Well, it’s been a pretty quiet week on Lake O’begone…Whoa!  Hold that thought:  It’s been craaaazy around here.  As everybody knows, the ice shacks must be off the lakes by March 1.  Time is running out!  So the action has been cold and heavy.

Folks make fun of ice-fishin’, but nobody’s having more fun than the fisherpeople.  They’re laughing all the way to the snowbank.  Here’s what they know that the rest of us sometimes forget…

• Fishin’ is outdoors—which kicks butt over most any indoor doings.
• Supper is super—if you get lucky and land a fresh, cold keeper. 
• Nobody calls you a wimp out there—with any luck, nobody calls you at all. 
• Fishing makes for serious BreakTime—and that’s what head and heart crave. 
• It’s soothing solo, fun with friends, and super-cool with a large party—like today’s picture proves. 

Avoid a breakdown: Visit BreakTown.

It would be a full-time job to keep up with the reports and studies about “kids these days.”  And although that might be fascinating, the screen-time would be devastating.  So instead, here’s a quick summary of some recent good stuff.

• The first mother tackles obesity

Michelle Obama has assumed the role of poster-mom to fight childhood obesity (largely due to too much screen time and not enough green time), and announces a website all about it. 

• Frontline digs deep into digitalia

Frontline’s “Digital Nation” discusses the good, the bad, and the ugly details of the tech revolution—including experts who suggest that today’s obsession with screen living will someday be compared to smoking, which was viewed as healthy and fun not many years ago. 

• Screen time goes through the roof

A recent Kaiser Family Report shows that kids now average 7.5 hours a day, with half of that time on more than one medium (TV + cell phone).  That’s more time than they spend in school, more time than their parents spend at work, and 12 times the minutes they spend reading.  Are there effects?  Hell, yes.  More screen time brings lower grades, more trouble, and sadness. 

Are we having fun yet?

Now and then, a Sabbatical story comes along that is too good to pass up, and too good not to pass along. 

Meet Todd Babiak.  Todd is a writer based in Edmonton—on a year-long BreakAway with his family in Paris.  He’s having a gas, as this article describes.  He’s also finding that sabbaticals bring surprises. 

• France can be uncouth!

Babiak’s latest book is called Toby:  A Man.  It’s about an etiquette commentator for a TV station.  (Now there’s a job with few openings!)  After studying manners for so long, Babiak decided to do a year in Paris—in hopes of landing in a place where civility truly is alive and well.  Well, is it?  He answers…

 Vulgarity is global now; we can’t get away from it.” 

• Peeing on main street

Babiak tells the story of walking his daughter to school one morning, only to pass by two men peeing on a building amidst a busy street.  Now, anyone who’s spent time in Europe knows that such practices are common.  Still, it can be a buzzkill to pursue a course in grace, and instead experience coarseness. 

• Babiak has the last laugh

Our Sabbatical seeker is eating it up though, as one tends to do in Paris.  His faux blog, Tobyaman.com, features the commentary and Q&A of the uber-refined Toby—who is “suing” Babiak for writing that unauthorized biography.  It’s full of hilarity on many levels. 

Clearly, Todd Babiak and fam are having a great time, even if the French manners ain’t what they used to be.

Best of all, they still have five months to do Paris—public pee and all.  Enjoy!

Getting Away From It All satiates the human need for discovery—of self, relationships, and a larger world.  The problem—as with all pursuits of pleasure—is ephemerality.  No matter how hard you try to seize and freeze sweet moments, they end, and ultimately become a blur. 

Time floats on  

If only folks were as obsessed with making the most of their time as they are with being efficient. We adore time-saving devices.  But they don’t work.  So we work overtime, and surrender vacation time.  Time is money.  Time heals all wounds.  But time waits for no one.  So why would anyone wait to take their time? 

Raising kids:  The ultimate blur  

Costs pile up when you take kids away on holiday.  Count the ways:  Airfare is sky-high these days; entertainment and eating take a big bite out of your wallet; skipping school can damage discipline and morph an A into a B.  BUT!  If you wait, it’s too late.  Kids don’t stay kids for long.  And before long, they, too, are “too busy.” 

Moon rise, moon set  

Month after month, the moon comes and goes in imperceptibly slow motion.  In the case of this 15-day island escape, the moon began half-full, then turned full, then went half-empty.  Back home again, those many moments studying the moon are a blur.  BUT!  Good news!  The cycle is repeating itself, and tomorrow she is full again! 

 Is it worth it?  Hell, yes!  

Going and coming makes life messy.  A limp economy is stealing people’s security, retirements, and dreams.  So in all honesty, even this spoiled BreakAway Brat can’t know when the next Sabbatical will transpire.  BUT!  It DID happen once, so maybe it’ll happen again. 

For now, though, it’s a blur.  A joyful, frustrating blur.  Like good times that end, raising kids that grow too fast, and watching moons that look still, but never stop.

When today’s kids grow up, will they know how to Unplug and turn down the noise so that they can hear their own “Aha” ideas when they arrive?  Health guru Archelle Georgiou thoughtfully pondered that question in her blog yesterday—along with her own need for down time. 

Ironically, the ease and ubiquity of techno tools may be stifling our inner creativity.  After all, do your most original Big Ideas come when you’re on-screen, in the shower, or enjoying a nap?  Georgiou goes for showers and naps—and finds support from the likes of Deepak Chopra and an MIT professor. 

No argument here.  And that’s true whether searching for a profound thought or just some simple calm.  But then, at this point in my life, screens often turn me off.  And I honestly prefer rituals such as yoga, exercise, meditation (even better when it becomes a nap!), cooking, gardening, and hanging out with family.

Of course, “time with family” often leads to my having to compete for attention against various cool Apple offspring.  And no, I’m rarely as fascinating.  Who is?  It’s certainly not the people or messages on the screen; they come and go like flakes of snow.  Heck, kids even skip through song bits.  Attention span:  Mashed. 

Meanwhile, conversations become increasingly fragmented.  And quiet, creative rumination becomes an endangered endeavor. 

That’s why, In My House, Unplugged time is programmed—rather like “quiet time” for toddlers.  And there are guidelines about when and where tech toys are allowed—not at the table; not in the bathroom; not when someone is talking to you; not first thing in the morning or last thing before bed. 

Sure, this Bad Cop often looks the other way, or issues a gentle warning when I might prefer locking all my housemates in a quiet, padded cell.  Where they would be forced to talk.  And think.  And listen.  And look at each other.  And maybe invent a game, or discover a Big Idea that helps make the world a better place. 

Out of desperation for a conversation with my cell-phone-fixated tweenager last night, I asked about the evolution of screen-ertainment for his posse:  Millsbury; Club Penguin; Webkins; iChat; Facebook; texting.  That’s all within the past few years. 

So what’s next?  Likely NOT Unplugging.  So when Georgiou mentions the 60,000 to 80,000 thoughts we all have daily, methinks they’ll be increasingly about whatever our screens bring us—rather than the possible inspiration within and around us. 

As Sherry Turkle, an MIT professor who studies social networking puts it:

If you’re being deluged by constant communication, the pressure to answer immediately is quite high.  So if you’re in the middle of a thought, forget it.” 

Hey, the silence around me just brought forth this Big Idea:  5 times a day, say, when you’re feeling “the pressure to answer” that deluge, forget it! 

If the Real World isn’t interesting enough and fails to engage you or offer meaning, consider Georgiou’s idea, “I think I’ll go take a shower.”

Sabbatical fans have watched with wide eyes as global mammoth KPMG/Britain hit hard times, sought solutions beyond firing, and found success. 

Their “Flexible Futures” concept offered TIME in exchange for money.  And 80% of the target employees took advantage of one of the options.  Yessssss!

Standing O to all involved:  To KPMG for its compassionate efforts to keep staff employed; to the workers who found a way to trade money for time (what a gift!); and to the families that no doubt made some sacrifices to adjust to the new budget and schedule.

Away, stress recedes.

Struggles, stuff, lists: washed to sea.

Just for now, all’s cool.

When you gather up your gumption and step off the Reality Train, expect impressions and mindshifts to happen–especially if you’re returning to an idyllic place that’s been home before. Comparisons of “here vs there” are rampant, and ramp up as a more hectic reality looms.

Yes, too soon (as in tomorrow) it will be time to move on back to that bizzy place we call home.  So I’m trying to slow down and relish these images and sensations.  Isn’t that what travel’s all about?

Here, despite development, local color lives on. When a traditional Calypso band played for hours at a party, “here” was good for the ears.  There, “auto-tune” and rappers who can’t sing pass for pop music.  It’s little wonder that “I’m sad to say I’m on my way, won’t be back for many a day…”

Here, eating local means something.  Like, goat, whelk, conch, lobster, funghi, peas and rice, and Johnny cake.  There, eating local means…the closest Subway?  Food tastes better when cooked outside or under ramshackle conditions, in hot pots, with a generous shake of tradition. 

Here, one sees beauty, deep and natural.  The environment is lush after autumn rains, while the sea swirls in endless colors. There, winter beauty means white snow, a crimson cardinal, and maybe a crisp blue sky.  

Here, one notices beauty, skin deep and natural.  There, a parka can’t be too thick or too ugly.  Here, a swimsuit can’t be too skimpy.  It’s freeing to see every body comfortable in their skin—grandpas playing smashball, eco-nerds dancing, and all kinds of folks relaxing on the beach. 

Here, the weather has many moods.  It’s not always sunny, warm and comfortable—just most of the time.  There, it’s not always snowy, cold, and uncomfortable—just most of the time. 

Here, there’s space to explore freely.  There, we worry about promptness, parking spots, and good grades—while digitalia and Facebook steal ever-more time and space.  Absent that stuff—and fences and walls and rulebooks—most kids would rather groove with a starfish. 

Here, creativity happens.  There, creativity means juggling routines, coaching homework, and concocting dinner from leftovers.  Here, art abounds, color leaps around, and locals can’t resist turning a “Hill” sign into a “Chill” sign.  It’s contagious; soon sand becomes a medium, and any scene seems inspirational.

One year ago today, our bonafide BreakAway of 69 days had just begun.  By the time it was done we had hopped between five West Indian islands and enjoyed a grand family adventure. 

Yet even a once-in-a-lifetime tour distills down to sweet moments—the simpler, the better.  Thank goodness my camera helps me stop and spot them, and keep them in memory. 

Picturing scenes like these come in handy when the blizzard hits.  When the schedule stresses.  When the tedium gets monotonous  And when the time hurries past too fast. 

Without telling a soul, daughter Elsa left Santa a love note, a dollar and a Delta Airlines cookie—since that was the only one in the house.  Santa graciously responded by giving an ornament and some toys—and leaving the dollar (and some crumbs, of course). 

Mr. Guy Benjamin is a local legend who will soon turn 100; the Coral Bay school is named after him.  He still raises chickens, sells eggs, and signs copies of his memoir, “Me and My Beloved Virgin.” 

Fresh starfruit, right off the tree, may be the sweetest and tartest treat ever. 

Even a cloudy day at the beach presents the chance to bury your boy (except for his head) in the sand—and (eventually) dig him out again. 

My rejected apple core becomes a scrumptious lunch for a meandering beach chicken. 

Local artist Sloop Jones makes wearable art—and always has some island yarns and colorful ideas to share at his shop.

Coral Bay on St. John offers a stunning setting for a retreat, and I’ve loved this place for 21 years now.  But unlike a family farm, getaway sites feel eerily ephemeral.  CB may be “where tired angels come to rest,” yet devilish change is everywhere.  And “free time” itself sometimes seems neither unplugged nor uncomplicated.  It’s certainly not cheap. 

The faces change.  A fun-loving bar owner gets sick, then dies.  A charismatic captain gives up his craft.  An ubiquitous simpleton has gone missing.  And in our circle, the New York family we’ve met for three years with happily matching children has announced this is their last year here.  Many blessed ties that bind are fraying. 

Meanwhile, the fickle hand of Fate accosted CurlyGirl (6) today when she received a bunch of nasty stings—like welts from a whipping—from an unseen jellyfish. 

Call it her Requisite BreakAway Emergency, or a symbolic slap in the face.  A day of beachy bliss can turn to screaming dread faster than a stinger pricks skin. 

It harkened back to the same child’s medical misfortune almost a year ago to the day.  At least this one didn’t require a trip to the island ER.

It’s enough to make a guy on mini-Sabbatical cast away the snorkel mask and head back into the snowstorm. 

Four days in, the owies and adjustments offer evidence of the difference between a vacation (too fleeting) and a BreakAway (just long enough).  Margaritaville may not exist.  But we all have a craving—and a right—to pursue our cheeseburger in Paradise. 

Guess travel comes with costs

Getting to the place where you can get that burger is rarely half the fun.  It’s dang hard work.  Most folks don’t travel much, and that’s one reason why.  And as for kids, well, let’s just say they hardly ever carry their weight.  So the packing, schlepping, procuring and compromising can threaten your sanity and make sane people ask, “Is this worth it?” 

Is it worth…the price?  There are plenty of loaded (meaning “moneyed,” in this case) people roundabout.  And then there are the rest of us—who must numb our common senses to pony up for ever-rising airfare, and then pay double for everything here (if you can find what you’re looking for). 

I’m not spending my children’s inheritance; I’m spending my retirement!

But hey, I’d rather Die Broke than carry on cautiously.  And as this website repeats ad nauseum, why wait for retirement—since it may or may not happen—when you could possibly take temporary retirement throughout your life? 

The economic downturn has hit like a hurricane, though.  Charming shops are shuttered; eateries have ample empty tables in a peak week; more locals hang out lazily smoking pot while potholes in the road go lazily untended. 

Heck, this family has no business taking this year’s fast-lane vakay—since this self-employed’s business has been stuck in the slow lane for a year. 

I guess sometimes ease stays home.  Just ask the children, even if they are enthusiastic travelers, like mine.  Baby blue eyes cried, “I miss Daisy” (the cat) long before the jellyfish attack.  The tween-ager is missing much school and sports—again.  The new house-sitter missed the security code and the cops arrived in minutes.  What’s next? 

Travel risk is always next, potentially.  Like, our plane got airbound but a few hours later MSP was snowbound.  East Coasters here tell of arriving three days late due to their two feet of snow.  Another terrorist tried to explode another airplane.  And CurlyGirl’s relentless sinus-cum-ocean-bacteria virus may go ear-infection any time now. 

Plus, some prefer cooler climes—including my main travel mate.  They get frustrated by the heat, sand and bug bites and start itching for more to do than this sleepy place offers.  The internet is undependable.  Air conditioning–not.  And despite the water, water everywhere, you still can’t flush after number one or take a nice, long shower. 

And undisturbed views are getting scarce.  That metaphor could apply to many things.  But I’m talkin’ about yonder, in “my” front yard.  The new nayber is constructing a monument to himself that will massively block the pristine sea views and breezes from this Cloud 9. They take Paradise and put up a…McVilla. 

Guess Paradise just ain’t perfect

Yep, the first days have been been hot, wet, muggy, buggy, itchy, crabby, stinky and sting-y.  Way too many sailboats clog and pollute the harbor.  Heavy machinery grinds like monstrous dentists’ drills.  And until your inner clock gets reset to “island time,” you find your patience frequently frazzled.  What’s more…

Strange shtuff happens.  Awfully strange.  And though there may be more folklore than fact on your typical faraway isle, the many signs that linger about the two “Missing” people (including the aforementioned) stir chills.  Locals have stories about “what really happened,” and what hasn’t happened since.  More tales abound. 

So shut the blog up—and stay home? 

Guess there are too many bloggers & gurus in the cyber harbor.  Guess this site just ain’t taking flight—like millions of others.  Oh sure, I enjoy navel-gazing and spilling some guts and digital shots.  Sometimes I even keep the faith and believe blog star Seth Godin when he preaches, “Just do it more.  And do it better.”  But really now.  Really!

Still, I guess I must like it here.  On remote, sultry islands.  On a deck alone with a hot laptop atop tan thighs while watching squalls blow in from the British Virgins—while the gaffe-rigged ketch I used to crew on blows in from a daysail.  Here, on my fourth, fat, freaking BreakAway in the last 20 years. 

• Guess if that’s failure, bring it on

I haven’t had a margarita in ten years.  But could I still be searching for my lost shaker of salt?  I’m still searching for something (who ain’t?) and stooping so low as to be quoting Jimmy Buffet. 

But hell, if anyone has made a NAME and a BRAND and a BOATLOAD OF MONEY off BreakAway visions and delusions, he’s one. 

I’ll drink to that. 

So on that note, from a yellowed book off the shanty shelf that got nabbed for today’s five minutes of beach reading before the jellyfish assault, just this once, guess I will shut up and let Jimmy have the last word:

There will be no money left as I plan to spend it while I can, and when I die, I would like to be buried under a palm tree on the beach in an unmarked grave away from the maddening crowds like I saw today at Elvis’ grave.”

From “Tales from Margaritaville,” by Jimmy Buffett