My Year Away. And Back.

The Joys of Getting Back into Academic Life after a Year-Long Sabbatical.


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Vote How You Want. But Let’s Be Nicer About It.

I am a Christian.  I will not be voting for Trump.  Even though I am “unaffiliated” to any particular party, I also will not be voting third party.  Nor will I be staying home on election day.  I am voting for Hillary Clinton.

While I don’t like to post political messages, I am compelled to state who I am voting for.  Not because I am a huge fan of Clinton’s (although I think she is absolutely ready to become president)—or even because I think Trump is the least qualified candidate the country has ever seen.  Rather, I am compelled to clearly state who I am voting for as a plea to my friends and colleagues who do not know Jesus to understand that not every Christian supports Trump.

As a Christian, I am uncomfortable with many planks of Clinton’s platform.  I struggle with same-sex marriage.  I hate the concept of abortion.  But I absolutely believe that all Americans should enjoy equal civil rights.  I believe that rather than argue over whether life begins at conception, we should create a society where no one feels compelled to have an abortion. I believe we should treat refugees with respect and compassion.  I believe that the Second Amendment has nothing to do with owning assault weapons.  And, I believe in science.

To my fellow Christians, I beg you to stop the vitriol against Obama and Clinton.  If you don’t want to vote for Hillary, that’s your prerogative.  But, she is not the Devil.  Spewing hatred like I’ve seen on Facebook hurts my heart.  And if you are not a Christian, please, I beg you not to judge the entire Evangelical community by the support so many have pledged to Trump.  Believe me, I am as flummoxed as you are.

It’s a long time until November.  Let’s agree to disagree.  Or if we can’t, let’s at least treat each other with civility.  As the wise sage Mark Twain once said, “Kindness is the language which the deaf can hear and the blind can see.”


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What Do the Monkees and Politics Have in Common?

Well, the sabbatical is officially over. The new academic year has begun. As I’ve written about recently, I’m excited about the future, but also nostalgic (a bit, anyway) about the past. So it’s fitting that today I finished reading my last “sabbatical book”—David Axelrod’s Believer: My Forty Years in Politics. (In case your head has been buried in the sand over the last several years, Axelrod is a political extraordinaire who was the chief campaign strategist for President Obama’s election and reelection bids.)

Reading Believer, it was easy to sense that this guy likes to be smack dab in the middle of the hubbub. I get that. But what I loved best about this book was the way Axelrod, by writing his autobiography, explained the significance of politics, the difficulty of doing the right thing, the necessity of making compromises and the importance of keeping an eye on the big picture. He writes this with a kindness and appreciation for those around him that I found downright inspirational.

I don’t really think of myself as all that interested in politics. I’m not registered as a Democrat or Republican and rarely vote a straight party ticket. To my liberal friends, I seem quaint and sorely conservative. To my conservative friends, I am liberal—or at least, misinformed.

Even though I might not consider myself political, I’ll admit I’ve binged-watched West Wing twice on Netflix and cried both times when President Bartlett (my president) says good-bye to his loyal staff. I am intrigued with Tea Leoni’s Madam Secretary, and I was one of the few devotees to Geena Davis as president on the short-lived Commander in Chief. These TV shows, all smartly written, give an inside view to politics in Washington.

But Believer does something more. It quietly shows the dedication and sacrifice demanded from our public servants. Say what you might about President Obama, this book demonstrates in no uncertain terms that our president has worked hard for the country. Axelrod doesn’t put the president on a pedestal; instead, he gives a careful, honest, and meticulous accounting of the president’s achievements as well as his shortcomings. Axelrod assembled a large fact-checking team to work through the nearly 500-page manuscript. It pays off. There are well over 300 reviews on Amazon and most reviewers give the book five stars. Just a handful (fewer than 20) criticize it; a few die-hard partisans even call the book “fiction.” Give me a break.

While the majority of the book relates to Axelrod’s work with Obama, there is also keen look into Chicago politics as well as the author’s early years as a journalist.   Through it all, Axelrod carefully points out that making a lasting difference is hard—but worth it.

Though my impact on journalism education may be miniscule compared to Axelrod’s impact on politics, his reflections resonated. Maybe it’s because we’re the same age, have been married to our first mates for the same amount of time and even have a grandbaby the same age (although mine is cuter). Or maybe it’s because what he depicts in his book is really about life, albeit seen through the eyes of a consummate politician.

And now, I head back into my own little political world: the academic life. But rather than distain the obvious (honestly, how it is possible to have a two-hour faculty meeting and make no important decisions?), I’m going to be a believer. In the immortal words of my favorite band from childhood (the Monkees, of course!) “Not a trace of doubt in my mind…I’m a believer.” Thanks, Axe.


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Raucous Rowing Camp

As you’ve read elsewhere, I’m rather enthusiastic when it comes to rowing. So it should be no surprise that one of the goals on my sabbatical “to do” list was to go to rowing camp. This would be my fourth time to attend. The schedule is simple—but grueling.

7 a.m: First row (coffee only).

9 a.m: Breakfast (lots of food; it’s the most joyous eating experience ever).

11 a.m: Video review of the morning’s row (always revealing).

Noon: Mid-day row (painful. Hot. Tortuous.).

2 p.m: Lunch (starving! Pass me another!!!).

3 p.m: Nap (Glorious.).

5 p.m: Evening row. (I can do this).

7 p.m: Dinner.

9 p.m: Crash.

We do this for four days. While I work on my whole stroke during camp, I was particularly interested in improving my oar handling this time, which meant I focused on how my fingers rolled the oars up to the catch (the point at which you gently unweight them, grab the water, and then push!). With about 27,000 meters of rowing each day, it wasn’t long before my hands were a bloody mess.

And this was just Day 2 of Rowing Camp!

And this was just Day 2 of Rowing Camp!

I went to camp with seven other of my Beaufort Rowing friends. One is my age but the rest are between 10 and 15 years older than me. I am competitive enough to know that I wanted to make sure I did more than the older rowers—and complained less. This was harder than I expected. More than once I was ready to throw in the towel and sit out a row.

But my friends wouldn’t give up. They did everything the coaches said. They listened. They laughed. They tried new things. They encouraged others. And, they also got better at rowing. Simply put, they were amazing.

I’m back at home in Columbia now, savoring the last days before the semester begins (in a matter of hours, actually!). I rowed yesterday morning with these rowing friends. They were all a little sad when they realized that this was my last mid-week row at the beach. It’s back to the lonely sculling life in Columbia during the week with only Saturday morning for Beaufort rows. I was touched my friends were sad. I was sad, too.

Aristophanes said, “Why, I’d like nothing better than to achieve some bold adventure, worthy of our trip.” I’ve been on a lot of bold adventures during My Year Away. (I mean, I did go ziplining through the rain forest.) I’ve travelled the world and I’ve seen a lot of mind-boggling sites. But one of the very best experiences I’ve had this year was to spend four days with my rowing buddies.

I am fortunate to have great rowing friends, a couple of best girl friends, a fantastic husband, terrific choir friends. And wonderful colleagues at the University of South Carolina. As FDR once said, “I’m not the smartest fellow in the world, but I can sure pick smart colleagues.” I agree.

It may be sad to bid my beach life adieu, but I’m excited about greeting my colleagues when I return to work on Monday. And if I get too nostalgic about my rowing days at camp, I can look at my hands. There’s a blister or two to remind me that my class schedule might not be so bad, after all.


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My Biggest Sabbatical Surprise? I’m Ready to Return to Reality.

It’s July 14. I report back to work on August 16. One month remains to think my own thoughts, do my own thing, dig in the dirt, row.

Except I don’t have one month. In order to be ready for the fall semester, I have to work now. This puts me in a quandary. I want to squeeze every last drop out of My Year Away—except I’m being drawn back into the “real world.” Sort of like the time traveller who is content to wander around a different century and then makes the mistake of touching a coin from the present day mistakenly left in his pocket, and wham! Yanked into the present.

I’m teaching two new classes in the fall. So I’m reading all sorts of books, determined to make these classes current, cutting edge, challenging and fun. Heck, I’m shooting for life altering. This takes time. Lots and lots of time and all of a sudden, I’m finding myself short on time. My beach office is a mess, with books strewn across my desk, barely started syllabi on my desktop, links to potential articles bookmarked.

I’ll also be the chair of our tenure and promotion committee this year, which means I have to usher through the process anyone who is going up for tenure. I’m currently soliciting external reviewers for the candidate’s dossier, which is due August 1. (If I contact you, please say yes!) All this takes time. Time away from my sabbatical.

But here’s the thing. I’m excited about the semester. I’m enjoying getting ready for the fall. We have moved into a renovated space in the historic part of campus—really, the soul of the university. As the former head of the school, I was deeply involved in the design of our building and it’s gratifying to see the results of all those meetings. I love our new building. And I love my new office. I have windows(!) with a beautiful view. I have everything arranged perfectly thanks to my friend Marcie, a fellow academic also known as the Design Whisperer.

Here's my new office.

Here’s my new office.

As I look back over the past year, I am grateful for the once-in-a-lifetime experience. I’ve loved my travel, I’ve loved seeing friends, I’ve loved my garden, I’ve loved cooking for my husband, I’ve loved being able to row more.

And I’ve loved doing research. In other posts, I’ve written about the need to “fill the pipeline.” I might not have accomplished as much as I set out to do (who ever does?), but I’ve worked hard and am starting to reap the effort. Since beginning my sabbatical, I have had one journal article published, two more accepted for publication, two in review at top journals, two in early writing stages, and a couple in the “we should work on this” stage.

I’ve improved my technology skills, my social media savvy, my statistics ability. I’ve even continued trying to learn R programming (which makes my right brain throb).

What I haven’t done, however, is work on my administrative skills. Oh, I’ve kept up with the Chronicle of Higher Education. And I even read a lengthy article about what’s wrong with journalism education (I can tell you, there is a lot wrong with J-education, but this article didn’t tell me a single thing that I–and just about everyone else—didn’t already know.)

Personally, I’d much rather spend my time learning from those excited about the future of communications. Like Faris Yakob. I discovered Faris’ book Paid Attention: Innovative Advertising for a Digital World and then contacted him via Twitter. This book just came out and is making quite the splash in advertising circles. As of today, Faris has 27,000 followers on Twitter. Yet, when I tweeted him, he replied in about 30 seconds. And get this! He has agreed to Skype in to one of my class sessions. Woo hoo!

As my family and friends know, I love to move. I can thank my dad for this. He moved our family around the country during his heyday as a General Electric poobah. (Sometimes multiple times in one year.) Nothing like packing boxes to get a girl’s juices flowing!  However, this year, I’ve learned that there might be something even better than moving: Getting a fresh start in the very same place. I’ve got a new building, a new office, new classes, some new colleagues, new students, new committee assignments.

As Malcolm X once said, “The future belongs to those who prepare for it.” My sabbatical is coming to an end. I’ve spent the year preparing for the future. I am ready. In the immortal words of the Pointer Sisters, “I’m so excited. And I just can’t hide it.


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Sailing. Sunshine. And Surprises.

My husband and I just returned from a sailing trip through the British Virgin Islands (another sabbatical voyage!). We chartered a 45-foot monohull, invited friends Jack and Kathy to come along, and headed out for island hopping. It was an adventure, that’s for sure.

Taken from our boat moored at Anegada Island, an island which never exceeds 28 feet above sea level.

Taken from our boat moored at Anegada Island, an island which never exceeds 28 feet above sea level.

The sailing was spectacular, weather cooperative, water inviting. But, the real surprises were the people we encountered. Here are a few of the highlights:

  1. Katie. We met Katie early in our week. We had picked up a mooring ball at the Cooper Island Beach Resort, a small restaurant/hotel on a teeny private island. We hopped in our dinghy (a small rubber raft that you have to drag behind your sailboat all week if you plan to get off your boat) and putt-putted to the dinghy dock. We tied up, scooted through the sand and found ourselves seated at a lovely little open-air eatery. Katie was our waitress and while this sounds incredibly corny, she truly was a beam of sunshine. Katie is Welsh, thrilled to be working on a remote island and beside herself with the culinary offerings from which we would choose. Mahi Mahi? “Oooh, my second favorite thing ever!” The tuna? “Yes, that’s even better!” “The carrot soup is delectable! It’s so simple! You’ll love it!” She might be the most optimistic person ever and the four of us were clearly smitten. We ate our way through the menu, oohing and ahhing through it all—I think, in part, to please Katie. Even though a service charge was included (the food, like everything in the BVI, is expensive), we all agreed that Katie deserved more. We talked about Katie all week long. How would she like her job a month from now? How long will she last on the island? Will she stay with her boyfriend?   Will people be nice to her? While this is far-fetched, you have to believe me when I say we almost returned to Cooper Island on the sail back to Tortola just to check on Katie. We were invested.
  2. Barry. We came across Barry about 30 seconds after running aground at Anegada Island. It wasn’t our fault. Some dorkhead decided that the bay could take another round of mooring balls. Trouble was there was only about 5 feet of water there. Our boat required at least 6. We just barely got stuck and quick as a wink, Barry pushed with his dinghy and helped us get free and find deeper water. Then he charged us for the mooring—and handed us a menu from his beachfront restaurant. Opportunist? Or just a really nice and helpful islander? We discussed this at length. But the bottom line was Barry was so happy, it was impossible not to go along. He was thrilled to be living on a remote island. And he really wanted us to eat at his restaurant. Of course we did. We sat outside, in plastic chairs on the beach, which sunk a few inches into the sand every time we squiggled. We watched the sun set, the moon rise (it was a full moon and spectacular), we listened to music (apparently every island in the BVI has the perfect music list for 50-60 year olds. Wherever we went, it was Aretha, Beatles, and Ronstadt.) Barry was in no hurry and neither were we, but we were also hungry. We eventually got our food. We listened to him sing (not all that well). We watched him dance (better). This guy was just plain content with his lot in life. And he was determined to share his contentment with us.
  3. Thomas. Thomas was one of the last people we met on our trip. He was part of the family that was trying to make a go of a small hotel on St. Thomas where we stayed the night before heading back to South Carolina. Thomas fixed our clogged sink, explained why the chef had decided not to come to work that day, brought us a corkscrew, walked with us through the winding streets to explain how to get to a restaurant. He was confident, had ideas, and was clearly working hard to improve the hotel. Turns out he had spent most of his life stateside and had graduated from Georgia Tech with a computer degree. His dad died so he needed to come home to help with the family hotel. And he did. Clearly this was not an easy life for Thomas, but he didn’t show an inch of resentment.

When you go on a weeklong sailing trip, you have to be over-prepared—but ready to throw out your plans and go with Plan B. Or C. Or D. Sailing is fun, but it’s not easy. It takes muscle to raise the sails on a 45-foot boat. (I never thought I would admit this, but I actually quite enjoyed the electric winch for the mainsail that came with this model!) It takes balance to hang over the side, trying to retrieve a mooring ball or letting out anchor rode. You have to be willing to do math and know the difference between longitude and latitude. It’s helpful if you can tie a few appropriate knots. (After sailing for over a decade, I’m still barely squeaking by with my bowline knot.) And you have to be willing to obey the captain (in this case aka my husband). Always. Not always intuitive for this independent woman.

A sailing adventure like we took is a break from the world. It’s difficult to remember what day it is, let alone what time of the day it is.   Since I’m on sabbatical and already fairly rested up from administrative mayhem (after all, I’ve been away for almost a year now!), I began the week raring to go. Maybe that’s why I was more observant of the people we encountered on this trip. Or maybe I was ready to think about my life in relation to theirs. Or maybe I was just more interested in others for a change because I’ve gotten my head out of the administrative sand long enough to look around and see the delights around me. Who knows? But one thing I do know is that I loved my week in the BVI. We got in some terrific sailing, I got to spend a solid week with my husband (all my other sabbatical trips have been without him). And, I crossed paths with some incredible people who call the British Virgin Islands home. Just ordinary, joyful, calm, self-assured people. Plenty to think about as the new academic year looms around the corner. Jibe, ho!


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Ancient Ruins, Mile-High Pie, and South Rim Explorations. Oh My!

As I head toward the final stretch of My Year Away, I find myself looking forward to the new academic year and at the same time desperately trying to fit in just one more adventure before my care-free life comes to a screeching halt.

Thus, when I found myself with the opportunity to visit Greece, Turkey and the Grand Canyon all within a few days of each other, it seemed the only logical thing to do.

First up: A pilgrimage of sorts following in the steps of St. Paul’s second missionary journey. Due to a cancellation at the last minute, my friend Kathy invited me to tag along with 35 of her church friends. Given that I have always considered myself adverse to organized tours, the thought of 10 hours on a plane left me squirmy, and I typically get motion sick on buses (of which the majority of this tour would take place), I was a little surprised that I agreed to go.

I did, indeed, get motion sick. The hairpin turns creeping up the mountains to reach the Meteora region where a handful of monasteries were nestled atop precarious mountainous cliffs was worth the bellyaching drive.

Can you see the monastery way up high?

Can you see the monastery way up high?

But what really got to me were the ruins. Particularly Ephesus. Amidst the demise, it was easy to imagine the hustle-bustle of the ancient seaside (now about six miles inland) city. It was amazing to learn about the sophisticated building practices (running water and air-conditioning!). And it was sobering to think of St. Paul facing hostile crowds in the marketplace.

Here's the library at Ephesus.

Here’s the library at Ephesus.

This trip was not what I would call relaxing. We were in a different hotel just about every night. We had at least two major stops each day (with separate tour guides at each site); you had to pay attention. But if you want to see a lot and learn a lot, well, a guided tour is the way to go. I surprised myself with how much I enjoyed the experience.

It's hard to capture how big Ephesus is.

It’s hard to capture how big Ephesus is.

Next: just a brief respite at home: And I’m talking brief here. I barely had time to do my laundry and repack in order to head to Phoenix for an accrediting council meeting and then on to the Grand Canyon. Considering my I’m-not-really-connecting-with-the-academic-world-right-now mindset of my sabbatical, I was flabbergasted by how much I enjoyed the council meeting. (I’m an elected member of the council, which oversees the accrediting process of our 119 accredited journalism and mass communications programs.) Maybe it’s a sign that I’m getting ready to re-enter Academia Land. After a day and a half of meetings and record temperatures in Phoenix (101 degrees to be exact), it was time to drive four hours north to the Grand Canyon.

But first: a stop at a pie shop: Sure, some people wouldn’t stop. But, when it comes to pie, I’m not “some people.” Anyone who knows me knows I’m rather obsessive about pies. And, more particularly, I’m quite snobbish about pies. I’ve been making pies for nearly 40 years (and eating them for far longer!) and I continue to marvel at how few people can make a decent pie. So when I learned there was a “best pie in the universe” hole in the wall off the highway heading toward the Grand Canyon, the only question for me was, “Which pie will I choose?” I discussed this predicament with my waitress and there was no simple answer, but I ultimately decided on the lemon merengue. It was good. The lemon filling nicely tart.

The pie was good.  But it wasn't up to the Pie Poobah's standards!

The pie was good. But it wasn’t up to the Pie Poobah’s standards!

The merengue was piled high. But the crust was average. Simply put, a pie is not life changing without a flaky piecrust. Of all the pie eating and pie making I have done, in my humble (okay, not so humble) opinion, only Grace Alworth (my daughter), Marcie Hinton (the friend with whom I am able to cook), and Emily Wert (a master pie baker and gingerbread house maker) can make a mouth-watering pie.

I’ve spent a lot of hours trying to figure out why so few people can make a memorable pie—and also why so few people know what a truly lovely pie tastes like. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. After all, most people have not had fresh-from-the boat shrimp either. Or handpicked strawberries. (I’ve had both just this week.) I just plain feel sorry for the human race.

And, last: on to the Grand Canyon. I contemplated the sorry state of our gastronomical world all the rest of the way to the Grand Canyon.   Finally, I got to the park, found my room at the Yavapai Lodge (easier said than done) and hit the sack, wanting to be ready for my big day hiking the South Rim.

Here’s what you need to know about my day hiking the Grand Canyon. I am scared of heights. And I get kind of lonely when I spend a lot of time by myself.   I’m not sure that the day changed either of those things for me, but I do know that something fairly profound happened to me that day.

I started the morning by taking the shuttle to the Bright Angel Trailhead stop. This is about in the middle of the South Rim Trails. I figured I’d walk west in the morning, hop the shuttle back, break for lunch, return to the middle and hike east in the afternoon.

The first big surprise to me was finding the canyon. It didn’t seem appropriate to ask for directions. I mean, seriously, I was in the Grand Canyon National Park. The canyon had to be somewhere close by! I still couldn’t see it when I got off the shuttle. But I dutifully walked up what looked like a legitimate trail and, WHOA, there it was. Now, I’ve seen a lot of incredible sites this year. After all, I had just returned from Greece for cryin’ out loud. But this was different. First, it’s humongous. But, it’s also beautiful. Stark. Peaceful. And ever changing. I’m not kidding. It seemed like every time I stopped on the trail to have a look, the view had dramatically changed. I had to force myself not to take pictures every 30 seconds. More than once, I found myself let out a little gasp at the wonder of it all.

The South Rim trail itself was also a sight to behold. I started out on a nicely paved path, thinking about what a lovely trek this would be. I had considered hiking down into the canyon until I read about the provisions I was supposed to have. Other than one bottle of water, I was empty handed. I also figured if I fell, it might be a long time before anyone found me. (Someone had fallen and died the day before so I wasn’t being a total wimp.) I opted for the safe route. But a few miles in, even the safe route was a bit of a challenge. First off, the nice paved path ends and is replaced with an uneven, rocky and crazy-close-to-the-edge trail. There was more than one time when I couldn’t look down for fear of falling. But with each mile, I felt more peaceful, more alive, more connected, and more in awe. I occasionally passed fellow hikers, but for the most part, I was alone. I rather enjoyed myself. But, several hours in, I had to start telling people about what I was seeing. I started posting pictures to Facebook about every 15 minutes. I started calling my husband, trying to describe what I was seeing. Then I started sending him pictures with messages like “This is where I am right now!” Then I called him to make sure he got the text.Grand Canyon

I knew millions of people visit the Grand Canyon every year. But until I was there, I didn’t really understand why.

I’ve had a few days to contemplate my recent crazy travelling schedule, trying to figure out how it has helped me reflect on administration and how it has helped renew my tired administrative spirit, and here’s what I’ve concluded.

This whole trip freed me to be who I am right now, not who I was. I met all sorts of people during my travels. When they asked me what I do, I usually said, “I’m a professor.” Sometimes they would want to know more and then I would tell them about my research or what I’m teaching in the fall. I hardly ever told them about my administrative past. It felt good. And it felt right.

I’m finally over jet lag. (Travelling seven hours ahead and then a few days of “normal time” and then travelling three hours behind can do something to a body!) I’m back at my desk now, contemplating Third Person Effect and crunching statistics. But I find that I still scroll through the pictures stored on my IPhone. They’re all there. The Acropolis. The Corinth Canal. The Sanctuary of Apollo. And the Grand Canyon. And pie.

Life is good.


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Here’s What I Learned During My Second Sabbatical Cruise.

I agree that two cruises within four months is kind of extravagant—and not the typical sabbatical outing. But this trip to the Panama Canal was altogether different—and beneficial in a completely different way to my sabbatical than my first cruise for two reasons:

  1. I went with my sister. While this might not seem like a big deal, for me, it was. I haven’t spent any significant time with my sister since we were both in high school. Let’s just say that that was a long, long time ago.   Thanks to my dad who helped finance this trip, we spent 12 days together—and we even got along the whole time.

    My sister and me when we were little.

    My sister and me when we were little.

  2. I have wanted to see the Panama Canal for about forever and, really, the only way to do that, is by boat.

So how was it? In a word, epic.

We travelled on Holland America’s Zuiderdam, either a “good old boat,” or a “needs to be in dry-dock boat,” depending on your perspective. I found I kind of liked her creaks and moans. I could relate!

To the first point: my sister.

Those who know me well know that I am actually a bit of an introvert—or as I like to remind people, I’m an introvert stuck in an extrovert’s body. My sister is both a chaplain’s wife and a social worker. She helps people. So, of course, she talks to them. I, however, am a professor. On sabbatical, no less. So I’m alone a good bit.   Give me a comfy chair and a book and I’m good to go.   On this cruise, however, I decided that it was time to strike out and play the extrovert. I’m glad I did because in the process, my sister and I had dinner with at least 50 different—and mostly interesting—people. Our dinners typically lasted two hours in which we would savor our lovely four-course meals.

Time for the first course.

Time for the first course.

My sister and I were quite adept at bringing people out of their shells. Between her social work skills and my curiosity, we were both able to work the crowd fairly well. Most of the people we met were retired—and thrilled to have more free time, even though they all seemed to have enjoyed their careers. Most were eager to chat. We met a former editor of the Boston Globe; a retired soprano with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra Chorus; a doctor who had climbed Kilimanjaro; another doctor who weekly travelled up to North Dakota from Minnesota to practice medicine in an area that desperately needed doctors.   We met couples who had been married over 50 years. We met people who were traveling alone. We even met another set of sisters. In the process, my sister and I also learned quite a bit about each other.

Now to the second point: The Panama Canal.

To get to the canal, you have to travel a long, long way. Lots of days at sea. And the seas were something during this trip. We had near gale force winds more than one day hitting F7 on the Beaufort scale. (Even if you don’t know what that is, it sounds terrifying, doesn’t it?)

It was a lot of rocking and rolling on our ship.

It was a lot of rocking and rolling on our ship.

One morning during our daily 7a.m. “stretch and exercise” class, we had to do all the moves sitting down because it was too difficult with the movement of the ship. So it felt like I was on a voyage, which, somehow seemed appropriate for my sabbatical.

Once we got to the canal, we entered the first set of locks (Gatun Locks) early in the morning. Each section is about 1,000 feet long. Interesting because it is also the length of the ship. It was a tight fit and quite exciting to go up 87 feet (over the three locks that make up Gatun Locks). Once we got into Gatun Lake, the real fun began. Here’s what I did: got into a lifeboat (really!), and traversed the high winds to the shore; got into a not-great bus for a 90-minute trip across not-great roads listening to a not-great guide spew political opinions (of which I disagreed) about the canal. I can sum up his viewpoint by saying he was not a fan of Jimmy Carter. Then I got into a not-great ferry boat for a very hot ride through the rest of the canal, including the San Pedro and Mira Flores locks. Then another 90-minute ride back with the same (but even more annoying by this time) guide. I was glad to get back on the big ship and was sound asleep by 8.

But the point is this. I saw the Panama Canal. Just about every inch of it. It wasn’t necessarily the most fun way to spend the day, but it was one of the most interesting days I’ve had in a long, long time.

On the canal heading toward the Bridge of the Americas.

On the canal heading toward the Bridge of the Americas.

The next morning after the ship docked in Limon, Costa Rica, I was refreshed enough to head out with my sister to the rain forest to zip line. Did I ever think I would zip line anywhere (let alone the rain forest of Costa Rica and let alone with my sister???)? Uh. No. No. No. No.

I had hoped that my sabbatical would provide a combination recovery period from a decade of administrative work and a platform for (re)launching my scholarly life. It has done that. And more. I’m looking forward to returning to campus. But, not quite yet. I still have a lot of rest, recovery and research to do!