Our sabbatical came to an end with the New Year. Jan and I were accustomed to "living on the ball" and we enjoyed rowing back and forth to shore each day. It's great to leave your troubles on the beach and we devoted our time to restoring Santa Teresa. Occasionally we got to sail but each day was a day filled with romance and adventure. Life is good.

Here is a final story in this series.

It was a week before Christmas. Jan and I stood on the beach trying to spot our beautiful, old sailboat, Santa Teresa. It was late. We were coming home from a holiday party and not only was it pitch black, there was a thick wall of fog hanging just in front of the first line of boats in the mooring. Not a breath of wind disturbed the black water of the bay. Naturally, Santa Teresa, a Mariner 40 ketch was nearly a half a mile away, the farthest boat from the beach.

“Honey, I’ve rowed home a hundred times. I think I can do it with my eyes closed,” I said.

She looked at me with that special “I love you but you’re nuts” look, smiled and dutifully mumbled, “If you’re sure but it looks very, very spooky tonight.”

We pushed off and I began to rhythmically stoke. I had my back to the boats and Jan stared intently into the fog. There was something very strange in the air. As we pulled farther from the beach, the first row of boats came into clearer focus. Suddenly Jan screamed, “He’s killed himself!”

I whipped my head around to see a lone body slowly swinging to and fro high up the mast of an old sloop. It was Santa Claus! A decoration left over from the boat parade had come loose. “But it looked so real…”

We continued rowing through the lines of boats. Just as one row would disappear, another would come into view. One, two, three, four, five, six – we were almost home. Santa Teresa was waiting for us on row eight but it seemed the farther we rowed, the spookier it became.

Then it happened, when we least expected it, just before we reached our boat, a two foot mackerel blasted out of the bay and hit Jan square in the chest before dropping into the dinghy. No one in the moorings will ever forget the blood curdling scream as she jumped onto the seat of the dinghy dancing in fright. “Get it out! Get it out!”

I’m not sure who was more surprised: Jan, the mackerel or me. Then Jan sat back down and studied the flopping fish. She looked up, laughed and asked a simple, one word question: “Breakfast?”

I scooped the frightened fish up with my oar. “Make a wish!” Then we sent him back on his way. “Merry Christmas holy Mackerel!”