Like so many migratory creatures before us, we’ve fled the north and headed south. There are many benefits to this shift, of course, but the one I am appreciating most today is the extended daylight—a welcome contrast to home, especially on this, the shortest day of the year.

A sweet St. John solstice sunrise...

For better or worse, I’m usually in Minnesota for the Winter Solstice. The sun rises just shy of 8. It’s down by 4:30. On a cloudy day, the world can seem so dark that the streetlights never turn off. It’s enough to make a large percentage of the population very, very SAD.

Yet lots of people celebrate this Pagan holiday at home. So my mind turns to the commemoration that feels out of place on a tropical island, and I send a toasty-warm toast to my frigid friends Up North, along with this…

Top 11 Reasons I Love the Winter Solstice

1. Saunas make perfect sense—followed by a jump in the snow.
2. The Akavit and beer stay cold outside.
3. You can walk on (frozen) water.
4. For six months, the days keep getting longer.
5. For 12 months, they’ll be longer than this one.
6. Green grass that turned brown is now covered in white.
7. Full-bodied red wines are fully in season.
8. No nasty sunburn or skin cancer risk.
9. Fire (a la candles and fireplaces) bring light into darkness.
10. You can sleep in and still see the sunrise.
11. Finally time to give up on last year’s New Year’s Resolutions.

One of the Missions of this Sabbatical is to try home schooling. All parents dabble in it, but now’s the time to put up or shut up. Perform. Leave no child behind. Show proof of one my oft-stated boasts: A kid will learn much more on a trip like this than in the classroom.

Although there are endless educational possibilities, my to-do list distills down to 5 simple activities: Math; Reading; Writing; Photography; Music.

For a change, the Idea here is to present the tools, then get out of the way. So far, so good. School is on holiday break at home, but we’re definitely logging daily learning here.

• Math…We’ll finish two month’s worth, then shop around next year’s worksheets.
• Reading…He’s sucked up two vampire books. Now on to local lore.
• Writing…His blog is up and running before mine: http://breakawaykid.wordpress.com/
• Photography…While not a master of his camera, things are starting to click.
• Music…The Martin mini-guitar arrives soon; he’ll finish his string bass book first, then improvise. (The bottom four strings are the same tuning, but you knew that.)

Oh sure, he’d rather be e-chatting (OMG!) or fondling his iTouch. We need the digi-sitters and downtime, so, fine already, but not more than, say, 16 hours a day.

One major challenge: The sports thing. He is, of course, a Star Athlete. (Aren’t all kids these days, but—really!—mine is!) Thus the 6A Traveling Team will play five tournaments without him. Yet we schlepped a pump and basketball which we diligently inflate and deflate every time we move along.

So what’s foul? Coral Bay courts. Sorry, but they’re pathetic. Blame vandalism. Blame the shrinking youth population. Blame cutbacks or plain old neglect. But when the rims are bent, the backboards are rotten, the hoops are holey, and the blacktop is cracked and muddy, it’s hard to get in the game. There is no game.

Can't do P.E. here!

(Last night at the local choir’s concert, I saw an AMAZING 17-year-old trumpet player. Somebody is mentoring him to excellence! What will happen to the native young basketball phenoms if there’s nowhere to play?)

For our P.E. class, one Mission is improving his shooting percentage and taking thousands of free throws. Now it’s Mission Impossible. That’s all I wanted: To shoot around and shoot some more. No coaches yelling. No criticism. No pressure. Just old-school shootin’ around til the confidence swishes.

Maybe on the next island? But I doubt it. When scratching beneath the surface, one quickly finds scores of sorry signs of poverty and scarcity in the Caribbean.

Oh well, we still have baseball. I even cut a string the exact distance of mound to plate—to work on pitching. That can happen any place there’s flat space, though that’s also rather rare in these parts. Problem is, he throws so hard now it bruises up my hand. And that knuckleball? When it drops and bounces into the crotch…ouch!

But there’s more to life than sports. That’s why we’re here. You can sweat in smelly gyms every winter. But you can learn about tropical flora, fauna, and culture only now and then.

Retiring Now and Then does NOT mean doing nothing. We’ll see what AllBoy can learn about self-motivation and self-education. And if his parents are up to the test.

Next experiment: Educating CurlyGirl.

PS Being miles away and taking all this on brings on deep gratitude to the many good people back home who helped make Home Schooling happen: Mrs. S, Mrs. B, Mrs. F—and also the passionate coaches through the years, all winners: You know who you are!

As anyone who travels knows, you can meet the most interesting people when you BreakAway from your daily grind. Today’s proof arrived in the form of Bob & Jen Westerfield.  

While beaching at scenic Trunk Bay, this handsome couple strolled by with grins on their faces and pink drinks in their hands. They paused to admire AllBoy and CurlyGirl body-surfing (it’s common that the kids break the ice) and we began to chat. Soon the sun was moving across the sky. And I learned all about “The Dart Vacation.” Wow.

Bob & Jen, vagabonds & entrepreneurs.

The concept is simple: Every year on January 1, they throw a dart at a US map—and that random landing becomes a vacation target. No exceptions. No rejections. They are five-for-five in five years. So far, this courageous twist of destiny has taken them to…

Marsh Islands, California
Happy, Texas
Zuul, New Mexico
Two Buttes, Colorado (population 45)
Superior, Nebraska

Next year, they will circle their wagons at Circle, Montana. (What goes around comes around?) And like this year’s vacation in Nebraska, the next outing will include their twin sons, now age 1.

They MUST spend some quality time in the place the dart landed. No matter what. That’s not always easy: In the case of Marsh Island, California—which is actually a game reserve with no humans—they had to court a local car dealer and attorney to take them out in a boat.

The price for this slice of bliss and chance? One case of beer.

Once en route or in the area, they do allow themselves to meander, get lost, and see the sights that speak to them. Those broadminded guidelines have taken them to the likes of New Orleans and Wrigley Field. And though their list may not make Conde Nast’s Top Ten lists, they describe each place as fun, appealing, and beautiful.

No wonder they make friends wherever they go, and have even made the front page of a local newspaper—along with their twins and rented Winnebago.

You can’t make this stuff up.

Nor can you concoct the many connections we found within less time than it takes a pelican to find a decent supper.

They vacation at Lake Superior too (on the other side). They also have kinfolk in Brookings, South Dakota (OMG!). And they are also self-employed and hacking their own rules.  In their case, hard work is balanced by frequent and extreme outings of all kinds.  

Sabbatical? Radical? NOT! This spirited couple wins the award for Most Radical Escape Artists.

Face it: 12-hour travel days do not a great BreakAway make. But we survived it, as did the luggage and children. Air travel becomes increasingly bumpy, so to speak, but that’s survivable too. (So far.) It’s all about managing expectations.

Finally. We made it. The journey has begun.

That said, a Sabbatical-taker or schemer might be well advised to repeat those five words often. I’m just happy to be HERE, on the isle of St. John (and yes, I Love St. John), in tranquil Coral Bay—overlooking gumdrop mountains and islands, feeling cool breezes and soaking up the sun. Did I mention the popcorn clouds and bobbing sailboats?

I’ve got a feeling (“a feeling deep inside”) we’re not in Minnesota any more. But like life in Minnesota, an escape like this still features pesky “to do” lists…

• Work. There’s always work to do, of all kinds: Job work; Life’s work; house work; parenting work; home-school work. Most of that is more challenging here, and can seem out of place.
• Mission. Modern BreakAway theory holds that a hiatus holds some responsibility to self: Why ARE you here? In my case, the Mission list is long. This site tops it.
• R&R. After unpacking, meal plans, grocery runs, and internet grapplings, each day should hold some “down” time. Wa-a-a-a-y down. Read. Do music. Talk. Listen. Chill (but not in a Feeling Minnesota way.)
• Learn. Most days in most places have much to teach. Here, the observant participant can experience nature, culture, history, new friends, and maybe a little local libation and color.

A popular t-shirt here says, “Coral Bay…2,000 miles from reality.” While that’s true, everyone knows that Reality actually follows you wherever you roam. As troubador Harry Chapin sang,

You can travel on 10,000 miles, and still stay where you are.

So you can’t run away, really. But you can get away. Even BreakAway. A respite is a time set aside for revering reality—while re-creating it too. The journey has begun.

Time to get UP! That alarm sure sounds rude at 4:30. Especially when you were packing past midnight. Particularly when the slumbers weren’t golden anyhow. And most of all when the guy who is supposed to drive you to the airport doesn’t show up—making you wonder why am I up? Hate to say it, but…

Traveling Ain’t What It Used To Be

Oh sure, we’re schlepping 8 bags and 2 kids—and going away for 69 days to five faraway islands. Still, shouldn’t this be, like, exciting? Not just exhausting? Wishful thinking. But there’s too much beyond your control.

Hiring “A Driver” Ain’t What It Used To Be

Like our driver. Let’s call him Dean; he owns an airport service and has been slightly more dependable than the utterly erratic cabbies we’ve called in the past. Today, he sent “an associate.”  Who came late. In a too-small car. Amidst an icy snowstorm.

Once we realized that the Associate couldn’t possibly carry all of us and our baggage (physical and metaphorical), we called and ranted to Dean…who offered all kinds of lame excuses–but no adequate transportation to the airport.  

Now, Dean used to arrive in a big fat Town Car. Cool! Then he moved on to a Lincoln Navigator. Fine! Now? Who knows. Wouldn’t surprise me if he showed up next time in a K-Car, just for Kicks. We’ll never know. We’re done with Dean. And after the the requisite cell phone yellfest, I reckon he’s done with us too.

Anyway, Dean put on his problem-solving hat and did what we should have done in the first place:  He called a cab. So two of us went ahead to the airport with the Associate, already dangerously late, to check in the luggage and start schmoozing the airline. The children and I awaited the cabbie. This forced me to feign calm, since the kids were picking up on our peaky freakiness.

Cabbie did come and was charming, albeit even dangerously later. Thank goodness he liked to drive fast. And pass. Never mind the ice on the roads and the cars in the ditch.

Flying Ain’t What It Used To Be

Luck happens. So we made it through Security (even all the metal in my left leg), hijacked a ride on a too-small cart, and wheeled our way to the gate—where we were well past last call. They let us on anyway, on to a flight that was oversold and bursting at the seams with carry-on luggage.

Back in the day, traveling by airplane seemed exotic and exciting. It’s still exciting—but for all the wrong reasons. What happened? I mean, flight attendants don’t even referree arguments about whose seat is whose. Food is lousy and expensive or, worse, nonexistent. No breakfast for a 7 am flight? Come on!

We’ve learned to carry sacks of food for the kids. Fruit, nuts, granola bars, cheese sticks, whatever. They have a knack for being irrationally ravenous at innopportune times. Heck, everyone carts their own meals onto planes anymore. Somebody’s “meal” always smells better than mine.

Note to self:  Business Idea:  Bring on lots of excellent food with aroma-appeal and auction it off to famished flyers.

The plane was held together by duct tape.

Lunch came, though, sort of. But they quickly ran out of the “entrees” they’d been describing ad nauseum. “Always our most popular lunch!” one steward beamed at me (for the only time). Paint was peeling. Carpets too. The 1970s TVs that hung from the ceiling not only didn’t work, but were held together with duct tape. See for yourself! 

Staffers did, though, aggressively sell $7 drinks, Skymag schwag, and their very own Mastercard. Who needs TV when the flight sounds like QVC?

Island Service Ain’t What It Used To Be

Still sane, we made it to St. Thomas, found our luggage (eventually), tipped the porter and were plopped into a crowded cab/van to rush to the ferry. Now, please understand that the routine to get into a cab at this airport typically includes much yelling by the porters, expediters, and cabbies, and others. In thick Island Patois.

It scares first-timers and children. It entertains veterans like ourselves.

They will send you back and forth while a van driver wants you, then says he has no room, then makes room and insists you return. But by then, another cabbie may have started loading you into his van, so they yell at you and even tussle over your suitcase. It can go on and on, while you wonder if you’ll make the ferry dock in time.  It’s hurry, then wait.  Welcome to island time.  

(One time, a driver told me to unload the luggage of a couple getting off at a resort, so he could take a pee. Which he did, about five feet in front of the vehicle. He then barked at me to fasten my seat belt, though he refused to wear his own. He told me how pumped he was that we were his last ride, “Gonna drink me some rum tonight!” Ya mon!  {My reply.}  We exchanged the island handshake.  Get the picture?)

No worries. As usual, we made the ferry. Dudes drive like NASCAR wanna-bes, and are colorblind when it comes to stoplights. Fortunately, locals know to get out of their way. Ours parked in the middle of a busy street, dumped our luggage, and overcharged us by at least $10. We couldn’t hand over that extortion fast enough.

Ferries, Jeeps, Left-Lane Driving, and Finally…“Home”

The ferry ride was uneventful, but only because we sat indoors instead of on the roof, where a serious sundown squall drenched everything. We + luggage barely fit into our Jeep, but after enough re-puzzling, we did. The drive across the dark island and its hairpin, mountainous roads was gut-wrenching. But soon, we were “home.” Sweet home.

By the way, you drive in the left lane on St. John. Ask a local “why?” and know what he’ll say?

Because everyone else does.

Home now is Coral Bay. “Where tired angels go to rest.” I’m no angel (to quote Bob Seeger). But we could all use some rest. After a burger and a beer at the closest joint, we all headed back up the hill. And straight to bed, where–despite the cacophony of chickens, frogs, donkeys, and goats–the slumber would last for 9.5 hours.

Can’t remember the last time that happened. May it be the start of a trend.

Need I write more?  Can’t.  My fingers are too frozen.

It’s dang cold and snowy here.  That makes escaping to warmth more inviting, but also complicates the daily grind and last-minute errand runs.  Two days before take-off.  HELP!  I’d like to fall on the floor and cry in my beer, but there’s no time, and not much beer, and beer would only slow me down and we CAN’T have that.  Okay, maybe just one…

Snow is pretty, but makes for slippery slopes.

Ever have one of those days when everyone in your family is snitty?  (And nobody is volunteering to shovel the new snow?)  Tempers flare; the house is a train wreck; nothing works?  That’s us.  Except, it’s been that way for about a week.  There is this sense of chaotic desperation in the air.  And it’s amazing the things that choose to break down NOW of all times…

• The kitchen sink backed up, and needed a thorough roto-rooting.  Gross!
• The freezer ceased.  As in, melted ice cream and al dente ‘frozen’ vegetables.  Ish!  
• The security system went nuts.  Decided there was CO2 in the air and the alarms refused to stop.  (I think it was wrong, but it’s hard to tell exactly what is killing all the brain cells these days.)
• The Apples have been rotting.  Needing new batteries, more RAM, updated iLife, iTunes triage.  
• More, but who cares?  Thank goodness for supportive friends and Angie’s List.  

The kids are excited, hyper really.  Cute, but it can make things worse.  AllBoy is bouncing basketballs, like our heads, off the walls–which just ain’t right when the snorkelware and Nikon gear is underfoot and M and D’s patience is kaput.  CurlyGirl is packing 16 tons of Polly Pockets.  Things are getting lost.  Lists are getting longer.  Breaths are getting shorter.  

• 5 words:  We’ll be on that plane.  (That we just learned serves NO food and charges for ALL luggage AND beverages). 
• Countdown:  29 hours (til we leave the house).  
• Ostacles:  At least 2 of us are sick; one goes to an eye specialist for an infection in the morning.
• Biggest Scream:  Airlines.  They just keep changing the rules, and I don’t mean lifehacking.
• Biggest loss:  Holiday merriment.  What holidays?  What merriment?  Maybe later?
• Last night of good sleep:  I can’t recall.  
• First thing I’ll do on the islands:  A big Iowa Yee-ha scream and seek a Heineken.  
• Soundtrack ahead:  Reggae.  Tree frogs.  Men yelling in Island Patois.  Drunk tourists.  Goats and donkeys.  Roosters (all night long).  Wind.  Waves.  
• Note to self:  Keep the faith.  (“It’s all small stuff.”)
• ODDS OF GOING TODAY:  98%  (a new high).

No doubt:  Word is getting out.  Sabbaticals are not a secret anymore.  From bad times, sometimes, comes great innovations.  Maybe that’s what’s happening as some GM plants try to keep skilled workers, give them a break, and try new ways to survive this global meltdown.  

As the Times reports, 

The move is also expected to sweep across other manufacturing industries as companies try to hold on to staff but reduce the cost of paying them. Vauxhall’s Merseyside plant is offering the 4,500 employees a sabbatical of up to nine months on 30 per cent of their pay.

To be sure, this may be an offer many workers CAN refuse.  But for those with the creativity, resources, and faith, a reduced-pay BreakAway may be the upside to the downturn.  

Here’s the deal:  Sabbaticals happen.  If you are open to them.  They may not arrive at the perfect time, but is there a perfect time for anything?  Think about the events (good and bad) that often arrive in a surprise package:  Babies; accidents; winning lottery tickets; new love.  

Zen philosophy holds that many life lessons and improvements originate from “the bad thing.”  It’s in time of crisis and misery that conditions force us to look seek strength, open up, and dig our way out of dilemmas.  Or as TV Preacher Extraordinaire Robert Schuller puts it, 

Tough times don’t last.  Tough people do.  

Also exciting are the other many ways that corporations are trying to retain staff and innovate their way out of this mess, from shorter shifts and four-day work weeks to “flextiming.”  Forced flex time, if you will:  Take some weeks off now, and pay back those yours later when the economy is no longer hitting the brakes.  

Elmer Anderson, a Minnesota treasure who started a Fortune 500 company and also served as governor, would say that a company will thrive if it takes care of its customers first, its employees second, and profit third.  What a brilliant way to show that if you put people first (but not just yourselves), success will follow.  

Could that be what the car companies–and other hurting employers–are now doing?  Suddenly, people with skills are a hot commodity, not just a trade-able commodity.  

With any luck, some employees will embrace this opportunity.  While they may not have the resources to fly off to a dream destination, maybe there are other life-list goals they can actualize.  

• Spending time with friends and family.  
• Getting the house in order.  
• Picking up the guitar or recipe book.  
• Rest.  Relax.  Ready yourself for what’s next.  
• Accept what you cannot control; go pitbull on the rest.  

When times are good, it’s easy to take jobs for granted–if not complain about the hard work and long hours.  Things are different now.  Let’s hope the car companies can find ways to survive, some employees can embrace the gift of free time, and all can emerge in a better place when things get better.  Which they always do.

With just four days left until we depart, now is a good time to invoke one of the five five-word Sabbatical mantras,

Everything is right on schedule.

Brazen optimism? You betcha. Pollyanna poppycock? No doubt. But I know this much: I’ll be on a plane, God willing, four days from now–no matter what. Still, these are NOT the good times.

The kids’ Christmas and other holiday specialness are nearly nonexistent. Guilt swoons. My childhood Christmas simple memories are priceless. Here, not one ornament hangs.

What we are leaving—friends, school, community, CurlyGirl’s gymnastics passion, AllBoy’s emerging basketball wowness—stares in the face and asks, “What are you thinking!?!”

The house is perhaps the worst mess ever. (And that’s sayin’ somethin’!) Where does one begin to organize and pack?

Still, these dark, inevitable moments are part of the price of admission. As are the reactions of acquaintances which have ranged of late from raging jealousy (I like the honesty) to rock-star awe to snarky scorn. When e-sharing my fears and frustrations with a friend the other day, the response was,

Next time you’re having a bad day, don’t e-mail me!

On that note, I’ll shut up. This is the hard part. But like raking 55 bags of leaves before autumn’s first snowfall arrives, you gotta slog through it. The joy of this BreakAway is nearly nonexistent. The anxiety relentless. Yet the odds of going are at a new high.

Once we get settled on a faraway island, perhaps I will be too.

• ODDS OF GOING TODAY: 95%
• ODDS THAT I’M GOING NUTS: 55%
• ODDS THE EMOTIONS WILL FLOW LIKE A DIRTY FLOOD: 100%

So I’m sitting in my beauty parlour, awaiting my ‘poo and trim and manicure…oh never mind.  (I wish!  But who has time!?!)

Actually, while creating this website, we learned today this site shows up second when you Google BreakAway.  Yowza!  And we haven’t even finished or launched!

I may never be a blogstar, but I’m a Google star.  As Grandma always said,

“Hey, that’s better than a kick in the pants!”

The first item on the list indeed belonged to Elle–and it was all about breaking up, I guess.  (Hard to do.)  But low & behold, another Elle link takes you to a “Break Away” sabbatical story.  Have we created a love-in?  Or are we only flirting?  (There are many Elle stories about THAT too, of course.)

Anyway, once again, the secret to getting your employer to acquiesce to your BreakAway is to be a kick-butt employee.  As Garrison Keillor always states at the end of The Writer’s Almanac, “Do Good Work!”

Barbara Moses, author of Dish: Midlife Women Tell the Truth About Work, Relationships and the Rest of Life, offers these additional thoughts:

“It’s much easier to get a sabbatical if you’re good at your job than if you’re a mediocre performer;”

“Recommend someone for your position or advise on how your job can be restructured;”

“Show appreciation for your job and company;”

“Demonstrate what your company will get out of giving you a sabbatical;”

“Convince your employer that you can be a great role model of work/life balance and that you’ll come back rejuvenated.”

Thanks, Elle. I’d go talk to my boss–if only I had one.

Now, about those new flirting tips…