Prologue

I remember the first time I saw the ocean.

Actually, I smelled it before I saw it. I was seven years old, and that summer my entire family, all six of us, had noisily piled into the old Ford station wagon, pulling a pop-up camper behind us, for a two-week camping trip from Indiana to Virginia Beach to points along the East Coast. The plan was, if the four of us kids didn't kill each other or drive our parents nuts with our incessant bickering along the way, to then drive all the way up the coast to Maine, stopping along the way to camp whenever we felt like it. As the old wagon rattled and coughed and belched dark smoke behind us (Al Gore would have had a seizure at the sight of this gas-guzzling thrill ride, which probably got about 6 miles per gallon), we got closer to the shore. The breeze was blowing off the ocean, and I remember the gulls…the gulls were frolicking, flocking, teasing…it wouldn't be far now. And the magical scent of the sea grew more pungent as we got closer. The salty, moist air was as wonderful as any I'd ever smelled or felt before.

We drove over a hill, past a billboard that said, "Virginia is for Lovers." Whatever. I was seven. I didn't care much about that. Where's the ocean? Good thing I was never one of those "are we there yet" kids. I would have slapped me.

Then we rambled through the town of Virginia Beach…and there it was! Finally! A glimmer of blue. A sparkle here and there. Then….a beautiful white-sand beach. And boats on a big expanse of blue water! Kind of like Lake Michigan, I thought, because that had been the largest body of water I'd experienced up until then.

We parked the car, and walked out to the pier. I was taking it all in, but it hadn't really hit me yet…

I remember holding my father's hand as we walked toward the end of the pier. I looked up, and out at the horizon. And I suddenly got very dizzy. This same feeling would happen again, some 13 years later, when I first tried to fly a small plane over a field in Nebraska, looking at the artificial horizon on the control panel, then out to the REAL horizon. What terrified me in both instances was the size of the damned thing. The horizon seemed within reach, yet I'd paid just enough attention in school to know that was a destination I'd never get to, no matter how far I traveled. The enormity of what I was seeing before me, and how small and insignificant I felt comparatively just completely overwhelmed me.

So, I threw up over the edge of the pier. (My M.O. up until I was about 8 or so was to throw up at those key times in my life that I was over-stimulated, either positively or negatively. Christmas at my house, growing up, will always be associated with a bucket and large quantities of red-and-green patterned Scott Towels.) 13 years later, by the way, I also threw up in the plane.

But back to the seven-year-old Beth at the ocean. All it took to snap me out of this terrible feeling was to dive in and swim. And that's exactly what I did. My brother and I were bodysurfing by day's end. I not only conquered my fear, but began to "own" the sea, as much as any one of us can. I came to love the feel of the water on my skin, its salty buoyancy, the sunlight on my face and the sand between my toes to the point that my parents had a hell of a time getting me OUT of the water and away from the beach each day, all the way up the coast to Bar Harbour, Maine. I also conquered my fear of heights on that same vacation while at a granite quarry in Vermont (with apologies to this day to anyone who happened to be working down below the observation deck while I faced my initial queasiness). I'm still not too crazy about small planes. But I can do them, if I have to.

My point now, is this. It's years later, and I'm now standing before what seems like another enormous life-changing element of some sort. An abyss, if you will, and I'm getting a bit queasy at the sight of it. It's another "great unknown," in the form of the end of my marriage, and the beginning of a whole new life. This abyss has been there for some time; I have been aware of it, but just couldn't look up and completely face the fact that in order to grow, I needed to just dive into the middle of it, and trust that just like the seven-year-old Beth, the modern-day one would emerge, victoriously, swimming strongly towards a much better future for all concerned.

By all accounts, I already had, and still have, a wonderful life. I just happened to have a marriage that was more frightening to me than this abyss. He wasn't a bad man, far from it. But he never really "got me." That's the short version of the story.

I knew that living the rest of my life with him would be like living in some kind of demented suburban prison. And that would be a waste of not only my life, but his, too. Maybe in a sense I was holding him prisoner, as well, by not letting go. My biggest sin was the wasting of all that time. Life is so precious, and I let it go by. There's something to fear, right there.

So I finally got up the guts to do it. I spent a couple of years scraping up the money to buy him out of his half of the assets. Sad business, this dissolution of marriage. He went on with the process of finding another place to live. We divided up 15 years worth of life and its associated artifacts. Many tears were shed by both of us, but we parted friends, and actually I don't feel too much differently about him than I did when we were together.

I continued on this journey of self-discovery, and began to emerge, in my own time, and to start the process of opening myself up to new people, and, for the first time in more than 15 years, new men. Again, the frightened seven-year-old Beth would, occasionally, nag me with her little fearful voice. And from time to time, I would feel less than whole within myself, as if I had some kind of disease.

Is "singledom" a disease? How the hell do I know? It seems that in the 21st century, every twitch, sneeze, or bump is now a disease, or at least a "syndrome." So maybe I am carrying around with me an affliction. It certainly does feel at times that I have some condition that others are afraid of contracting. At other times, friends and acquaintances seem to have this highly idealized view of my life as being incredibly glamorous and very comfortable. I vacillate between being quite comfortable and, well, feeling a bit queasy. (There's that word again…) The glamorous part is there from time to time, but initially, when it occurred, it felt as if it was someone else's life.

That said, I'm writing this, sitting in my office wearing a tank top and a bikini bottom while eating Jif Extra Crunchy peanut butter with a spoon straight out of the jar. What a CATCH I am! (Hey...at least I'm using a spoon...if I hadn't just had a manicure, I might well have been using my index finger.) But it's December, the Christmas tree is up, and all things considered, I am feeling pretty damned festive.

"It must be SO exciting to be single, in your position, and living in Las Vegas!" OK, with my job(s), it really is, sometimes. I get to hobnob with some pretty interesting people, anyway, which is really fun. Other times, "fun" isn't the word I'd use to describe my life. Comfortable? Yeah, it's nice to be able to eat peanut butter right out of the jar. Especially when you don't want to go to the grocery. No-one will starve. It's nice to go a day every once in a while without showering or putting on makeup. To go to the gym or the pool and not feel as if I'm neglecting someone else in my effort to take care of myself. To emit bodily noises when no-one's around can still make me giggle. On some levels, I'm still seven-year- old Beth.

It's a really exciting new phase in my life, and am going to document it as much as I possibly can. It really has been interesting, to me, anyway, so far. Even going out on dates has been an adventure-and I can't really even call it "dating" in the conventional sense. So far, it's been "meet the guy somewhere safe, and see what happens" or "meet the guy with a group of friends, and see if we click," situations of that nature. I'm sure that will change, somewhere along the line. It's only been a few months.

And here's one of many of the "little" things I'm having to face for the first time. In anticipation of what inevitably lies ahead for me as a single woman, I'm trying to get up the courage to buy condoms. Better be prepared, right? Last time I was out in the dating world, so many years ago, condoms weren't really an issue. And my two relationships these past twenty years have been monogamous and long-term. So I glance at the brightly-colored boxes in the drug store, and am overwhelmed at the incredible variety available… "Extra-thin." "Ribbed for HER pleasure." (How thoughtful! But EMBARASSING! And do they make "ribbed for HIS pleasure" condoms? My mind is racing…I need…to…get…out…of…here…can't…breathe…) I can't make a decision on this. Hell, I can't even bring myself to ask the pharmacist. I'm sure the conversation would go something like this:

Me: "Hi, I'm buying condoms for the first time, and I'd really like your input on what kind I should get."

Pharmacist: (thinking to himself: "Must be an ex-nun, or just got out of jail….") Then-speaking loudly enough so the customers on line behind me can hear: "Well, it really depends on your particular needs…will you be using them for birth control or specifically for the avoidance of sexually-transmitted diseases….."

Me: (nervous laughter…) "I'm just kidding. Can you tell me what aisle the Bibles are in?"

So I think I will end up sending my friend Ned* (*not his real name) to get them for me. Ned is a great-looking guy, straight, but he hasn't had sex in such a long time that he has a box of condoms in his bedside drawer from 1987. Really. I'm not making this up. He even opened one up while we were on the phone the other night. It was, basically, dust. Oh my God. That could be me in ten years. And before you say, "If he's that good-looking, and he's straight, why don't you go out with Ned?" Let me just tell you-I love Ned, but it would be like sleeping with my brother.

I'll tackle that problem a little later. I don't need to rush out 'n find me a man, I think I need to date myself for a while. And I think I can safely have sex with myself without condoms. Whew.

Anyway, I made the decision to lose the fear and end a marriage. I am confident it was the right decision. And it's only been a little more than a year since that decision was made. So I need to lighten up on myself.

Meanwhile, you'll find me in the ocean, or even in my abyss, which is of course beautifully decorated now, enjoying myself immensely in a place that once frightened me beyond words…but safe in the knowledge that the fear will last just for a little while, and only as long as I allow it to.

"All swim…"