Romance & Me
Three hearts. He has given me one heart per decade, and each time was on an unforgettable occasion.
The second time Mr C. gave me a heart was on one of the first long flights together. In the early days of our marriage, travel and flying were not a matter of course. For years, I had been assuaging my yearning to travel to far-flung places, experience new cultures, and meet new people by browsing the 900s stacks at the library.
On this occasion, we had several flights in order to reach our destination. An early start and the inherent issues around holidays and children left me a little frazzled. Being onboard a plane is a surefire way to melt my stress away, and this trip was no different. By the second leg of the flight, I had relaxed and made myself comfy with a good book well under way.
Landing at the next airport, the flight assistant informed us you are welcome to leave the plane for thirty minutes, however, please board promptly. Remember, air travel was simpler in those times.
Immersed in my book, we all know this feeling, I passed on the chance to accompany Mr C. on one of his leg stretching escapades.
On time, he strutted down the aisle, then plonked himself down in his seat, a look of quiet satisfaction all over his chops. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” He says, pulling something out of his pocket and dropping it in my lap.
Oh wow, a palm sized, solid chocolate heart wrapped in vermillion foil. And it was as thick as my thumb. I was stunned. My first valentine gift and he had outdone himself. It was beautiful; it was unexpected, and it was big. Any chocoholic appreciates quality first with size a close second.
We settled in for the last leg of our journey, the longest. The shining heart, oddly reminiscent of the religious icon in the wall niche of my childhood home, also needed a special nook to rest in. Initially, I was going to place it in the seat pocket, but no, I thought, it may melt. The tray table seemed the safest option. I arranged the heart at the top of the tray a fraction above the sight line of my book. Through chapter, air mile and food service, there it stayed. Glinting, teasing, reminding.
One of the many wonderful attributes Mr C. holds is appreciating chocolate. Naturally, I would never eat the heart onboard. The care and attention he had shown in using his precious leg stretch time to secure a token of his esteem for me warranted sharing the morsel together. A gift as fine as this was not to be scoffed like a cheap confection. Oh no. From the delicate label affixed to the foil centre on the back, I knew a true chocolatier had manufactured this. This heart would require time and consideration to truly appreciate the experience. For what is chocolate but crushed beans, some crystal molecules and a few other flavours? The alchemy happens when the first bite hits the mouth. That is when the parts become a whole and the experience of chocolate reaches greatness.
And so there it sat. I couldn’t stop smiling from ear to ear. Now and then It caught my eye like a beacon, sparkling away on the grey tray table. Mr C. had excelled himself this time, so much so that I never once interrupted his movie or signaled for the headphones to come off. I just squeezed his hand now and again, accompanied by an occasional tender glance.
When it came time to deplane, I placed the heart into my handbag with care. Our seats were at the rear of the aircraft, so what followed was the normal long traverse to the exit in single file. We dodged luggage extraction from overhead bins, giving a nod to allow the passenger bent into an impossible shape to go ahead of you, inane conversation with strangers, thanking each attendant as you pass and noticing the detritus a few hundred humans leave behind.
Our trek almost over, we joined as a twosome for the last stretch down the air bridge. “They were giving those out for free, weren’t they?” I accused Mr C. based on the of dozens of red foil wrappers discarded the length of the plane.
Mr C. giggled and strode off to stretch his legs.
The third time I received the heart pictured above. We had just spent five days crossing the South Pacific Ocean from New Zealand to Minerva Reef. To this day, I still am in awe of the ability we have to travel across vast oceans with no visual aids and arrive at precisely the spot you need to. Of course, we had modern technology, unlike sailors in earlier times, however, when we first sailed together, we used the same methods they did.
After just under 600nm of nothing, not a bird, not a boat or any form of sea life, the sight of waves breaking over a thin ring of land in the middle of the ocean was both magical and nerve-wracking. The narrow passage inside the 4mi (6.8km) circular atoll is a make or break maneuver. Lack of sleep and eagerness to anchor add to the heightened tension of helming through a treacherous gap with dangers hidden below. All of which can hole a yacht and leave you somewhat under resourced a long way from help.
Up to the highest point I could climb, I went. About three feet off the deck. Let’s leave the heroics for hero’s, I wasn’t climbing the mast. From my vantage point, I looked out for sharp objects and Mr. C. helmed us safely through the gap.
Anchoring in pristine turquoise water, white sand visible on the bottom of the lagoon, one yacht in the endless ocean. We reveled in the simple pleasures. A cup of tea without a lid on it, a meal served on a plate instead of eaten from a Tupperware container, a shower outside in a tropical downpour but best of all, an entire night’s sleep in a bed, relatively flat at that.
The next day meant exploration. Twice a day, at low tide, you can walk on the narrow strip exposed on top of the reef. What makes it really interesting is that on one side, there are 30 feet (9 meters) of water, while on the ocean side, there is a sheer drop of 2000 feet (600 meters). I have a long held fear of edges, especially ones with waves breaking over them, so I did the responsible thing and stayed with the boat.
Mr C. zipped off in the dinghy and stretched his legs like a modern day Colombus, while I peeked through my fingers. My fear of edges extends to people I care about. Reports were that the coral atoll looked like a coral atoll and that the devastatingly deep drop off was very blue, maybe Pacific Blue even.
On his return, Mr C. came bearing a gift. Beaming with delight, he climbed aboard, offered this heart to me and said, “I was walking on an atoll in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. I saw this, and I thought of you.”
My heart gave a little flip, and I accepted the gift with grace and gratitude, along with a big hug. Meanwhile, I scanned the perimeter of the atoll, looking for an enterprising Tongan coral carver handing out free samples.
And the first time? The best of all. When Mr C. gave his heart until death do us part to become husband and wife, in my book, his enduring romantic gesture.
The second time Mr C. gave me a heart was on one of the first long flights together. In the early days of our marriage, travel and flying were not a matter of course. For years, I had been assuaging my yearning to travel to far-flung places, experience new cultures, and meet new people by browsing the 900s stacks at the library.
On this occasion, we had several flights in order to reach our destination. An early start and the inherent issues around holidays and children left me a little frazzled. Being onboard a plane is a surefire way to melt my stress away, and this trip was no different. By the second leg of the flight, I had relaxed and made myself comfy with a good book well under way.
Landing at the next airport, the flight assistant informed us you are welcome to leave the plane for thirty minutes, however, please board promptly. Remember, air travel was simpler in those times.
Immersed in my book, we all know this feeling, I passed on the chance to accompany Mr C. on one of his leg stretching escapades.
On time, he strutted down the aisle, then plonked himself down in his seat, a look of quiet satisfaction all over his chops. “Happy Valentine’s Day.” He says, pulling something out of his pocket and dropping it in my lap.
Oh wow, a palm sized, solid chocolate heart wrapped in vermillion foil. And it was as thick as my thumb. I was stunned. My first valentine gift and he had outdone himself. It was beautiful; it was unexpected, and it was big. Any chocoholic appreciates quality first with size a close second.
We settled in for the last leg of our journey, the longest. The shining heart, oddly reminiscent of the religious icon in the wall niche of my childhood home, also needed a special nook to rest in. Initially, I was going to place it in the seat pocket, but no, I thought, it may melt. The tray table seemed the safest option. I arranged the heart at the top of the tray a fraction above the sight line of my book. Through chapter, air mile and food service, there it stayed. Glinting, teasing, reminding.
One of the many wonderful attributes Mr C. holds is appreciating chocolate. Naturally, I would never eat the heart onboard. The care and attention he had shown in using his precious leg stretch time to secure a token of his esteem for me warranted sharing the morsel together. A gift as fine as this was not to be scoffed like a cheap confection. Oh no. From the delicate label affixed to the foil centre on the back, I knew a true chocolatier had manufactured this. This heart would require time and consideration to truly appreciate the experience. For what is chocolate but crushed beans, some crystal molecules and a few other flavours? The alchemy happens when the first bite hits the mouth. That is when the parts become a whole and the experience of chocolate reaches greatness.
And so there it sat. I couldn’t stop smiling from ear to ear. Now and then It caught my eye like a beacon, sparkling away on the grey tray table. Mr C. had excelled himself this time, so much so that I never once interrupted his movie or signaled for the headphones to come off. I just squeezed his hand now and again, accompanied by an occasional tender glance.
When it came time to deplane, I placed the heart into my handbag with care. Our seats were at the rear of the aircraft, so what followed was the normal long traverse to the exit in single file. We dodged luggage extraction from overhead bins, giving a nod to allow the passenger bent into an impossible shape to go ahead of you, inane conversation with strangers, thanking each attendant as you pass and noticing the detritus a few hundred humans leave behind.
Our trek almost over, we joined as a twosome for the last stretch down the air bridge. “They were giving those out for free, weren’t they?” I accused Mr C. based on the of dozens of red foil wrappers discarded the length of the plane.
Mr C. giggled and strode off to stretch his legs.
The third time I received the heart pictured above. We had just spent five days crossing the South Pacific Ocean from New Zealand to Minerva Reef. To this day, I still am in awe of the ability we have to travel across vast oceans with no visual aids and arrive at precisely the spot you need to. Of course, we had modern technology, unlike sailors in earlier times, however, when we first sailed together, we used the same methods they did.
After just under 600nm of nothing, not a bird, not a boat or any form of sea life, the sight of waves breaking over a thin ring of land in the middle of the ocean was both magical and nerve-wracking. The narrow passage inside the 4mi (6.8km) circular atoll is a make or break maneuver. Lack of sleep and eagerness to anchor add to the heightened tension of helming through a treacherous gap with dangers hidden below. All of which can hole a yacht and leave you somewhat under resourced a long way from help.
Up to the highest point I could climb, I went. About three feet off the deck. Let’s leave the heroics for hero’s, I wasn’t climbing the mast. From my vantage point, I looked out for sharp objects and Mr. C. helmed us safely through the gap.
Anchoring in pristine turquoise water, white sand visible on the bottom of the lagoon, one yacht in the endless ocean. We reveled in the simple pleasures. A cup of tea without a lid on it, a meal served on a plate instead of eaten from a Tupperware container, a shower outside in a tropical downpour but best of all, an entire night’s sleep in a bed, relatively flat at that.
The next day meant exploration. Twice a day, at low tide, you can walk on the narrow strip exposed on top of the reef. What makes it really interesting is that on one side, there are 30 feet (9 meters) of water, while on the ocean side, there is a sheer drop of 2000 feet (600 meters). I have a long held fear of edges, especially ones with waves breaking over them, so I did the responsible thing and stayed with the boat.
Mr C. zipped off in the dinghy and stretched his legs like a modern day Colombus, while I peeked through my fingers. My fear of edges extends to people I care about. Reports were that the coral atoll looked like a coral atoll and that the devastatingly deep drop off was very blue, maybe Pacific Blue even.
On his return, Mr C. came bearing a gift. Beaming with delight, he climbed aboard, offered this heart to me and said, “I was walking on an atoll in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. I saw this, and I thought of you.”
My heart gave a little flip, and I accepted the gift with grace and gratitude, along with a big hug. Meanwhile, I scanned the perimeter of the atoll, looking for an enterprising Tongan coral carver handing out free samples.
And the first time? The best of all. When Mr C. gave his heart until death do us part to become husband and wife, in my book, his enduring romantic gesture.
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