Clocking Out

What is that alarm that goes off, the sense of uneasiness, or in my case, a feeling of "my job here is done" when you know it is time to leave a place and move on.  I've gone to every store, been to events at every venue, met all the neighbors, decorated and renovated the house, landscaped the yard, driven all the roadways and then a feeling of "I'm done" and I know it is time to pack up and go.  I've done this multiple times over my lifetime and the inner feeling is a very strong one that I must heed.  This time it is the strongest feeling yet.   I've discovered that I can't get away from my crazy neighbors next door.  I hate sitting for hours on the freeway just to go a few miles.  Can't stand the bureaucracy at the job.  I love this house I have made a lovely hilltop retreat.  I love the view of the canyon at sunset when twinkling lights begin to appear on the other hillside.  I still remember vividly the breeze carrying the scent of sagebrush in the french doors ---  uh, oh right,  I'm allergic to sage!  Time to move.

Can You Hear Me Now?

Safely aboard the small plane that will take us to Grand Turk on the next leg of our journey to a new home.  All the crates are stacked in the cabin cargo hold which is just behind the last seats and separated from the passenger cabin with just a thin partition (I can peek around the edges and see everyone through the wire in their cages).  Off we go!!  But, wait, I forgot that my oldest dog, Renfield, doesn't like to be separated from his mommy - at all - for any reason.  So, we taxi to the runway, the crew hands out donuts to the 10 or so passengers and we take off.  Then, a horrible wailing sound comes up from the rear of the plane.  A voice that says "where am I and where is my mommy?".  I recognize it immediately as my boy Ren, but the rest of the passengers are looking around, wondering if the engines are failing or the wings are coming off - WTF?  Eventually, even with the din of engine noise and large professional headphones, the pilot and copilot start looking around the cockpit, then back into the cabin, wondering just the same thing.  I'm shrinking down into my seat trying to look calm and smiley.  I gesture with my thumb to the pilots that the noise is coming from the crates in back and give a shrug.  Nothing to be done now that we are aloft.  So for the next 3 hours, everyone is treated to the serenade of the Chihuahua, nonstop, increasingly louder and more pathetic, until we finally touch down in the Turks and Caicos.  I apologize to everyone on board.  We deplane.

You Are Not Alone

Although I packed up and put my house up for sale on my own, getting multiple pets moved across the country to a port of entry and then moved across the Atlantic to the Bahamas is not something that can easily be done alone.  Thus, I hired at great expense a company that prepared all the necessary paperwork for the dogs, cats and Big Blue Bird, then came and picked me (and a million crates and suitcases) up in a van, took me and my companions to LAX and worked with the airline personnel sorting out the paperwork (there is always a screwup at the last minute where one piece of paper threatens to derail the whole trip and these shipping experts know how to handle a $20 bill).  The lady that helped me had done this before, so I just sat in the van at the terminal while she worked her magic and we eventually watched all the crates disappear into the black hole of the cargo area.  Hoping for the best for my little friends, I boarded the aircraft and sat back to enjoy the flight to Miami.

Flying with the Big Blue Bird

Who knew that Inky loves to fly?  Not flapping her wings flying, but actually boarding an airplane and taking off for bluer skies.  I thought it would be traumatic for her, but it turns out she loves airplanes and flying (even in a crate in the cargo hold).  When we made our way from LAX to MIA and picked up the animals from cargo, Inky had a big smile on her face and a very loud and enthusiastic "HI!!" upon seeing us.
Not so much the dogs as we are about to find out.

Drunk Again

The day before we are scheduled to leave for the airport to begin our journey to the Bahamas, I decide to put some sliced apples into Inky's food dish for her to pick at.  Inky is a beautiful blue Hyacinth Macaw.  Hyacinths are on the Cites I list of endangered animals which means I have to get all kinds of Federal permission to take her out of the country and not harm her in any way.  So, anyways, the apples sit in her dish all day and on into the night.  The next morning I notice Inky isn't feeling well.  Oh, great, I'll have to postpone the trip because of a sick bird.  Inky has a horrible expression on her face and without warning, she starts to vomit.  Then, she begins to moan in a somewhat familiar way.  I happen to be standing over her food dish when I smell the fermenting apples and figure out that by eating them after their "use by" date, she has gotten stinking drunk and has a colossal hangover.  Drunk or not, we press on.

Pack Up and Go

One Hyacinth Macaw, two cats, 4 dogs, one car, two golf carts,  furniture, possessions and clothes from a lifetime of collecting.  I live in Orange County, California.  How do I get all these things packed and moved across the country to the Port of Entry in Miami and then shipped off to the Bahamas?  The first part involves many, many garage sales, yard sales, antique auctions, adverts in the newspaper (all this before Ebay).  Here's how it goes.  Once its decided what will go and what will stay, the movers come and pack everything into a moving van (or two).  Then they go off to the train yard where everything is unloaded out of the vans and repacked into a train car and put on the rails to the East Coast somewhere.  Then, everything is offloaded again, reloaded on to another train car going South to Miami where it is then unloaded again, reloaded onto a shipping container and put on the waiting list for a boat going my way.  My head is exploding.

Giving Up on California

I finally got sick of living in Orange County what with all the drive-by shootings and fires, floods and earthquakes.  My actual home I loved.  Perched on the side of Ortega Highway overlooking the hills in the distance viewed from open french doors.  But, it took me at least a half an hour to get from my house (one block from the freeway) to downtown San Juan Capistrano.  Waiting for the light to cross over the freeway was just hell.

So, OK, my father had just died and now I was an orphan with no ties to speak of.  A little inheritance in the bank and a big desire to leave crowds behind.  I had always promised myself I would move to either Tahiti or the Bahamas if I got the opportunity and - well - here it was.  I crossed Tahiti off my list because my animals would have to go into quarantine.  They could slide right into the Bahamas with just a health certificate, so I made a recon trip to decide which island to settle on and find a house to call my new home.