Sylvia's Journal

The team I helped to set on its leadership development course less than 2 months ago in Cote d’Ivoire is doing the second workshop in the series of 4 on its own. I am in frequent contact with the team and marvel at their enthusiasm. Despite being in a place with poor internet connections, they insisted I be part of the workshop.

After trying various ways to connect we finally settled on Skype and I found myself live in the workshop, presumably projected on a screen and with my voice amplified. It is weird to be in a workshop and yet not – they could see me but I was looking at my own video picture – remembering to look at the camera on top of my screen rather than the screen itself. I received the beloved West African clap (someone hollers ‘triplet’ which is followed by three small claps and one thunderous one with hands pushing the clap to the object of the clap) – twice even. I received them with a smile, knowing I was on camera. I am awed, amazed and honored by the way this community has boarded the leadership train.

I left work early to enjoy Lobster Cove on another beautiful summer day, before heading out into the steamy Sahel on Friday. Axel had not checked the lobster traps yet, which he had baited with the remains of the 40 pound striper. His 12 foot dory isn’t quite made for two adults and hauling in lobster pots– he usually does the lobstering on his own – but I decided to be his lobstering mate, more ballast than help. The ocean was choppy with big swells, which made for good exercise for Axel the rower. His months of exercise at the gym are paying off. It felt great to be out on the water and I counted my blessings – what a place to come home to.

Four of the five traps contained only undersize lobsters which we threw back to grow some more, replacing the two day old striper bait with freshly caught and still bloody herring. Wondering what we would have for dinner we hauled in the last trap which contained it: 3 lobsters, two of them a pound and a half. It is the time of the year when lobster start to molt, shedding their old hard shell and growing a new one that is soft for a while. For this they come in closer to shore.

One of the large lobsters still had a very hard shell, which required a hammer to open; the other large one had just molted and thus had a very soft shell. It splashed liquid all over me after it was cooked. We didn’t touch the third one yet; it is neither hard nor soft.

The perfect day was completed with a massage by our friend Abi who worked hard on my sore foot – the healing process of my ankle seems to have stopped for a while, even made a turn for worse. I have picked up my PT exercises again which seems to help a bit. I was told by the orthopede’s assistant that it is not unusual for such regressions, what with the other joints and muscles having to work harder with the main joint being fused. It may be the equivalent of a strike, a protest against the extra work.

We had caught many crabs in Axel’s new trap, with the tailfin of the 40 pound striper as bait. But the crabs are smart, especially the larger ones. One of them opened the hatch and all but the small ones escaped after having filled their bellies with decomposing striper meat, yum.

We returned the trap to the middle of the cove and caught another load. There is no lack of green crabs in our cove, which we already knew as the new generation of mussels have been eaten, leaving us with the same elderly mussels and thus diminishing returns. I suppose that eating the crabs is just another way of enjoying our mussels, a second hand way.

Steve and Tessa cleaned up the estate, we had one more meal, using up the leftovers from the party and then we parted. It was a wonderful celebratory weekend. Steve brought the crab trap up and I turned the inhabitants into crab bisque, an improvised soup that included all the vegetables in the refrigerator that needed to be put out of their suffering. It came out perfect and will feed us for a few days.

In the afternoon we went to the funeral service for Sita’s friend Shelby. It brought together the old high school group of friends, uncomfortable in their funeral attire and still grieving deeply about one more friend who was no longer there. It was a very Catholic service which to some was soothing and to me a source of distraction. The language was about joy and hope and reuniting with Christ; the imagery of sitting at the same table as God. It doesn’t work for me but I can see how these beliefs can be a comfort to others. Knowing Shelby I imagined her looking down and giggling about all the hooplala.

After the service there was the cemetery and then the Franco-American club where food and drink awaited us. Sita and Jim had driven out and parked Faro at his grannie; so we didn’t get to see him. His presence might have lightened up the mood but he was napping, saving the mood for later during the long ride back home.

Shelby was an artist and a very creative mind. Her portfolios were on display and her mom and I shook our heads, acknowledging how death is such a waste of talent.