because-that's-how-I-roll

I am from the Midwest. I was raised on hearty cornbread and pure buckwheat. I churned my own butter at the age of two. I sheared spring lambs and gathered fresh eggs in a wicker basket. All of my aprons were sewn from blue calico. So how, exactly, did Laura Ingalls Wilder end up on a 100-ft Diddy yacht on a glorious November afternoon in Southern California?

I do not have that answer. The only thing I can come up with is "because that's how I roll".

It started with a little "boat outing" organized by a friend. The reality was a gleaming yacht excursion that will make every Saturday afternoon to follow look like the generic version of the best Saturday afternoon of my life. The sun was shining, the hot dogs were grilling, and our yacht was...yachting?!!? Holy shit, I was yachting!!! The coolest part: there's not even any other way to describe it. Not boating, not sailing. It was yachting. So we spent five lazy hours trying to come up with a sufficient argument as to why we should stay on the yacht forever. Unfortunately, and after much deliberation, no one came up with anything compelling.

The captain asked for my digits. Now he was the kind of captain who has more than one first mate. Maybe seven. The kind of captain who has sailed into many a port. And maybe more than one port at a time, if that's possible. But you know what, I'll probably call him. He is, after all, the captain. Of a yacht.