The day was chilly and grey and it seemed like a good time to try out the woodstove on my boat.
Those of you who know me in real life are probably worried that I set myself on fire.
This is a valid concern. But before I started the adventure I made sure that the fire extinguisher was close to hand and the hatch was unlatched in case I needed an escape route.
I was a Bluebird and went to Campfire Girl sleepaway summer camp for years. During the rest of the year, whenever I was not busy with the whole cancer thing (and often when I was fairly ill), my family went camping.
We went to the forests, the rivers, the coast. We even planned to camp at the farm when the family convened for my uncles funeral, though on the way a drunk driver hit the side of our vehicle. I was in the back of the truck but the tent and sleeping bags contracted around me, keeping me safely off the highway.
But unfortunately, throughout these adventures, I was not paying attention. I was reading a book. I do not know how to build or tend a fire.
Lucky me the previous owner left the stove in good condition with paper, kindling, and coal already prepared. In theory all I had to do was strike a match and it would all beautifully ignite and merrily twinkle as the cabin filled with heat.
But this is my life, and instead of fire I mostly got lots and lots of smoke. I rushed about opening windows, paced and pondered, trying to remember all of those camping skills I should have picked up. Finally I started to blow at the mess, because this once worked to start a VW with a locked engine. Which might seem inconsequential, but somehow was connected in my brain with managing flames.
The fire ignited and started to burn and the kindling lit the coals and for the next several hours I sat next to the stove reading about the evolution of curiosity cabinets and natural history museums.