Captains Log: Coastal Odyssey

This morning dawned with that particular golden light that makes even the most mundane desires seem touched by destiny. 

Today’s mission was simple: acquire three pots for the citronella plants in the front garden. Today’s obstacle was a familiar one: the Fate Sisters find nothing more entertaining than watching humans make carefully detailed plans.

"We need to leave earlier than you think," Princess Amy announced, materializing in my imagination as I contemplated my third cup of coffee. She had adopted her Captain Kirk persona, sitting in the commander's chair on the bridge of the recently retooled and refitted Wind Horse, which has been upgraded to a Voyager-class mindship and rechristened Coastal Voyager.

Amy's command console isn't located within the galactic system of the United Federation of Planets but deep inside my limbic system.

"It's Tuesday morning. The roads will be clear," I countered, confident in my knowledge of the traffic patterns in all of coastal Carolina.

Amy's eye roll was so profound, I wondered how she managed to avoid getting them stuck. "There's construction on Highway 17," she said. "Plus, it’s a holiday weekend and tourist activity is frantic.”

“And you’ve failed to factor in the Shallotte Delay Zone.” This comment came from Chief Engineer Anxiety, somewhere in the engine room of my brain, which I believe is near the hippocampus.

"The what now?” I asked because I’d never heard of this delay zone anomaly.

"The twenty-minute delay trying to get onto Main Street in Shallotte,” Amy said. “It's a metaphysical conundrum that you don't understand--the math is too complicated for you."

I dismissed her insult with the cheerful arrogance that has preceded every disaster since the little tyrant entered my life. "We're just making a quick run to Home Depot for flower pots. Two hours, tops."

As predicted by my imaginary oracle, Highway 17 south resembled a parking lot more than a thoroughfare. Traffic congealed like day-old gravy around the exit for Shallotte. 

“Chief,” barked Amy, "traffic report."

“Take the Cousins Beach exit and navigate the back roads,” he responded.

"Civietown Road will be our best option," I said to no one in particular.

"Absolutely not!" Amy responded. "Stone Chimney Road is clearly superior."

"Based on what evidence?"

"Statistical analysis of traffic patterns that are in Lt. Reason’s report.

“That’s not true,” I said. Reason doesn’t analyze traffic patterns.

“No, but I've been mentally analyzing them since we left Waterford."

"Civietown is more direct," I insisted.

"Stone Chimney has fewer tractors per mile,” Reason quipped from the life support station.

"Also," Amy added, and then launched into an elaborate conspiracy theory involving the Department of Transportation and alien technology. Her argument was so absurdly compelling that I missed my turn at Civietown Road. 

"You did that on purpose," I said.

"I merely provided a conversational distraction. You're the one driving."

Instead of backtracking, Amy suggested an alternative route. "You know, it's almost noon, and Snarkies has those fish tacos you like. We could lunch at Cousins Beach, then swing back to Home Depot."

"That's completely out of the way, and I want to get back home in time to repot the citronella."

"Yeah, but studies show that shopping on a full stomach improves decision-making by approximately seventy-three percent."

"You made that up."

"All statistics are made up at some point," she countered philosophically.

"We don't have time," I said. "I need to get back to plant the herbs before the afternoon heat."

"It's low tide," Amy observed, glancing at her phone. "Perfect for finding a few seashells for Ms. Wonder's collection. You know how she loves them."

I conjured up an image of Ms. Wonder's delighted face when presented with beach treasures. It was a powerful negotiating tool, and Amy took advantage of it. 

Cousin's Beach in late morning was a study in blues and golds; the ocean stretched like hammered silver under a cloudless sky. Despite my gardening agenda, I felt the familiar release of tension that always comes with the first breath of salt air. 

I became hypnotised by the timeless ritual of beachcombing, when a text message jolted me back to the present.

"Have you become one with the hardware store? Should I send provisions?" Ms. Wonder inquired.

Reality crashed in like a rogue wave. "Slight detour," I texted back. "Acquired shells. Heading to Home Depot now. ETA fifteen minutes."

Her response was a emoji that somehow conveyed both affection and exasperation.

Minutes later, navigating the narrow aisles, we found the garden section, but the planters I’d come for were nowhere to be found.

Another text from Ms. Wonder: "Success?"

"The quarry remains elusive."

“Have you considered that plastic pots are equally effective?"

"Blasphemy," I replied.

After thirty minutes of fruitless searching, we approached the service desk oracle. Larry sat behind the counter, reading glasses perched on the end of his nose.

“Red wood planter boxes," I said. "Ten-inch. The square ones with the brass bands."

He considered this request with the gravity of a Supreme Court justice. "Don't carry those anymore."

My gardening dreams withered like unwatered seedlings. “Can you suggest a reasonable alternative?”

"In the midst of chaos, there is opportunity," he offered. Did I mention that Larry is a disciple of Sun Tzu? 

 “Ceramic, not wooden, but functional nonetheless," he said.

"Oh, I don't know about ceramic for my plants."

"The greatest victory is that which requires no battle,” he said. 

We the pots exactly where he indicated: ceramic pots in various sizes, glazed in colors ranging from earthy brown to cobalt blue. 

"These will look better anyway," Amy observed. "The blue ones match the kitchen window trim. They’re not what you wanted, but they’re exactly what we need.”

“The Rolling Stones said it better,” I replied.

Ms. Wonder was in the garden when we arrived, an appreciative smile playing at her lips as I proudly displayed both the blue ceramic pots.

And so, what began as a simple two-hour mission to acquire three flower pots transformed into a four-hour odyssey involving imaginary starship crews, metaphysical delay zones, and seashell detours. 

Princess Amy, channeling Captain Kirk from the command center of my limbic system, had orchestrated the entire operation to get me into just enough chaos to remember that the journey matters more than the destination. 

Captain’s Log Supplemental:

Mindfleet Academy trains her captains well, and I knew all along that sometimes you don't get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you might find you get exactly what you need—in this case, blue ceramic pots that match the kitchen trim, and a pocketful of shells for Ms. Wonder.