it has now. And it was just the beginning of the long hair fad for men and the hippie movement.

It was a heady time.

We lived off campus in an old, five-story apartment house, showing its age. Though it had a Riverside Drive address, it was only about a block from 125th Street in a neighborhood very near Harlem that at the time could be called seedy. Almost everyone we knew had been robbed at least once, and being robbed was a usual topic at get-togethers and cocktail parties. We lived in a rent-controlled, studio apartment probably around 400 square feet with two windows opening up to an airshaft. The only way to know what the weather was like was to call the weather lady. Our rent was $75/month including utilities.

One evening around five o’clock  I thought I smelled smoke and walked out into the hallway where there was smoke coming out of the trash chute. About the same time our next door neighbor, Don, opened his door and came out to figure out what was happening. Don was a late 20-something, skinny guy, who only wore tee shirts and jeans and had really long, curly blond hair. He had invited me into his apartment once, and the only furniture he had was a mattress on the floor next to an amplifier, loudspeaker, and a guitar. We knew he had a guitar because his favorite time to play—and which we could hear through the thin wall separating the apartments—was between two and three in the morning. Almost every morning.

“So,” I turned to Don. “Do you think the building is burning down? Maybe we should call the super.”

“I don’t know,” he said, “but I am sure not going to call Poitras. The guy hates me. If it turns out to be a false alarm, I know he will throw me out.”Joe Poitras was the super for the building. He was probably around 50, bald, and had a huge pot belly, always had a two- or three-day beard and could not get out a sentence with fewer than a half dozen profanities. He wore grease-stained undershirts and dirty work pants. Most people we knew in the building were terrified of the man—both because he was known for chewing people out if they ever asked for help or filed a work order and also because almost every night you could hear him and his wife having violent arguments, shouting at each other from their basement apartment. We could hear them all the way up on the 5th floor. The arguments would usually end with bangs that we figured were from pots thrown at each other.

“You are right,” I said, “We better not call Poitras. The smoke seems to be diminishing anyway.”

Don then shrugged his shoulders and in a matter-of-fact way, said, “You know, we live in a goddamn, fascist police state.”

“Pardon?”

“What I said was that we live in a goddamn, fascist police state.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, take last night for example. I was not bothering anyone, just playing my guitar, and at three in the morning, I hear these loud knocks on my door, and these three cops come bursting in and go straight to my bathroom. Then they start flushing the toilet over and over and after a few minutes come over to me. I know the routine. Up against the wall, motherfucker. So when I see them coming at me, I go up against the wall, spread eagle, arms out wide. They didn’t have to search me because all I had on was my jockey shorts. But I knew they were going to hit me. I know what cops are like.

“But no, they didn’t hit me. They just looked at me. Then one of them said, ‘Ok, you goddamn hippie, you try this trick again and we are hauling you in.’ Then they slammed the door shut and left.”

“Oh my goodness.”

“Yeah, this is deliberate intimidation. And it is psychological warfare. I am not sure I am going to be able to sleep tonight. And it’s just because of my long hair, and they think I am a hippie. I tell you it is fascism. We live in a goddamn, fascist police state.”

While Don and I were having our conversation, Embry was in the basement doing the laundry. When the smoke petered out, Don went into his apartment. When Embry returned, I immediately told her the story. “I am telling you,” I said, “we live in a goddamn, fascist police state. What else could explain this intimidation? And just because the guy has long hair!”

Embry immediately burst out laughing.

“What is so funny about that?”

“Well,” she said, “let me tell you my story. When you were talking with Don, I was talking with Mrs. Finkelstein in the laundry room.

Mrs. Finkelstein was a shy, tiny woman in her mid 80s, who used a cane and had lived in her two-bedroom, rent controlled apartment for as long as anyone could remember. Her husband had died several years before, and she rarely left her apartment—mainly to go to the grocery store or drug store. Her apartment was directly across the hall from Don’s apartment. He was in apartment 502. She was in 501.

“Well, I heard the saddest story from Mrs. Finkelstein in the laundry room. She told me about this awful experience she had last night. In the middle of the night her toilet started running. She was afraid to call Joe Poitras because the last time she called him and woke him up he screamed at her. So she called the police instead. But you know what? This time the police never came. She had to stay up all night flushing the toilet until mid-morning when she could safely call Joe Poitras.”

“’You know,’ she told me, ‘The police just don’t care anymore. They used to, but nowadays they won’t help an old lady like me. What has the world come to?'”

We never got to tell this story to either person. Don mysteriously left the building permanently the next week leaving behind his only possession other than his guitar,loudspeaker and amplifier—a mattress on the floor. And Mrs. Finkelstein never ventured out of her apartment again at the same time we did. We tried knocking a time or two, but she never answered, probably fearful it might be the police or worse, Joe Poitras.

 

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There is much in the news today about police culture and police violence. The deaths of so many unarmed black people by police  has gotten public attention as indeed  it should. It ranks up there with other issues related to inequality and class and racial divisions that our country needs to address and reform. These stories, however, are real life experiences that I have encountered, which I think in their own way reflect on policing and the relationship between police and ordinary people, and they are all true–at least as true as all my stories are, which benefit from occasional embellishment.

Note that while these stories are not intended to be  moralistic or political, as one reads them it is not hard to ask the question if I had been a person of  color or a poor  person or an  immigrant or, or….would my encounters with law enforcement have had different outcomes. My last post in the series will deal with that question.

Cop Story One: The Dragons

In 1958 when I got my driver’s license, my parents purchased for me a car for my 16^th birthday from my uncle, who owned a used car business. The car was a souped up 1952 Chevy painted bright blue, with a blue interior, blue seats and a blue nob on a blue steering wheel that allowed the driver to make a sharp turn using only one arm, presumably with his other arm around his babe sitting next to him. The car had whitewall tires. The hub caps were “spinners,” sort of what all cars have today but a rarity in 1958.The rear axial had been lowered a few inches so that it would look cool, sort of like a motorboat planing on the water. If the car even had a muffler, it must have been small because when you hit the gas, the car roared like a rocket ship. The car’s pickup was superfast, and my friends encouraged me to head for the drag race track as soon as I could.

I loved the car! All my friends were envious. Several complained that life was not fair and that a wussie like me did not deserve such a hot car, now christened  “the Blue Beast.” For the first time—probably the only time– in my life, I was a cool dude.

 On the second or third day of owning the vehicle, when I was feeling a little more secure driving, I invited two of my high school friends to join me for a “spin,” as we called it in those days. My best friend, Allen, presented me with a black metal plate, the size and shape of a regular license tag with a small metal chain to tie the plate onto the rear bumper just below where the rear tag was. On the black plate was the word “Dragons” in silver letters. We secured  it to the rear bumper. Hey, neat, I thought, how cool was this!

The spin took us through downtown Nashville, on a very busy weekday morning at the tail end of rush hour during our spring break. I had been driving for about a half hour when the  Blue Beast came to an abrupt halt right in the middle of one of the city’s most congested intersections. I desperately hit the starter button. Nothing. Again, no luck.  We were blocking traffic in all four directions.  Some rolled down their windows and shook their fists. Others shouted obscenities. I am sure my face was turning bright red. My hands were shaking. Allen and my other friend, Mike, looked at each other with sheepish grins and then bolted out of the car to watch the drama from the sidelines. Out of the corner of my eye I glimpsed them pointing at me and laughing.

The police arrived pretty soon, which was fortunate, because I could see a mob beginning to form. One cop, a big burley guy, arrived first and then another, a smaller guy with a thick mustache, who began directing traffic around the car.  The burley cop asked to see my driver’s license, called a tow service, and assured me that they had everything under control, which I interpreted to mean keeping me from being attacked. Then, the second cop looked at the rear tag. “Hey, Mickey,” he said, “We’ve got a Dragon. This guy is a Dragon! Check the car for weapons!”

“What?” I exclaimed.

“I know the Dragons,” he snarled. “They are mean sonsofbitches and dangerous.” His reassuring smile moments earlier turned into a skeptical scowl. I could swear I saw him placing his hand on the handle of his revolver. It was like a scene from one of those horror movies where in moments everything turns into a nightmare. I glanced at my friends still observing the action with amusement but not knowing what was happening with me and the cops.

He made a call on his VHF or “walkie talkie” as we called them in those days, and the reply came back in loud static, “Cuff him and bring him in.”

In horror, I realized what was happening. I was being arrested.

 I waved to my friends to come back fast and blurted out to the cops that I was innocent, “Look, I am not a Dragon. I don’t even know what a Dragon is.”

“Well,” said the burley cop sarcastically, “then how come you got a Dragons license tag on your bumper?”

“It was a birthday gift, sir.” I blurted out, “My friend gave it to me. He is coming over right now. He will explain.”

The two cops gave each other skeptical looks as Mike and Allen arrived on the scene, initially chuckling but when they realized what was going on, showed looks of alarmed surprise.

The interrogation of my two friends took only about five minutes. With serious expressions and repeating “sir” after every sentence, they confirmed the facts: that yes, the Dragons license plate was a gift, that no, they had no idea there was a gang called the Dragons, that we all were students at Montgomery Bell Academy, and that I attended church and Sunday School every week and as far as they knew had never committed a sin. They did not say “and besides, he is a wussie,” for which I was grateful.

The two cops conferred in low tones, checked back with headquarters, and then said with their skeptical frowns still on their face, “Ok, we are letting you off this time,” and drove off. By then the Blue Beast had been towed and the traffic backup had dissipated. The three of us looked at each other and burst out laughing. Someone called a parent to pick us up, and a week later I picked up the car from the mechanic, who had replaced the broken universal joint with a new one. Life returned to normal. But with no Dragon’s tag on the Blue Beast.

 

 

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As promised, here comes some good news about aging. For the most part we old folks are doing pretty well—at least those of us that are in reasonably good health for our age and have enough income to get by. There are more housing and health care options available for us seniors now than ever. Medical care continues to improve, and there is income support from Social Security and SSI, health care support from Medicare and Medicaid, and nutrition support from food stamps. Before the 1930s there was nothing, and before the 1960s only Social Security. (These are the targets, by the way, that the Freedom Caucus plans to hold hostage to the debt ceiling vote.)

We humans tend to keep going as long as we can, given our health and abilities. It is part of our nature. Many of us go on cruises and travel. We join clubs. We volunteer. We go to concerts and plays. We remain active in our neighborhoods and cherish friends and families. We continue to exercise. We serve on nonprofit boards.  We stay politically engaged. Some work part time in jobs they love.

The big differences in quality of life for us septuagenarians and octogenarians have to do with our health, our financial resources, and our personal relationships, especially with friends and family. Some of us have been dealt better hands than others.

The existential question we old folks face as we age is this: what happens next? We know that we will not all die peacefully in our sleep after living fulfilling lives and with just enough time to say goodbye to loved ones and make peace with the Divine. If only this were so. Sometimes, however, it does happen or comes close. The retired Bishop of the Episcopal Diocese of Washington, Jane Dixon, who was a good friend, an inspiration, and much loved by Episcopalians throughout the diocese, died in her sleep (from a heart attack) in 2016 after tucking in her grandchildren on Christmas Eve. Still, she was much too young (age 75), and no one was prepared for her sudden death.

Now I happen to be an expert in housing options for seniors. My career was mostly devoted to assisting nonprofit housing providers build seniors housing, mainly “continuing care retirement communities (“CCRCs”), now also called “Life Plan” communities. The idea behind these communities is that they tackle the “what’s next” question directly as people get older and need more services to maintain their independence. They do this by providing three levels of care—independent living (with meals and housekeeping included), assisted living and long-term nursing care—all in one building or on one campus. Many communities now also provide memory care. These communities—most are not-for-profit– require a front-end entrance fee and a monthly payment. I have been a big fan of these communities and have many friends who smartly have moved into a CCRC. One would expect we would be the first to sign up. But no, not Embry and me. “The cobbler’s children have no shoes.”

There are also rental, market rate supportive housing options, known as “congregate housing,” which provide meals, housekeeping, activities and supportive services and often include assisted living. There are   group homes typically accommodating 3-10 people and providing similar services, and often more affordable than other market rate options. And there have been a whole bunch of assisted living communities built during the last 25 to 30 years, some including memory care. There are many more options now than were available 50 years ago when my generation was entering the work force and our parents were getting old.

Why haven’t we moved to a Life Plan community or one of the market rate, senior housing options? Well, we are happy where we live now. This is the usual excuse. In 2015 Embry dragged me kicking and screaming out of the house we had happily lived in for over 40 years. Why move, I asked?  Because Embry could see the “what’s next,” problem then, and she was right.  Climbing stairs for me now is a killer with my bad knees. We moved all of a few hundred yards away to a 450-unit apartment building, which is a quintessential “NORC” (naturally occurring retirement community) where there are a lot of people our age (but also younger people and young families), a strong residents’ association, spacious apartments with fireplaces and balconies, a fitness center and indoor lap pool, and lots of activities. It was the perfect solution, thanks to Embry. We love it and have made many new friends. It is a short walk to our old neighborhood and our church and shopping, restaurants, and Metro. Why move again?

Enter the nagging “what’s next” question. We are now eight years older than when we moved in. I will soon  be 81. Embry is 76. There are no supportive services offered in the apartment building where we now live. We have witnessed friends and neighbors deal with losing spouses and how hard it is to find suitable supportive housing options or homecare support. Some have had to separate from a spouse who had to move to assisted living or memory care off site. While there are now even more options than ever that try to address this question– senior “villages” where seniors volunteer to help each other, care managers that help people get in home care or find other solutions, and “life care at home,” —  there are no solutions that solve all the challenges of aging, no silver bullet. And making the decision to move to a CCRC is difficult for us since we are city people and have so many friends here. We are probably typical in putting this off to the last minute and are just starting to struggle with that question.

A bigger challenge is for people with limited financial resources. The majority of seniors are not able to afford to live in the NORC where we live or any kind of “market rate” seniors housing with supportive services, especially the CCRCs, which are limited to people with substantial assets and solid retirement incomes. My guess is that at best  only about a third of the over-75 population can afford these options. What about the other two-thirds?

The news is not all bad there either. There has been a lot of subsidized housing for seniors built over the years starting in the 1960s. I worked on a number of these properties as well and currently serve on the board of three such properties. The HUD 202 Program was the best and produced many thousands of apartments affordable by seniors with incomes up to 50% of area median. Rents are pegged at 30% of income. The most active housing production program today is called the “Tax Credit Program” which pegs rents affordable to residents at 30-60% of the area median income. Some of the HUD 202 properties provide meals and also have service coordinators. Accessing services for residents usually involves utilizing independent home and community-based service providers. If long term nursing home care is required, Medicaid is available in most states to make the care affordable (requiring residents, however, to spend down all their assets and is available only to those who have extremely low incomes.)  The housing options for poor people are not perfect, and we need more affordable housing with services—especially for those in-between seniors who do not qualify for subsidized housing but can’t afford market rate senior living; but overall, I give the options for people with more limited financial resources pretty high marks.

So, we old folks have lot to be thankful for.  The senior population is healthier and better off today on the whole than we have ever been, but that does not mean that more does not need to be done. So, the picture is mixed. But you can’t help admiring folks older than me who are still going strong and making the best of their lives . The challenge we all face is  how to grow old gracefully and how to squeeze those last drops out of the lemon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Warning: This post is not for sissies.

In two months I will turn 81. Despite a few health issues here and there (Does anyone recall my “Too Long Covid” or my “BVS” blogs?), I am in good health for someone my age. My “new” knee is bothering me a bit, but I still get in my 15-20 miles of urban walks every week, albeit at a lot slower pace than they were ten years ago, and I am facing no death sentences that I know of. I have already outlived my life expectancy by several years and counting. Embry is in better shape than I am, and our children, their spouses, and grandchildren are doing fine. As the saying goes, I have been blessed.

 But like practically everyone in their 80s, I have lost my parents. I also have lost good friends, and a younger brother, and I know people who are struggling with very serious health issues. Many of our friends in the apartment house where we now live are widows.  We octogenarians are aware we are mortal. I confess I now read more obituaries than I used to and make a mental note of the age of people when they died. There are a whole bunch of 80 something-year-olds in the obituaries/death notices every day.

So, two questions face us old folks. The first is how we get the most out of the limited time we have left on this wonderful but fragile planet. I will save that for a later post (“Squeezing the Last Drops Out of the Lemon.”) The second is what the checking out process is going to look like for us. This post is about the second question.

I recall my first “death awareness” experience. In 1966 Embry and I were attending a weekend retreat at Wake Forest Seminary in North Carolina. I was a student at Union Seminary in New York City, and we were preparing for a summer-long experience  working in the Civil Rights Movement in southwest Georgia. The conference was conducted by a “radical” Christian organization called the Ecumenical Institute, which described its mission as using the principles of Marxism–and particularly those of Mao Tsung–to convert the entire world to Christianity. Bizarre to say the least, but there Embry and I were, along with a dozen or so apprehensive Union Seminary students, preparing to go to the front lines of the Civil Rights Movement. There were probably over 100 others from other seminaries all over the country attending, who I presumed were preparing for similar adventures. I supposed the idea of sending us to this conference was to harden us up.

One of the exercises of the conference was to put groups of 25 or 30 people together in a room, lock the door, and forbid them to leave until they had answered “profound religious questions.” The event I attended happened around seven in the morning before anyone had had any breakfast. The subject of my first (and only) closed-door, locked session was death. (Embry was assigned to another room with another subject.) A thin guy in his 30s—”the Inquisitor” — with a crew cut and wearing a gray suit and thin tie, walked around the room and would stop behind someone arbitrarily, jerk the cowering person out of a chair and ask a profound question dealing with death—the person’s own death. The method worked. Some people broke down in tears, trying unsuccessfully to say something profound and avoid humiliation. Others were scolded by the Inquisitor for remaining silent. Everyone there was a seminary student someplace, so there were occasional praises of Jesus, and asking forgiveness to avoid going to hell, but most people just wept, begged for mercy, or kept their mouths shut.

I was terrified. I had no idea what I would say. I was something of a skeptic even during my seminary days (or perhaps because of them); but more important, I was an Episcopalian. Episcopalians do not do or say such things. Ever.

I noticed that he seemed to be picking on every third person. As he got nearer to me as the moaning and weeping continued, I did the arithmetic and figured out that within a minute or two I was in line to be jerked up out of my seat. I could feel my heart pounding. I glanced at the door. I could bolt, but the door was supposed to be locked. Besides I would look like a fool and a wimp.

I looked up and there he was standing over me and frowning with an evil look in his eye. I clinched my fists and held my breath as his hands headed toward my shoulders. But instead of landing on my shoulders, they landed on the guy sitting next to me. The Inquisitor screamed in his ear, “What do you want on your tombstone? What do you want on your tombstone? Tell me now. Now!”

The poor guy, who was about my age, turned his head to the Inquisitor and with a smirk replied in a calm voice but in a stage whisper loud enough for everyone to hear, “You want to know what I want on my tombstone? You want to know that? This is what I want on my tombstone: ‘Bury me upside down so you can kiss my ass, you sonofabitch!’’”

The room exploded with laughter. Everyone got up and headed to the door, which it turned out was not locked afterall, and that was pretty much it for the conference.

“What do I want on my tombstone?” Gosh, I still can’t answer that question, and besides I plan to be cremated anyway.

But the question that I—and I suspect many others my age—do ask is whether I will have to suffer and for how long, and what will my checking out process be like. The experience of the million or so Americans who died from covid, most alone, has meant that almost all these people died without their families or loved ones present. How terrible was this? Nobody would want this! Will this continue as covid persists? Please, no. Not that for me!

And what about people who spend months and even years in nursing homes and who suffer from dementia? This week I visited several such facilities in trying to find a spot for a dear relative. Please, no. Not that for me. Anything but that!

Or people who suffer great pain? Hospice has made a huge difference here, and modern drugs can ease the suffering, but still….

Yet the checking out process is not our call—at least not our call most of the time. California and Oregon and a handful of other states (including the District of Columbia) have what I call “death with dignity” laws—not “physician-assisted suicide”! — but the criteria for using these laws is pretty strict as indeed it should be. For one thing you have to be of sound mind and have a life-threatening disease. However, that leaves out dementia patients and those with severe mental illness and profound depression. These are often the ones who suffer the most.

Several decades ago we had a college student staying with us who had summer jobs working part time in the National Zoo and part time in a neighborhood nursing home. She told us no one would allow an animal in the zoo to suffer the way we allow people to suffer in nursing homes. When I took our aging cat to the vet a couple of years ago, the vet’s comments were very clear: please, please, do not let your cat suffer needlessly. I felt like responding, “You mean, the way we let human beings do?”

There is no easy answer to the death and dying question. To ease the pain and suffering by broadening death with dignity regulations could help but also they could be abused. But there has to be a better way. I do not know what the answer is though certainly hospice has made a huge contribution in easing the checking out process for many. Death is as much a part of the human condition as birth. One could argue that without a beginning and an end life itself would have no meaning.

A number of years ago, Embry’s aunt, who was one day short of her 99^th birthday, and had been a widow for decades (married to a Methodist minister and professor of religion), laid out the ground rules for her children regarding her own checking out process. She had been nearly blind for several years, recently diagnosed with a particularly painful type of cancer and was very sharp mentally. She had been living for many years in the independent living section of a very good retirement community in the Bay Area. Following her explicit instructions, all three of her children and their spouses gathered around her bed. She was by no means a serious drinker but had instructed someone to make a pitcher of martinis and to sing a robust version of “She’ll Be Coming Around the Mountain When She Comes,” make appropriate toasts, and hold hands as she consumed what appeared to be a peanut butter cracker. Smiling, she dozed off to sleep and never woke up.

Does the checking out process get any better than this?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Embry and are watching Ken Burns’ documentary on the Holocaust and the United States. If you think the problems we face are tough now, they were even more foreboding in the 1930s and 40s. The series is deeply disturbing as you would expect and raises a lot of questions about “man’s inhumanity to man.” You wonder what might have happened had the U.S. not joined the fight against Hitler when we did. Would Germany and the Axis powers have won? What would have happened if Germany (or Japan) had developed the atom bomb (and used it) before we did?

There are so many “what ifs” in life, which I have observed on many occasions is often a matter of inches. An inch here and an inch there, and everything is turned upside down. It is not too much to say that if we had waited much longer to join the fray, we in the U.S. could be speaking German today. We tend to look at historical “facts” as a given and predetermined. What if The South had won the Civil War, which would have led to a separate, apartheid country much like South Africa before Nelson Mandela. What if the Civil Rights Movement had not happened? Jim Crow could still be the “law” of the South.

Which brings us to the times we are in today. What if the mRNA vaccine had not been developed just in the nick of time? What would the covid deaths have been? Would anyone want to leave their house? What about all the other medical breakthroughs and advancements? I for one would be a dead duck. I had a fairly severe case of polio in 1952 resulting in a curved spine that looked like the lettering “C.” Without a new operation at the time (1954) called a “spinal fusion,” I would not have lasted past my teenage years. If my polio had occurred five years earlier, I probably would not have made it. And what about the improvements in hearing aides, without which when my hearing disability began in the late 1990s, I would hardly have  been able to function? Or knee replacements without which I would hardly be able to walk? I suspect many of us have had health scares or challenges and have gotten through them because of great strides in health care and medical technology. A hundred years ago the outcome would have been very different.

And what about the technology we use that now we take for granted. The list is long—television, computers, the internet, jet planes, cell phones—what if they had never been invented? Can you imagine what life would be like without these things?

And what about politics? What if Trump actually had received more electoral votes than Biden in 2020? What if the January 6 Insurrection had succeeded? What if Ukraine had not put up a fight and the West had not supported their resistance, and Putin had been able to claim victory for Russia, his first step in restoring the Russian Empire?

Of course, we will never know the answer to the what ifs that never happened. This is the stuff for novels and short stories. Nor do we know the answer to the what ifs of the future.

What if Trump wins in 2024? Or if the next president is one of his wannabees like DeSantis, Cruz, or Hawley? Or if the militias try to take over the government? What if we drift away from a democracy to a strongman state?

What if Ukraine falls? What if China becomes greater adversary?  What if it attacks Taiwan? What if climate change initiatives are stifled? What if the Greenland ice cap melts? What if covid continues to rage and morphs into a more lethal virus? What if nuclear weapons are actually used (again)? All are possibilities.

What we do know is that we humans—especially we humans of good will– have a big role to play in the outcome. Without heroes and ordinary people in the past who led us away from the Dark Side and ills of slavery, racism, anti Semitism, human suffering, and despair, and who stood up against totalitarianism and bad actors, the outcome would have been different. We humans have been saddled with the responsibility of making a difference. If we are to survive as a livable planet for humans, people of good will who want to do the right thing can’t sit on our hands or give up. The stakes have never been higher.

 

 

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Over the past ten years, Embry and I have been active in supporting three Afghan families who have moved to the U.S. In supporting two of the families, we have been part of a larger group consisting of three Episcopal Churches in the area, one of which, All Souls, is where we are members. In each of the initiatives, given my background in affordable housing, I have been the volunteer who has been responsible for locating and securing housing for the refugees. The current family, whom I will call the Zacari family, consists of two youngish, 30-something parents and three children, ages seven, four, and just over one. They spent months in refugee camps in Pakistan, Qatar, and Fort Dix before finally arriving in the Washington area just over a year ago. The husband with considerable effort was able to get a job making $16/hour at a local hospital as a security guard.

An income of $16/hour translates to an annual income of around $32,500. Starting a year ago, I spent several days investigating options in and around Arlington VA, where they preferred to live, and the least expensive three-bedroom unit that I could find rented for close to $2,200/month. The least expensive two-bedroom for around $2,000. The apartment we ended up with was in an older, five-story building with few amenities, in a close-in neighborhood, adjacent to a small park, good public transportation and was in a good school district and an area where many supportive social services were available for the family. The apartment was not perfect—mice and roaches are a problem—but adequate and in a great location.

The Zacari family started off with a three-bedroom unit but downsized to a two-bedroom in order to be near the ground floor. What if the support from the three churches was not available? How does a family afford to rent a two-bedroom apartment for $2,000 plus utilities, when this would require them to spend about 75% of their income for housing? Well, they don’t. Most landlords have a policy of requiring a family’s income to be three times the rent, which in their case would amount to having an income of at least $72,500. But wait, you ask, an income of $16/hour is the income of a whole lot of workers, especially in the services sector. How on earth do they get by? Where do they live? Is there any question about why there is an affordable housing crisis in the greater Washington area and across the nation?

In the case of the Zacari family the three churches had raised almost $50,000 and had committed to paying the rent for at least a year and supporting the family in other ways like buying them a car. But after a year the church money is diminishing, and we can see a time in the next several months when the money will run out. What will happen then? My job as the volunteer in charge of housing, is to figure that out. The original idea, of course, was to provide the support to them to get them started, and then within a year–or so the thinking was– they would be able to afford housing on their own. Wishful thinking.

In the early part of my search for housing, I was able to discover a housing grant program that was somewhat unique to Arlington and offered a pathway for housing affordability for the Zacari family. As some may know the main federal affordable housing assistance today is the “Section 8 Housing Choice Voucher program,” administered by local housing authorities, whereby eligible families (incomes below 50% of the area median income) pay 30% of their income for rent and utilities, and the feds pay the difference between that and the contract rent of the unit provided that it does not exceed local market rents. While the program is not perfect, it works pretty well. The only problem is that there is only enough funding to help about a quarter of the families who are eligible, and the waiting lists tend to be very long. This is the case in Arlington. There are also older buildings which provide project-based, “deep subsidy,“ Section 8 assistance to eligible families and seniors, and this was the program which allowed me to get my start in the production of affordable housing. This program, however, had a short-lived life due to the high costs involved—from 1974-1984– and long wait lists are usually associated with these properties. Though few new public housing properties have been built since the mid 1970s, public housing still remains an option though units tend to be in poor condition and in less desirable neighborhoods. Because the wait list for public housing was so long in DC, several years ago the DC Public Housing Authority stopped taking new applicants. The other affordable housing program that provides new units at discounted rates is called the “Low Income Housing Tax Credit program,” which for the last few decades has produced over 100,000 new units a year nation-wide. The big difference is that instead of providing “deep subsidies” like the Section 8 program, it skews rents at income levels to make them affordable by households at 30-60% of area median incomes. The wait lists for these properties are also long. In my initial search for the Zacari family I did not try to rent a unit for them in one of those affordable housing properties since the family had  no place to live when they arrived and were desperate.

This is why I was intrigued by the Arlington County program. It was a local lookalike of the Housing Choice Voucher program except that the initiative required the applicant to have a 40-hour week job paying no less  than the minimum wage. If there were two or more adults, all working-age adults would be required to have full time jobs with the exception of families with small children. In other words, it was a Housing Choice Voucher program for working families. Neat idea, I thought. Arlington has long prided itself as a bastion of progressive thought and action. Good for them! It would be the perfect solution for the Zacari family. The grantor would consider the income of the family and obligate the county to pay the difference between what the landlord required as income (3 times rent or over $72,000/year) and their annual income of about $32,000. In their case it would amount to a subsidy of around $1,000/month. Hurrah! Problem solved.

Except that it wasn’t.

Several months ago, I filled out the application on behalf of the Zacari family and submitted it to Arlington County. In a few weeks the person responsible for processing the application emailed me that the lease had to be in the name of the family, not All Souls Episcopal Church. I immediately contacted the management company of their apartment house. They said they could not change the lease now—which would violate their rental procedures and put at risk their financing– but they would sign a letter saying that once the grant came through, then and only then, would they transfer the lease from the church to the Zarcari family.

 No problem. Sounded reasonable enough to me. The signed letter went to the county, and I prided myself at solving another housing problem.

Then this week the word came back from the county that processing would cease until the name of the applicant was on the lease. No exceptions. Nonnegotiable. I went back to the management company whose response was, “You must be kidding. You expect any landlord to execute a lease with a family whose income is less than half of the underwriting threshold? Surely you jest!”

“But the housing grant…”

“There is no guarantee that they will get the housing grant!”

Back to the county. I called the rep and asked how they expected any tenant to have an executed lease that no landlord would accept in the first place. How could they expect a family making less than $3,000/month to pay over $2,000/month in rent? And if they can’t get the grant, the family will end up on the street, homeless.

She said something to the effect of “their problem, not ours, and do not bother us again until you have a signed lease with the applicant’s name on it. We have to prove that they are not able to afford the rent where they are living before we can make the grant.”

To which I responded, “Catch 22.”

She hung up.

And people wonder why government is often seen as the villain rather than the savior.

However, I have not given up on this challenge and have a few weapons left in my arsenal. Stay tuned for the next episode.

But the question remains: How do hard working people in full time jobs, paying $16/hour (or less or more or in that range) find decent, affordable housing? Where do they live? How do they survive?

Is there anything wrong with this picture?

 

 

 

 

 

 

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In the fall of 1995, I got a call from a good friend, Dan Look, who was an avid and experienced sailor and a person I had met and collaborated with in my consulting work in retirement housing. He said he was planning a week-long cruise in the British Virgin Islands and was looking for an experienced first mate. I immediately accepted. Neither of us had sailed in the BVIs before, and it was something that I had wanted to do for a long time. Dan ended up chartering a 50-foot sailboat with eight of his other friends on board, all men, most in our 40s or early 50s and working in the retirement housing field or members of Dan’s rowing club in Atlanta. Including Dan and me, the total aboard numbered 10. I still can’t believe how we got that many people on board or remember where everyone slept (some were in hammocks), but the experience was a blast. It was the first of 11 Dan Look Cruises, one occurring each year except for 1997 and 1998, not petering out until 2008. The second year we added a boat, which I skippered, and then another the following year, and each year expanded the cruising fleet until  one year we had six boats and a total of 25 men cruising. I was on every cruise and often was assigned to be on my boat were two or three of Dan’s friends whom I had never met. One year it was the first time on a sailboat  for all three men on my boat, and every year on my boat there was at least one person with very limited experience. I loved introducing them to the magic of sailing. There was not a person on these cruises that I did not like, and some became long term friends.

We had informal races from anchorage to anchorage, plenty of time ashore and for snorkeling , and meals at great restaurants overlooking anchorages. On the first day of every cruise Dan would hand out  customized golf shirts he had ordered for everyone with a special logo and the date of the cruise. I still have many of them.

The highlight of these cruises for me was the evening meal. Every afternoon after a day of sailing and sometimes informal racing, everyone would pile into dinghies and head to Dan’s boat where he would be preparing a feast. Dan had his own company which provided dietary services to retirement communities, loved to cook, and was an extraordinary chef, often assisted on board by others in the food service business. For several years he was assisted by a guy who owned a chain of high-end steak houses in Atlanta. I was the self-appointed bar tender and prepared huge pitchers of pain killers for the thirsty sailors and came to be known by many as simply “Dr. Pain Killer.” It is hard to conceive how 20 or more men could fit on a 50-foot yacht for pain killers and a gourmet feast. Every inch below and above deck was occupied, and there was always lots of laughter, storytelling, bragging, and joke telling. These Dan Look Cruises will always be etched in my mind as one of the most satisfying and enjoyable experiences of my life.

For some reason after about 10 years, enthusiasm started to wane, and 2008 marked the end of the  cruises. By that time, however, I was hooked and became a boat owner of my own BVI Sunsail yacht, which I named “Second Wind” (a sale/lease back deal, which allowed me three weeks a year of “free sailing” at any of their 90 locations around the world). Second Wind was a 39-foot sloop, perfect for a crew of four or five, and enabled me to continue cruising in the Caribbean, usually twice a year, once in the fall with Embry and one or two other couples, and once in the early spring with three or four of my close friends, many from high school, college or graduate school days. After five years when the sale/leaseback deal was over, because I was unable to sell the boat down there, I had it moved to the Chesapeake where Embry and I enjoyed cruising and (for me) racing for another eight or nine years before selling Second Wind in 2021, marking the end of my official sailing career.

Why was it so important for me to have one final BVI cruise with my family? Over the years the experience had become for me almost spiritual. Often, I would arrive with a bad cold or respiratory virus and in days would be cured. I have put in my will that I want a third of my ashes tossed into the Caribbean Sea in the BVIs. The main reason for a Last Hurrah Cruise was to share this experience with my family (children and spouses had been done there with us before) and especially with my grandchildren.

Many consider the BVIs to be the finest sailing waters in the world. The place is magic, with its reliable trade winds from the Northeast and East, usually around 12-18 knots, perfect speeds for exciting but not scary sailing. The BVI Islands, all but one volcanic, are close together and accessible, the waters deep blue, light green, and crystal clear, with coral reefs and excellent snorkeling. The towering mountains and hills are gorgeous as are the white, sandy beaches.   And the entire country is set up to accommodate sailors. Moorings are available at most anchorages, where you will also find small stores selling water, beer, ice, tee shirts, memorabilia, and items you might run out of. You will also find one or two local restaurants at all the major anchorages and at many of the smaller ones. The locals are friendly, and you do not have to worry about being robbed or harassed. If you are chartering and have a mechanical or sailing problem, help from the charter company can usually reach you in under an hour. In a word, it is a sailor’s paradise.

This is what I wanted my grandchildren to see and experience, and this is why two years ago I planned the Last Hurrah Cruise for the entire Howell clan. And now it was finally happening!

And here we were—at last! —in Spanish Town on Virgin Gorda. We passed through the tiny customs house in less than five minutes, ordered a cab, and in five minutes were at the marina in Spanish Town, the only other real “town” (population around 2,000) in the BVIs (population around 27,000) besides Road Town (population around 9,000). Within minutes we were reunited with the rest of our crew, Andrew’s and Jessica’s families, who had managed to sail the boat (“Odin II”) upwind in strong winds, rain, and squalls and dock her in the often-crowded Spanish Town marina. I was very impressed but not surprised. Afterall, Andrew and I had sailed up to New England and back in the early 90s, and Jessica had done a lot of small boat sailing.

We admired the large sloop, climbed on (with some help for me), and donned the sailing hats they had brought along, one labeled “Captain,” another “First Mate” and the others “Crew.” Embry had brought along 10 tie-died, multicolored tee shirts, and the “Howell crew” also had brought 10 “Last Hurrah” tee shirts which had been made for the earlier 2021 cruise that never happened. Embry also during the entire ordeal of getting to the BVIs  had been carrying in a separate plastic case a small, plastic Christmas tree fully, if not tastefully, decorated. The tree immediately found its dominate place in the cockpit and  remained a steadfast, silent member of the crew until we arrived back at the base when Embry gave it away to one of the workers, who seemed thrilled to receive it.

The five days that we spent cruising with the family were all that I had hoped for and more. It was indeed the cruise of a lifetime, a true “Last Hurrah.” The squalls of the first day on the second day were replaced by clear skies and “Christmas Winds,” which typically arrive around this time of year and are the strongest winds of year at speeds in the range of 15-25 knots instead of 12-18 knots. However, our 51-foot sloop with a double-reefed main could handle the higher winds easily. When we departed Spanish Town around two and headed north, upwind to the famous Virgin Gorda Sound, I took the helm and was astonished that crew assignments were in place. Our two grandsons—Jasper and Parker—were trained and ready, hoisting and lowering the main, trimming the sheets, reefing the main, tasks they performed with expertise, enthusiasm, and vigor. Maximum boat speed for our boat is about 10 knots, and with the Christmas Winds, the boat reached nine knots at times and on the longer beam reaches averaged around eight knots. Very impressive for any cruising sailboat!

Our two granddaughters—Jo and Sadie– also performed their assigned duty of keeping the cockpit sparkling clean, a job they performed cheerfully and gracefully. Our son, Andrew, helped out on the helm as did his son, Parker, who has had two sailing camp experiences and whom I had appointed Second Mate because of his experience. Peter, Jessica’s husband, was the official navigator and got us where we wanted to go and kept us from running aground. Embry, Karen, Andrew’s wife, and  our daughter, Jessica, quietly kept the boat in good order, and took the lead (with some help from their husbands) in being sure the entire crew was hydrated with a variety of beverages and well fed.

Perhaps more important than what happened is what did not happen. No one fussed or complained. No one got seasick. No one got covid. No one was injured. And—at least from my observations—everyone had a great time. We were all captured by the charm of the BVIs.

The cruise began with spending one full day and two evenings in Virgin Gorda Sound, considered by many as one of the most beautiful natural anchorages in the world. We then sailed about 20 miles on a beam reach in 20-25 knot winds to Annagada, the only atoll among the dozen or so volcanic, larger islands and the most remote of all the islands. We spent two evenings there and one full day relaxing on the pristine, white beach on Loblolly Bay. Then we sailed about 30 miles on a broad reach in the same fresh winds to Little Harbor on Jost van Dyke where we moored for the evening, and the last day  sailed upwind about 20 miles in more gentle winds back to Tortola and the Sunsail base via Pelican Island in the Sir Francis Drake Channel where we went snorkeling at the famous “Indians” coral reef. At every anchorage both the kayak and the paddle board got good use. We ate out only once, at the restaurant on Saba Rock in  Virgin Gorda Sound, where the food was excellent.

It had been almost eight years since I had been down to the BVIs. Since I had Second Wind moved from there to the Chesapeake in 2014, we had not chartered. A lot had happened during that time, however, since the islands were hit by Hurricane Irma in 2017, a Category 5 Hurricane with wind speeds of up to 180 miles per hour. The islands were devasted and have still not completely recovered though if you had never been there before you probably would not notice. The world-renowned resort on Virgin Gorda, the Bitter End, was rebuilt as only a shadow of its former self. The hotel cottages are gone and all that remains is a small restaurant. The famous Foxxy’s is back, however, and business overall is now reported to be good.

The biggest difference to me is how catamarans have replaced mono hulls, a sad development in my view. I am not a fan of those hulky, bulky crafts, which now account for about 90 percent of the charter fleet boats. It was the opposite when Second Wind was in the charter fleet. I was also surprised how few boats were sailing in what is usually the busiest week of the year. Early in the week moorings were around a third occupied when in almost every other cruise I had been on, if you arrived after four at an anchorage, you would be hard pressed to find an open mooring. I attribute this mainly to the flight cancellations.

There was one incident, however. The last day when we were in Little Harbor on Jost van Dyke the motor would not start. The battery that started the motor was completely dead. It is not possible to get into or out of a crowded anchorage without a motor. A heavy, 51-foot sailboat is not able to maneuver in small spaces without power. Not having a working motor is a big deal. We immediately called the Sunsail base, but were not able to get any definitive diagnosis or plan of action other than the Sunsail employee would try to find a mechanic. While Andrew and Peter were on the phone with Sunsail, two British young men, brothers, who were tanned and athletic, motored up in their dinghy and asked if we were leaving so that they could take over our mooring after we departed. Jessica said we were trying to leave, but the motor would not start. They asked if they could hop on and take a look, which they did, examined the battery that started the motor concluding that it was improperly wired to the generator. They replaced the starter battery with an auxiliary battery, and wired it properly to the generator. It started up immediately. The whole effort took less than a half hour. It turned out that the older brother’s job was a marine mechanic. Now how lucky was that? Embry’s guardian angel was on duty again. I recalled again the adage “that a coincidence is God’s way of remaining anonymous.”

If there was a weak link in the crew aboard Odin II, it was me, the 80-year old captain, who needed help getting on and off the boat and into a dinghy. Old knees. Old age. When I originally set the date for the rescheduled Last Hurrah Cruise two years ago, I was well aware that my ability to do what I used to be able to do was fading. This is the way it is with us homo sapiens, as it is with all living creatures. I knew the time was getting closer when it would be beyond my capacity to do a week of cruising in the BVIs. Well, after two aborted efforts, I made it to 2023, stumbling across the finish line, as they say. And what a cruise it was and what a joy to be able to share my love of sailing with my four grandchildren and to watch them have such a great time. It does not get much better than this; and for this experience, for Embry, and for Andrew and Karen and for Jessica and Peter and for Jasper, Jo, Sadie, and Parker, I am profoundly grateful. This was for me a true “Last Hurrah Cruise,” one that I will cherish as long as I live. Of the hundreds of cruises that Embry and I have made, literally all over the planet, because of the fabulous Howell/Ellis crew of 2022, this ranks right up there at the top.  Thank you!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Part One: Getting There

For those who know me, I suspect that most know that for most of my adult life I have been an avid sailor. Embry and I have owned five sailboats starting in 1974 with a beat up, 16-foot racing boat that sank in the Potomac River on the Fourth of July that year with Embry, me, and our friend, Naomi, aboard. In the fall of 2021, we sold our last boat, a 39-foot cruising sailboat, “Second Wind.” We have enjoyed racing (I more than Embry) and cruising—mainly in the Chesapeake—and have chartered sailboats in the British Virgin Islands many times and in other faraway waters like the Bahamas, the Mediterranean, the Adriatic, the San Juan Islands, and Tahiti. I estimate that I have raced in over 600 races starting in the early 70s, and Embry and I have cruised on the Chesapeake, anchoring in over 80 different places. It has been, as they say, a great run.

Two years ago, when it was becoming evident that as I approached 80, I did not have a lot of sailing days left, I decided it would be a great idea to charter a boat for a week of sailing in my favorite cruising grounds, the British Virgin Islands. I billed this as our “Last Hurrah” cruise with both of our children, their spouses, and our four grandchildren, ages 11-15 at the time. When we booked the cruise in the summer of 2020 for Christmas week, we had no idea that the hideous covid virus would still be with us but forged ahead anyway. Sure enough, days before our scheduled departure, our son-in-law, Peter, came down with a bad covid case, which he then passed on to others in his family. We cancelled, dodged that bullet, and immediately rescheduled for the next year. However, in 2021 covid was still a grave concern. We cancelled again. I was distraught. Embry encouraged me to try one more time, which I did for Christmas week 2022, our third and final try. By this time, I had already celebrated my eightieth birthday, and our grandchildren were all teenagers. A fourth try was not in the cards.

You can imagine my excitement as the Christmas holidays got closer. I was feverishly checking on all the arrangements—taxis to pick us up at the airport on Beef Island in the BVIs and take us to the marina in Road Town, a food, beverages, and supplies order for 10 hungry sailors for eight days, and a kayak and a paddle board for exploring anchorages and to facilitate on shore adventures. Our son, Andrew, and his wife, Karen, would be flying from Newark with their two children, Sadie (14) and Parker(13), and our daughter, Jessica, and her husband, Peter, would be driving down from their home in Maine to New Jersey with their two children, Jasper(17), and Jo(15), and then flying with the Andrew’s family to San Juan followed by a connecting short flight to the BVIs. Our flight was from Dulles arriving in San Juan about the same time where we also had reservations on a connecting puddle jumper. We would take a taxi together, board the boat around five and go out for a celebratory dinner at the Sunsail base restaurant. We would get everything put away the next morning on the 51-foot sloop I had reserved and would set sail around lunch time for a fabulous week of family camaraderie, fresh breezes, sunny skies, and drop-dead natural beauty. I had done this trip well over a dozen times without a hitch. I could not believe that finally, finally this was going to happen.

We were set to depart from Dulles Airport at nine in the morning on Christmas Eve, which would put us in the BVIs around five in the afternoon on a short connecting flight from San Juan. Two days before Christmas all the news was about the huge snowstorm with record low temperatures pounding the Midwest and headed toward the East. Then came the news about thousands of flight cancellations, which I did not pay much attention to because the storm was going to miss us, and I surmised that our United flight was a kind of daily shuttle between San Juan and Washington. That is why I was stunned to see the “flight cancelled” warning pop up on the screen when we were getting our boarding passes. What? This had to be a mistake! Yes, the vast departure lobby was in a state of chaos, but surely these unfortunate fliers were headed north or west, not to the south. This could not be accurate. Seeing my distress, an attendant appeared, assured me that it actually was accurate and whisked us along with several dozen other distressed passengers to the United international desk where we were the fifth or sixth in a line that was growing by the minute. I felt my heart sink. Embry, always the stalwart, cheerfully assured me that we could get down there on another flight, and we had a 3-hour layover in San Juan, plenty of time to make the connecting flight to the BVIs.

The next hour we spent talking with the agent, a somewhat rattled woman with a strong foreign accent, who I assumed would rebook us on another flight. Every option she checked was either full or cancelled. She checked United flights to Puerto Rico from Denver, Chicago, and Houston. She looked at flights on other airlines—American, Delta and others. Nothing. She then said that the best that we could hope for was a late flight on the 28^th allowing us to get to the BVIs on the 29^th. Following my vigorous protests, she said something to the effect of “Mr. Howell, what is it that you do not understand about the fact that there is no way you can get to the BVIs until later in the week?” She then cancelled the reservations—including the return flights—and asked us to leave so she could help others, apologizing for the “inconvenience.”

We were doomed. The Last Hurrah would not happen. I retreated to a chair, sat down, and glumly called Andrew with the bad news. Embry suddenly disappeared.

Andrew reported that their flight was on schedule to take off soon and that he would look for other options for us. Both Andrew and Jessica had some sailing experience, and I thought probably could handle the cruise without Embry and me, but it could be a bit of a challenge and surely would not be the same.

And where was Embry during this dark night of the soul? She suddenly reappeared announcing that she had just booked a United flight to Boston, leaving in about 45 minutes, and the next morning a Jet Blue flight to San Juan and a new connecting flight to the BVIs, getting us there at six in the evening. She had also booked a room at the Logan Airport Hilton. No worries. We would only be a day late.

Eureka! The Last Hurrah was on again. Except we only had 45 minutes to get to the United flight to Boston. We raced to the security area and charged to the gate barely making it before the doors closed. Embry then mentioned that we got the two remaining seats on the plane and also the last two seats on the Jet Blue flight the next day and on the connecting flight to the BVIs.

Good heavens!

It was a long trudge to the Hilton, but it turned out to be a pleasant evening. Except for distressed passengers the place was like a tomb, but there were plenty of distressed passengers waiting in line to get into the bar/restaurant. Most seemed to be trying to make the best of their ruined holiday. We opted to forget the restaurant and go straight to the bar where we could also order food, which turned out to be surprisingly good. That evening I was finally able to feel relaxed and optimistic about our prospects.

The next morning we boarded the Jet Blue flight, which was on time and would get us to San Juan with two hours to spare for making the connecting flight. I breathed a sigh of relief.

 At last, I was certain we would make it. I had a window seat right behind the wing and noticed a large stack of luggage sitting at the base of the machine that loads the bags into the plane. When the plane did not move from the gate after 15 or 20 minutes, the pilot came on the loudspeaker and announced that we would take off shortly once all the bags were loaded and wished everyone a happy holiday. I suddenly remembered it was Christmas Day.

I then glanced out the window to observe that the bags had not moved, and no human was to be seen. Oh well, I thought, nothing to worry about. We have two hours to make the connecting flight, plenty of time. Fifteen minutes later I glanced out the window again. No progress. I then began the exercise of looking out the window every five minutes or so. Some guy showed up, lit a cigarette and then left. I looked at my watch. An hour had passed. Still time to make the connection, but now I was starting to get nervous and could feel anxiety coming on. It was not until almost two hours had passed that the bags got loaded and the plane took off. Doomed again! Embry was sitting near the front of the plane and I near the back, so we could not confer.

When we landed and I finally stumbled out of the plane into the boarding area, Embry was not there. I figured she would show up eventually and sat down in a state of despair. In about twenty minutes, my cell phone rang. It was Embry, who reported that she was at the gate of the connecting flight demanding that they hold the flight for us, but they refused and had just closed the doors. Good for her, I thought, the lady never gives up, but what to do next?

What we did next was go to a hotel near the airport for the night and try to figure this out. Except for no sheets on the bed, the room was not so bad. When Embry complained to the lady at the front desk, she gave us another room, which was so much smaller and less desirable that Embry took the sheets off the beds in that room, and we put them on our beds.

The challenge now was how to get to the airport serving Tortola, the largest and most populated island in the BVIs and where the charter fleets were all located. Embry was at it again trying to book a connecting flight, only to find that all connecting flights for the rest of the week were full. I was ready to call it quits. Good idea, nice try, but getting to the BVIs was just not in the cards. No Last Hurrah for us.

I called Andrew to give him the bad news. The Howell family crew had landed on time, boarded the charter boat, and was heading out for dinner. He said not to give up and that he would figure something out. Fat chance, I thought.

Then my cellphone rang again. Andrew confirmed that there was no way for us to get to Tortola this week, but there was a way to get to the BVIs. We could fly to the airport on Virgin Gorda, the other large island, about 10 miles from the marina. They could sail and meet us there. Two remaining seats were available on a connecting flight leaving around eleven in the morning, which would get us there around noon, about the time that they should arrive. I told him to book it. He called back to report he had succeeded. Last Hurrah on again!

Then I thought, Virgin Gorda has an airport?

We boarded the small plane on time the next day, along with the pilot and six other passengers. We were all asked about our weight and seated so that the weight would be evenly distributed. Embry and I were seated on the front row, right behind the pilot, a late 40-something  guy, who seemed to be all business. The flight would take about 45 minutes. Off we went. At last, this cruise of a lifetime would happen after all.

On the way over, clouds began to gather and showers were evident though showers in the BVIs are always short-lived, and you almost always can see blue sky. I could not help wondering how you could build an airport on a volcanic island where there were few flat spots. As we got closer the clouds thickened and the plane began to jump around. At points the visibility approached zero. I scanned the instruments on the panel and could not see anything resembling a GPS or radar. The pilot would be flying blind if the clouds continued. As we got closer, an opening in the clouds briefly appeared, and I looked down to see what I presumed was the runway—a narrow dirt road of maybe 200 yards situated between the ocean and a steep mountain. There were no shoulders and no room for error. Only a single, one-story structure was adjacent to the runway, and it did not look anything like a control tower. The pilot had to nail the landing, or it would be curtains. I was wondering how much experience this guy had as he looked left and then right trying to figure out where the airport was.

Then suddenly the clouds parted. The pilot spotted the airport, turned the plane and headed down. He had to clear one large hill, then swoop down, steady the plane and land. Two or three yards off center would mean crashing into a mountain or ending up in the Caribbean Sea. I held my breath and crossed my fingers.

The plane steadied and hit the runway perfectly. I let out my breath and was ready to clap when he gunned the motor and took off again. Good heavens, I thought, what is going on?

He turned to me and said, “Airport closed.”

This was the point I considered changing the name of the cruise from “Last Hurrah” to “Last Gasp.” 

What? How can you close an airport when there really is no airport? Who said the airport was closed anyway? Just then a big gust hit, and visibility was zero again.

He turned his head toward the passengers and said he had about 45 minutes to land before running out of fuel and that he would keep trying until that became an issue. In all he made five more efforts to land the plane, taking at least a half hour and getting dangerously close to the fuel desperation point. Three of those were abandoned early in the descent due to cloud cover. On one approach, the clouds parted, and he cleared the hill and touched down perfectly as he had done the first time, then screamed “Oh my God, shit!” powered up and took off again. After we were clear of everything, he turned to me and said, “Three dogs on the runway, I will call and see if somebody can run them off.”

 I had noticed that a large truck with “Emergency Rescue” painted on the side was at the end of the runway with staff waiting.

Nail biting time.

But he did land the plane on the final try. Everyone on the plane applauded, and I patted him on the back. Had we not been able to land, I am not sure what he would have done, probably try to land at the big airport serving Tortola.

We had finally arrived in the BVIs, three days late, emotional wrecks, exhausted, and ready for the Last Hurrah to begin.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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