Tahiti

"I can put my passport and credit card in my teeth and swim to shore. No, I will not have clothes or shoes but I should be able to hitch hike easily in a bikini. There has to be a village somewhere close by....This is what it must have been like to be on Alcatraz, land so close but so far away...."

As I was standing on the deck of a yacht anchored in a desolate bay in Mooreo, I found myself thinking these thoughts. How the hell did I get myself in this mess? I had been talking to The Sailor for four months via email, instant messenger and infrequently by phone. It is amazing the tricks our mind plays on us when we have long periods of silence. We project our own desires into the abyss and file it as the truth in our heads. This is why I was standing on this yacht looking longingly at the beach just outside of my reach. I am a romantic fool.

I have been looking for meaning in this experience. It started out well enough, a beautiful lei being placed around my neck at the airport. Palpable desire emanating from both of us as our legs touched in the taxi on the way back to the dock in Papeete. Sailing in perfect weather; the wind cooperated, singing classic rock together, eating brie and baguette on the deck. What did I do? Where did I fuck up? I have tossed this over in my mind Monday morning quarterbacking it for over a week now and here is my conclusion; he is just an arrogant dick. It ain't me brother, it is YOU.

I could outline the nasty insults he dropped casually, designed to pick apart and cut to the core. Or, the physical violence. The very real fear of being pushed into the piss (sailor talk for ocean.) The unsatisfying sex. But what is more interesting to me is why did I take the failure to connect on as my own shortcoming?

A good friend suggested I was suffering from Stockholm Syndrome (I am Norweigan, the chosen people, so the Scandanavian connection did give me reason to consider this); I was trapped on a boat and I was trying to please my captor. I actually think it goes deeper than that. I think it is a woman thing. We are the ones that are supposed to make the exchanges (interpersonally, visually, intellectually, sexually) pleasing. At heart, most of us are wired to be Japanese Comfort Girls, creating a pleasurable experience. When this failed to occur, it is so deeply ingrained in my psyche that I took it on as my failure as a woman. Not that this guy is a sociopath and is likely unable to get along with anyone, but MY problem.

Some of the nasty comments resonated with me and I find myself still wondering if he is right. After a 48 hour period where I did not say one word he said he would take me to dinner. I asked if the conversation would be like it had been for the previous two days and he replied, "I have never met someone who talked so much and said so little with their words in my life. So yes, it will be the same." At this point, I asked him to drop me at the dock, which he did, "Bonne chance!" he sarcastically yelled into the breeze as he blazed off in the dinghy not looking back. Fortunately, The Dingy Bar and cigarettes were waiting for me and I over-indulged in both. Also more sailors who occupied the time I had left until I flew home. I was starved for conversation and they seemed to enjoy mine. They invited me to crew for them anytime. They knew The Sailor. "How the hell did you end up with that asshole?" seemed to be the prevelent question by many many sailors at the bar that had travelled from Mexico to French Polynesia with him. He has a bad rep which one sailor chararacterized as an "I" problem, I am smarter than you. I know everything there is to know. I am superior. Ironic as he has a wandering eye...thought the pun was funny and laughed inside my head at the coincidence.

This week, I have found myself asking people if I am annoying when I talk. Do I engage you or am I just off on tangents? Do I have relevant things to talk about or are they immaterial? Am I articulate or babble? Why have I given him this power over me? I have decided today to intelectually throw his bullshit observations about me into the piss. Fuck him. As HottieEsq notes, the best way to get over a man is to get under another one. I am working on my pipeline and think I have found a better match. And he likes to talk to me!

Happy 4th.

Kat