|The HMS Boozy|
On average, we "sailed" with about 4 other boats, which meant that on any given night about eighty to a hundred 20-year-olds (and "Resurrection Jesus", yes that was me) stormed each tiny island much like Vikings used to storm random restaurants in the old Capital One commercials. So as you can imagine, it was probably fairly easy for a thief to wait for the Inebriation Armada to arrive to his island, then waltz on-board and start nicking laptops.
I had a foolproof plan to back everything up. You see, I had purchased a stack of 16GB memory sticks that I would store in a separate place from my laptop. Genius, when you think about it. But, unfortunately, this plan required me to actually spend quite a lot of time copying files which I sort of never got around to. The problem turned out to be that I was too busy getting assaulted on Russian dance floors by tall models that said things like "wodka," and getting lost in Polish alleyways with a 2-foot kielbasa in hand instead of a map.
So, on that fateful night in Korcula, I lost it all. And I mean that literally. You see, even if you have only traveled on weekend jaunts to Tahiti, you may have experienced that utter black despair which occurs when you realize you have lost all of your photos. You may have planned months for that Tahiti trip, and the memories may have been priceless, once-in-a-lifetime moments, and now they are gone except for a few already fading memories between your remaining brain cells.
|Crazy Nemo! be very afraid|
And they can never be re-created.
I spent the night going through all 72 stages of grief. I am ashamed to say in anger I broke some onboard items, in denial I pounded the sides of the boat at 3am until I woke everyone up, and in acceptance I sobbed like a little girl for about 20 minutes. It was too much to take. My whole life up to this point was simply a preparation for this trip, in my frame of mind. And now, everything I had ever worked for was gone forever. At least, that was the sort of dark place I found myself in at the time.
Time is truly a funny thing. It does heal even the deepest wounds. Well, perhaps healing is the wrong word. But, instead of fresh pain, I think its safe to say there is now a scar.
It took me about a week before I could even think to lift my camera. What was the point, if these memories too might be taken from me? Slowly, I found myself clicking the button out of instinct. It took until Turkey a few weeks later before I remembered the pleasure of capturing something wonderful in an image.
The task of re-creating the blog was even more daunting. I had lost weeks of original writing, fresh memories that now I could only vaguely recall. I could never re-create it quite the same. And on top of that, by the time I could bring myself to write again, I found myself 3 months behind, and busy with new input from the sensory overload of the Middle East.
So, you can perhaps begin to understand why, in January 2012, you are finally reading the events of July 2011.
I hope you like it! There are fantastic, aromatic, squishy, and best of all, extremely embarrassing things ahead to enjoy.... happy reading!