Tree Swing

I want to climb inside your mind.  Sit-on-the tree swing in your brain

It nearly killed-me-to pull away from your hug in the rain

I want to empty out the foam-peanuts crowding-the-space in your-head

Want you-to clear a path for me that leads right to your bed

(Chorus)

It hurts me not to reach for you.  Kills me not to touch

I have to sit down on my hands.  I want you, oh, so much

Hurts me not to tell you what I really think of us

Have to clench down on my heart.  I want you, oh, so much

It hurts to trace your winsome smile.  Watch your lips not kissing me

It wears me down to hear your voice, so salty like the sea

It hurts to look into your eyes, they’re so painfully pale blue

Want-to-punch-out the in-ev-itable good-byes I’ll say to you

(Bridge)

The thing is___I’m pretty sure you’d melt into to me

The thing is___I’m pretty sure that you’d cave

The thing is___I-think-you’d hug me all day in the rain

The thing is___I think it’s me that you crave

I need to barricade my brain from caring about what you say

Need-to-slowly inch away from you so it hurts less every day

I need to dig a moat ‘round you, restrain my body from yours

Need to pile the fur-ni-ture in front of my desire’s door

(Repeat Chorus)

Want-to nestle in your shoulders, wear you like a sweater that fits

Want to rip up all your suffering, tear it into small bits

I want to calm your cluttered mind.  Sit-on-the tree-swing-with-you in your brain

It nearly killed-me-to pull away from your hug in the rain

Sand Boxed In

I was single all through my twenties and for the first half of my thirties.  Folks used to ask me if I was gay, as if that would somehow solve my problem of being single, like it was psoriasis.  “I have a lesbian friend,” they would say.  “I bet she’s perfect for me,” I would answer, “but I’m not gay.”  I was just waiting for the right smart, funny, kind man to come along.  I realized too late that I missed the first round of marriage by not marrying my college boyfriend—who became a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle—or any of the Eurojerks I dated while backpacking through Europe.  I had no regrets although that Eurojerk phase lasted much longer than it should have, but marrying Costis, Isaac, JeanPierre or Kort was the right thing not to do. 

During my late twenties-- as my weekends filled up with friends’ weddings, I continued to date all the musician/filmmaker/carpenters who were left.  They were all named Dave and I dated many of them.  That’s not completely true-- I dated all of them.  At least all of the ones named Dave.  It was about then that I began to tell people that I had skipped my first marriage and was waiting patiently for my second.  Because people seemed to notice.  It seemed to bother them that I wasn’t married.

One day I found myself sitting in the middle of a circle of chairs at the beach.  Reading and chatting in those chairs were my friends and their spouses.  Their children played in the center.  I was laying on my stomach on my towel making lazy designs in the sand with a stick.  I always enjoyed my friends’ kids as I inherently like them and was looking forward to having my own one day.  So we took turns, a four year old girl, and I, drawing faces in the sand then erasing the other one’s with the sweep of a hand.  Back and forth we did this, wordlessly for a while until finally she spoke. 

“Where is your husband?”

“I don’t have one,” I said. 

And then it hit me.  I understood that it was my job in this moment to lay the foundation for this little girl’s future as a confident single woman and productive member of society, so I made sure to keep my voice chipper so as to convey to her that she wouldn’t be any less of a woman one day if she weren’t tethered, by law, to a man.  One day she might take me to tea at Bergdorf’s to thank me for giving her the chutzpah in that seminal moment on the beach, when she was four, the moxie to go it alone and seek her fortune and happiness, knowing that if she were internally contented, that her inner radiance would dazzle all who came into contact with her and that one day she would meet a smart, funny, kind man in due time.  I continued to make designs in the sand and radiate wholeness.

“Why don’t you have a husband?” she said, and then she added, “What’s wrong with you?”

Huh, I thought.  So we’re going to play it that way, are we?  Well then you can kiss tea at Bergdorf’s goodbye.

            I leaned in close so that none of the adults could hear me, then looked into her eyes and speaking in a steady, hushed tone said, “There’s nothing wrong with me, sweetpea.  I’m just patiently waiting for your parents to get divorced so that I can marry your daddy.”  That shut her up.

Ocean Classroom

Growing up in Toms River, N.J., John Petrillo never liked school.  “History was the only subject that I did homework for,” he said.  But he loved to sail.  “In high school I thought, ‘There must be something wrong with me.’  I went to college anyway.”  For his final semester at Carnegie Mellon, John applied to study at the Sea Education Association. (SEA.org)  He studied marine sciences, history and literature; physical oceanography; and maritime ways of life.  It was the first time he could remember connecting with his subject matter.   Along with 23 other students, John lived for 6 weeks in Woodshole, Mass., then 6 weeks aboard a 200 ton, 135 foot sailing vessel.  Also living aboard were 4 faculty, a professional crew of 13 and one cook.  “It’s then that I finally liked school,” John said, “I became enamored with studying.

While living aboard, John learned celestial navigation, how to clean and operate the vessel, what it meant to ‘stand watch’ and how to get along with strangers in very small living quarters.  “It felt nice to actually be interested in what I was learning.”

After college John worked at the Maritime Museum in San Diego, The New Bedford Whaling Museum, Mystic Seaport, and as crew on a tall ship—13 sails in all.  He earned his Masters in American Civilization at Brown where he studied Caribbean and Polynesian history and literature, whaling lore, whaling ship logs and scrimshaw art.  He can even discern fakes.  Then his dream came to fruition.  He landed a position as head educator and humanities professor for high school and college students with Ocean Classroom Foundation. (oceanclassroom.org)

For 8 years, John taught history and literature at sea to high school and college students.  For 4 months each semester, the ship sailed 6,500 nautical miles and spent about 40% of her time in port.  Once there, students would visit Botanical gardens or learn marine biology via snorkeling, etc.  “They had no TV, phones, computers or running water.  Showers were buckets thrown over the side, hauled up and dumped over us.  There was a GPS on board, but only for emergencies; all navigation was made by students using a sextant.”  The ship might be at sea for up to 17 days, in which case students would read, do homework, write papers by hand—or stand watch, which included 4 hours shifts at the helm, on bow lookout, boat checks and kitchen duty.  “Smoking and drinking was forbidden, zero tolerance; exclusive relationships were curtailed.” I said, “That must have been challenging.”  John said, “I learned a lot at reunions,” and smiled.

Now John is getting his PhD in Learning Sciences at Rutgers’ Graduate School of Education.  “I'm studying how kids learn in informal out-of school contexts--experiential and outdoor learning.  I want to open a school that creates deeper learning and understanding through hands-on approaches using Barnegat Bay as the curriculum’s focus.” 

So much for the kid who never liked school.  

John Petrillo has a Masters License to captain a vessel up to 100 tons.  For photos and to read student and faculty diaries, visit oceanclassroom.blogspot.com.