Courage is not the absence of fear or despair; it is the capacity to continue on despite them, no matter how great or overwhelming they become. —Mark Twain
Sometimes I agree to things too quickly without asking enough questions. That’s what happened when I first moved to Santa Barbara.
I began working as CEO of Girl Scouts of Tres Condados, serving the central coast of California, in June of 1995. Tamara Skov, a charming representative from the local United Way met with me shortly after I began working there.
“United Way has decided to add someone from the nonprofit sector to their annual campaign cabinet, overseeing the workplace giving program,” Tamara said. “We would love for you to be our nonprofit representative.”
I hesitated. I didn’t know many people in town yet, but I figured this might be a good way to meet people, so I agreed. Later that decision created major challenges with some of my new colleagues.
The idea was that each business conducted a campaign in their workplace to raise funds for United Way, which they in turn granted to various organizations. Now, for the first time, nonprofits were going to be invited to conduct similar drives.
I thought it would be important for my own organization to set a good example for the others if I was going to be the leader. So, I decided to create an incentive for my staff to contribute to that year’s campaign. I asked several staff members and even some of the older Girl Scouts for their suggestions. It was decided that if 100 percent of staff contributed to the campaign, I would kiss a pig. I quickly agreed because I figured there was no way they could reach that level of giving.
I was wrong.
All the staff enthusiastically contributed to the workplace giving drive and they were thrilled that their new CEO would now have to kiss a pig. United Way dressed someone up in a large pig costume for their big celebration, and I had to kiss it while everyone clapped loudly.
But the girls had other ideas. They wanted me to kiss a real pig.
One of them was a member of the 4-H Club and she was raising pigs. She decided she would bring one of her animals to our headquarters for me to kiss in front of staff, volunteers and other girls. That made for some exciting theater, but I didn’t tell them that it wasn’t nearly as crazy and gross as they thought it was going to be for me—because I used to raise pigs when I was rearing my children.
Everyone was thrilled to watch their new CEO actually kiss a live pig.
Next, it was time for me to call a meeting of all the leaders of the nonprofits to let them know about United Way including them as their own category for the year’s giving. I hadn’t met most of the executives yet, but I used the opportunity to introduce myself. I cheerily announced that the nonprofits would have their own special place in the campaign this year.
Silence filled the room, and I noticed many squirming nervously in their seats.
I later discovered that most of the organizational leadership was angry at United Way because of a funding shortfall the previous year that had a devastating impact on them. So, they weren’t eager to help United Way raise money.
I knew I had to do something fast, so I invited them to meet me at my office to discuss it further.
We had many meetings over the next several months where they vented their anger at Paul Didier, United Way’s CEO, blaming him for the shortfall. They demanded a meeting with him. I figured that he had enough on his plate since the campaign had begun and I didn’t think anything positive would come from such a meeting.
So, I invited them to my office for yet another meeting. “Let’s think of a project we could all do together with or without the help of United Way,” I said. “What kind of a new program would really benefit the families in our community?”
The mood changed quickly as they voiced their exciting ideas. The most popular one was to have a summer camp program in the park for low-income children. Each nonprofit would contribute its own expertise. We decided to call it Fun in the Sun.
I met with Paul to tell him about the plan after we completed our program design. I told him that United Way would be invited to participate and contribute if they liked, but it wasn’t necessary. He was mildly in favor of trying the idea. He still didn’t know that this plan had grown out of much anger and distrust and that I had intentionally shielded him from the potential fallout.
Five nonprofits worked together for three years to create a beautiful day camp experience for many local low-income children. United Way was impressed with the growth of the program and offered to take over the leadership, contributing an increased amount of funding. They also enlisted the help of several other nonprofits and opened it up for businesses to participate, as well. Today Fun in the Sun has grown into one of the largest and most popular programs of United Way, involving hundreds of volunteers, nonprofits and businesses.
This reminds me of President Harry Truman’s famous quote, “It’s amazing what you can accomplish if you don’t care who gets the credit.”
Attending my first United Way fundraising event rattled my confidence.
It was a fancy affair held at the elegant Coral Casino with over 200 guests. I stood just inside the entrance, gazing around at all the lavish décor and impressive crowd. I didn’t know a soul. It was my job to meet people and mingle with these attendees, but I felt self-conscious and somewhat embarrassed. I didn’t know what to do first.
“Pretend all of these people have come to your home and it is your job to make them feel welcome,” I said to myself. “Focus on the guests, not yourself.”
Before long I was meeting people and enjoying lively conversations. I’ve used that lesson on many occasions over the years and I have taught others this secret trick of feeling comfortable in new situations.
My career at Girl Scouts gave me many opportunities for leadership development. The national organization, GSUSA, conducted many conferences each year for leaders of the 400 Girl Scout councils in the country. Top-notch presenters such as Jim Collins, Frances Hesselbein, Stephen Covey and Peter Drucker taught us the fine points of leadership. I eagerly attended all these meetings and devoured the various books and materials.
One of my favorites was Frances Hesselbein’s admonishment that leaders should focus on their “being” rather than their “doing.” She said a leader should first know who they are and what values they hold dear. Their actions should always flow from their belief system. That advice has served me well for many years.
One of my preferred approaches to leadership has always been as a servant leader. The premise of this style is that the most effective leaders are those who see themselves as a servant first and a leader second. The servant leader focuses primarily on the growth and well-being of each of their staff members. Sharing power and putting the needs of others first helps co-workers develop and perform at higher levels.
This, in turn, creates a stronger team and organization. It has always given me great pleasure to pass these ideas on to my staff and help them develop in their career. Of course, this approach requires that co-workers are competent and committed. I’ve noticed that those employees who don’t respond well to this method of leadership usually self-select to work elsewhere. I have consistently had the good fortune to work with top notch co-workers.
One of the first organizations I joined when I relocated to Santa Barbara was the Downtown Rotary Club. I made so many friends there, found board members for Girl Scouts and developed relationships with donors. I loved sitting in the Reagan Room at the Doubletree Hotel on Fridays, eating lunch while admiring the beautiful beach walk area. Sometimes I wanted to pinch myself to make sure it was all real.
One day they had a raffle with the main prize being an all-expense paid trip anywhere in the world. I bought a few raffle tickets and gave them to the member in charge, but I couldn’t attend the meeting on the day they pulled out the winning ticket.
The next day, I received a phone call from my friend and Rotarian, Robert Dibley, announcing that they pulled my ticket out as the winner. I was stunned. I don’t think I had ever won anything before, certainly not such a big prize. I tried to think of all my options but kept coming back to a trip to Ireland. I had always wanted to go there and since my mother told me I had Irish heritage, it made this choice even more attractive.
I always preferred active vacations, so I began looking for available bike rides on the Internet. Before long, I chose one, made my plane reservations and was off on my grand adventure.
My plane left from Los Angeles, then on to Heathrow and then landed in Galway City for my ten-day biking vacation with Irish Cycling Safaris. Once checked into my hotel, I met the group which consisted of 17 women from all over the world. John McDermott, our trip leader, was actually a schoolteacher in the little town of Galway. My friend, Lisa Lundquist, with whom I had worked at the Child Abuse Prevention Council in Stockton, accompanied me on the trip.
Every morning, we all gathered to hear about the route we would take and where we would meet up at the end of the day. There was always a hard way with hills and an easier, flatter route. I always chose the more difficult path, and Lisa would choose the less challenging route. We made a good team because we could compare notes at the end of each day.
Everything was so green with fluffy sheep everywhere I looked. Thankfully there were hardly any cars, so the riding was without a lot of hazards. On the fifth day, we rode to Croagh Patrick and a few of us climbed the steep 2,500-foot mountain.
The word Croagh means cone-shaped mountain in Gaelic and the story is told that St. Patrick climbed to the top to throw all the snakes into the sea—which is why there are no snakes in Ireland. At least that is the story.
Climbing that mountain was an incredible experience. Locals consider it a pilgrimage to honor St. Patrick, so as people walk up or down the mountain, they greet each other with a nod and one word: “Pilgrim.” About two-thirds of the way up, the trail got really steep with round rocks sliding over each other making it hard to get a foothold. I had to squat down low to be able to continue climbing. Descending the mountain was even more challenging.
When I got home, I read a travel book on Ireland that I had neglected to read beforehand. “We don’t recommend climbing the final third of the mountain because it is very steep, and many people are injured coming down,” it said.
Most of our group didn’t go all the way to the top, but I’m glad I did. I’m also glad I didn’t read that book until I got back home.
Later that afternoon we were preparing to ride the remainder of the 30-mile journey through the beautiful Delphi Valley into the quiet village of Leenane. As we rode down the hill into the picturesque town, I intentionally positioned myself at the end of the line of cyclists because I always carried a first-aid kit and wanted to be in a good position in case anyone needed help.
We were riding in a line at a pretty quick pace when the metal water bottle belonging to Helen, the cyclist directly in front of me, fell off and landed right in line with my front tire. I hit it and went flying over the handlebars right into a stone bridge. I don’t remember many details, but I recall seeing my blood all over the road.
John, our leader, called the ambulance and, as we waited, one of the riders fashioned a sling out of scarves for my injured right arm. The ambulance finally arrived and drove me over a very rough road for an hour to the hospital in Galway. I was glad when my friend Lisa insisted on coming with me in the ambulance. I felt every bump because my injuries were so extensive. Thankfully I was wearing a helmet because it was destroyed instead of my head. In fact, John asked me if he could keep the battered helmet to demonstrate to his students the importance of wearing head protection.
I barely remember being x-rayed but soon a doctor came out and said in a very harsh voice, “There is nothing broken.”
“Oh gosh, why am I in so much pain and can hardly breathe?” I asked.
“I do not know. I am not in your body. But there is nothing broken,” he angrily barked at me. “You are free to go.” Even though I explained how my head hurt and that my thinking was muddled, he never brought up any concerns about a head injury.
I thanked him and off I went to figure out how to get back to the hotel. I had indeed banged my head pretty hard, and I just couldn’t think straight. Plus, the doctor basically said I was okay. “Just buck up, the doctor said you’re fine,” I said to myself.
I still don’t remember how I got back to the hotel but as soon as I lay down on the bed, I felt so much pain that I knew I wouldn’t be riding the next day. I called John and told him.
Early the next morning I was in such agony that I knew I had to go home. We were just a little over halfway through our 10-day trip. I’m not a quitter, but all I could think of was getting home. So about 5:00 a.m. I called a taxi to take me to the airport. When it arrived, I hauled my heavy suitcases down the steep stairs and put them in the cab, still remembering that the doctor said I was fine.
Getting down the stairs and into the cab was a struggle, but I didn’t know that getting home would be even more treacherous. Much later I would find out the serious extent of my injuries. It turns out I was not okay.
When I arrived at the airport with my luggage, I went to the ticket counter and asked if I could get on the next plane from Galway to Heathrow. “It’s Labor Day weekend so you’ll have to be on stand-by,” the attendant said. “Go sit over there and I’ll let you know if there’s a seat left.”
I wasn’t thinking straight because of my head injury, so it never occurred to me to explain that I had been injured and needed help. I just went over to the bank of chairs and sat down in a daze.
After what seemed like a long time, I went back to the counter to inquire about a seat. She said there was one seat left and I could have it. I gratefully shuffled down the walkway onto the plane and took the only remaining seat. My brain was foggy and my body hurt all over.
When the plane arrived at the Heathrow Airport, a short impish looking porter arrived at my seat with a wheelchair and motioned for me to sit in it. I thought there was a mistake. No one knew I was hurt. I asked if he was sure the wheelchair was for me. He never spoke but just gestured for me to sit in the chair. I gingerly got up and sat down as instructed.
Then I was off for a wild ride. Heathrow is enormous and this porter who never said one word whisked me up one corridor and down another, up multiple elevators and through large crowds of travelers. I closed my eyes when I became dizzy.
We finally arrived at the gate for the plane to Los Angeles. I asked the gate attendant if I could get on the plane. I had no idea how the porter knew where I needed to go. He seemed almost like a real-life angel. “This is a busy weekend, and the plane is full,” the attendant said. “Sit over there and I’ll call you if there’s a seat left.” The porter deposited me in a seat as instructed and off he went without a word.
Right at the moment when I was thinking I should go check in with the gate attendant to see if there is a seat left, the diminutive porter reappeared with his wheelchair and motioned for me to sit in it. As soon as I sat down, he rolled me onto the plane and motioned me to sit in the only seat left on the plane, in the front row. Once again, he vanished without a word. I felt relieved to have a seat, but I was in so much discomfort. All I could do was sit there in pain without moving or even speaking with my handsome seatmate.
“Hey I think I am in sitting in business class,” I said to myself after five hours of the 11-hour flight. “I think this is where they give you champagne.”
I asked the flight attendant for some champagne. When she brought the glass, I drank it quickly. “Thank you, I think I need a lot of champagne now, please,” I said. After a couple more glasses of bubbles the pain subsided. I sighed and thought, “Ok, I think I’ll be okay.”
At that point, I could actually have a conversation with my seatmate. I learned his name was Hank and told him about the bike accident and that I was on my way home to Santa Barbara. Hank said he was a professor at UCSB and on his way to Santa Barbara as well. When we arrived at the Los Angeles airport, Hank helped me to the ticket counter where the attendant reiterated that I would have to wait as stand-by.
At the last moment, she said there was one seat left (it happened to be right next to Hank). I boarded the plane and was off to Santa Barbara.
While on the short flight home, Hank said his girlfriend was picking him up at the Santa Barbara airport and offered to drop me off at home. I gratefully accepted his kind offer.
When we arrived at my charming mother-in-law type cottage in the middle of the exclusive Hope Ranch estates, he carried my luggage inside and bid me farewell. Of course, I thanked them both profusely. The first thing I wanted to do was lay down on my bed but as soon as I stretched out, I felt such pain that I immediately struggled to get off the bed and onto my feet.
Now I was standing in the dark in the middle of my living room, not knowing what to do. My brain was rattled, and every part of my body ached. I couldn’t think of a solution. All I wanted to do was go to sleep but I couldn’t even lie down on my bed.
I picked up my portable phone and dialed my neighbor Kathy’s number. She lived just across the walkway in a similar cottage. Kathy immediately came over. After assessing the situation, she brought me an old crusty blue pain pill she found in her medicine chest and arranged pillows on my living room futon so I could recline a bit. After Kathy covered me with a blanket, she returned home. Thankfully I was able to sleep.
I woke up at 5:00 the next morning thinking I had plenty of time to get ready to go to the 9:00 mass at the Old Mission (which is where I went every Sunday). I knew better than to try driving myself there, so I asked Kathy to take me. She said she wanted to drive me to Cottage Hospital’s Emergency Room for x-rays, but I explained that I already had x-rays at the hospital in Ireland and the doctor said I was fine.
She reluctantly drove me to the Mission.
I found a seat in the second row from the front, which was exactly where I usually sat. Part way through the mass I began to feel nauseated. I carefully let myself out the side door and into the bathroom just down the hall, where I vomited. After rinsing my mouth out, I quietly returned to my seat. When it was time for communion, I rose with the others and took my place in line. I took the host from the priest and walked over to take the cup from the deacon, Carl. He looked at me and motioned for his wife, Darlene, who was sitting in the front row, to come over. “Something is wrong with Cynder, I hardly recognize her,” he said to his wife. “You need to take her home right away.”
Darlene drove me home and helped me lay down on my futon. After she left, I had the feeling I should let someone know there was something wrong with me. The only person I could think of was my friend, Sister Helen Heher, whom I had visited at the Benedictine Monastery in Erie, Pennsylvania. I don’t know why it never occurred to me to call my mother, or my co-workers, or local friends or any of my kids. I did know that Helen and her fellow sisters would actively pray for me. I guess I still figured I was fine but knew I could use prayers.
As it turned out, Sister Helen thought I sounded very strange on the phone and was worried about me. She was good friends with Kristin Frascella and Linda Reed, two of my co-workers at Girl Scouts. Helen called Kristin to tell her to check on me and then Kristin called Linda. Kristin and Linda were both busy, so Linda called her sister, Jo Little.
By now my neighbor Kathy had come over to check on me and insisted on taking me to Cottage Hospital. When Jo called to check on me, I explained I was on my way to Cottage. Jo said she would meet me there.
As soon as I arrived at the hospital a nurse gave me a shot of morphine because I was in such pain. What we didn’t know at the time was that among other injuries soon to be discovered, my lung had collapsed. As it turns out, the morphine further depressed my system, and I lost consciousness.
“Well, I guess it’s time for me to go,” I said to myself as I lay on the gurney. It all felt very matter-of-fact. As I thought this, I seemed to drift out of my body and hover near the ceiling looking down on myself.
Later Jo told me that at that moment the nurse ran down the hallway yelling, “Help, this woman is having a cardiac arrest!” Of course, I don’t remember any of this. I just recall that I woke up in a hospital bed upstairs.
I asked the nurse to call my primary care physician, but he said he couldn’t come see me because he didn’t work on weekends. So, Linda called her doctor, Dr. Naomi Parry. Soon she was examining me and determined that I had broken ribs, a collapsed lung, a bleeding liver and a traumatic brain injury. I also had multiple contusions, several hematomas and my bike pedal had gone into my leg to the bone.
Dr. Parry couldn’t believe that I had survived the plane ride home alone from Ireland with such severe injuries.
I was in the hospital for ten days while they evaluated and treated my wounds. I was released to the care of Dr. Parry and a neurologist, Dr. Harbaugh. My physical injuries healed after a month or so, but Dr. Harbaugh continued treating my head injury for a year.
When I expressed frustration at how long the healing was taking, he said, “You have the worst head injury a person can have and still be alive, so be patient with yourself.”
Dr. Parry also referred me to Michael Luan who was a chiropractor and acupuncturist specializing in cranial-sacral work. He was very intuitive and immediately recognized that I had serious injuries the moment I walked into his office even though I was trying hard to look normal. His work was very instrumental in my healing process.
Most days I just lay on my futon with the sliding door open so I could hear the birds through the screen door. My friends, Kate Silsbury and Dodie Little, brought over meals and kept me company. My buddies, Andy and Annie Clark, came over one day and asked what they could do for me.
When I couldn’t think of anything, they got busy and swept my patio and cleaned up my yard. I asked them to drink the beer in my refrigerator because I wasn’t much of a beer drinker. They gladly complied.
Father Vince from the Mission came by several times to pray for me. All in all, I was well taken care of. I just didn’t have much energy; my thinking was fuzzy and I slept a lot. Of course, my neighbor Kathy kept a close eye on me.
After a month or so, I was strong enough to go back to work at Girl Scouts. I couldn’t drive myself, so each day one of my staff would pick me up and drive me home. One staff member, Jena Jenkins, decided to take matters into her own hands by organizing a team of caretakers for me.
She created an itinerary of duties and then invited everyone to sign up for a shift. She arranged for people to drive me to work, bring me lunch, take me to the various doctor appointments and drive me home. “When you drive Cynder to the doctor you have to go in with her and write down what the doctor says because she can’t remember anything,” Jena told them. “And then you have to make sure she follows instructions.”
I healed gradually during the year following the accident. Everything seemed in slow motion. My mental and physical functioning were at pretty low levels. It was so contrary to my usual abundance of energy and curious mind. I couldn’t even manage to be frustrated because everything was so foggy. But thanks to great friends and staff watching after me I pronounced myself healed after a year.
I did (and still do) however, have a few remaining issues: a little short-term memory loss from time to time, sensory overload when the environment is too chaotic and inability to cope with noise or commotion. All in all, I know I am very lucky to be alive and grateful to have healed so completely.
When I returned from Ireland, I had to ask for a leave of absence from my master’s program at University of Phoenix because I couldn’t focus on the computer screen or complete any of the assignments. Thankfully they granted my request, and I was able to resume my studies after a few months.
Sometime later, when it was nearing time for graduation, I received a request from the university asking if I would consider speaking at the graduation ceremony. I was honored and thrilled to be asked but I was nervous about the idea because I still had some short-term memory loss. Also, crowds and loud noise bothered me a lot. But I agreed to do it because I didn’t want to pass up this unique opportunity.
When I arrived at the graduation, I learned there were 6,000 people in the audience. I was deeply afraid that I would forget my speech or get flummoxed by the crowds. But thankfully my speech went smoothly and was very well received. I was proud of myself. I still am.
Two years later, in September of 2002, I decided I wanted to go on an extended backpacking trip. I already had a lot of the equipment because of all the camping I did with Girl Scouts, but I made a list of what I needed and went to REI for the lightest gear they had.
I identified an outfitter that led 10-day backpacking trips throughout Southern Utah. I signed up and carefully followed all their instructions on packing, preparation, and driving directions. I was excited because I had never been on such a long and arduous journey like this, especially all by myself. As it turned out, there were six couples on the trip and me. This meant the couples could share the weight burden between themselves, but I had to carry the 50-pound pack by myself. Thankfully I was strong, and it worked out fine.
I met them all in St. George, Utah and we proceeded to navigate the 40-mile washboard road to the trailhead in Escalante National Park. I drove my relatively new copper-colored, stick-shift Saturn and provided transportation to two other hikers. I had never been on such a bumpy road before—the jarring route seemed unending. Finally, we arrived at the site, parked our cars, loaded up all our gear and headed to the trailhead.
We walked through the stunning Grand Staircase rock formations, towering over the red rock landscape. I had never seen anything so beautiful! We hiked several miles to our first campsite. Even though my pack was heavy, it was fairly comfortable, and I was glad that my hiking boots were serving me well. I was surprised to notice that we were the only people out there. It was like our own little world.
After setting up our tents and organizing our campsite, each of us put together a day pack and hiked a mile or so to the Escalante River. We walked through the river, with the chilly water advancing to our waist in some areas. It was pretty hot, so the cool water felt good. Just as we rounded the bend of the river, I looked up to the top of a massive rock formation with a hole in the top and saw an eagle fly right through the hole. I held my breath as I watched it glide by.
We took many day hikes during the 10-day period and made camp at three different locations. We traversed the Grand Staircase rock formations, swam in freezing cold pools of water and explored the Anastazi cave drawings. After this incredibly exhilarating and tiring trip it was time to head back. We piled all our gear into our respective cars and began the long drive down the 40-mile washboard road.
But now there was a big problem. It had been raining while we were gone, and the narrow road was covered in a sort of mud soup. I had to keep my eyes on the road and feel the car’s movement every second so we wouldn’t slip over the edge of the road down into the deep ravine below—as many 4-wheel drive trucks had done earlier. I was glad for the stick shift because it gave me good control, especially at the slow speed we had to drive.
It was important to me to get back to our hotel at the appointed date and time because I had to log onto my school site to get credit for a class I was taking for my Master’s program with University of Phoenix, which I had started just before the trip. This was before modern-day Wi-Fi, and I knew that the dial-up modem could present a challenge. Everyone was talking about how they wanted to take a shower and eat dinner when we got back, but I was focused on getting connected to my class, regardless of how dirty or hungry I was.
Just then I saw a big problem. The heavy rain that fell while we were gone had created a flash flood that was blocking the road back to town. At that point I didn’t really know what a flash flood was. I had heard the term but didn’t know what it meant. I just saw it as a bunch of water obstructing my path to my goal of logging into my class. I was determined to get through.
I quickly devised a plan. I positioned my car about 25 yards from the water, put it in park and started walking toward the flooded area. I wanted to walk in the water to see where the highest side was so I could aim for that to get across. Once I determined it was higher on the left side I walked back to the car. My two hiker passengers were very nervous about our situation. I calmly explained my plan to them and said they could wait on this side of the flood, and I would send someone to get them later or they could stay in my car. They decided to stay.
My plan worked perfectly. I got up speed and then downshifted and punched the accelerator just as I got to the water. The car shot through the water like a rocket, and we made it safely to the other side. It was only after I got home and told someone the story that I found out what a flash flood is and how dangerous it can be. Turns out I was pretty lucky.
After many false starts, including moving a couch away from the living room wall of the house we were staying in so I could access the modem, I was able to log onto my class and write a short paper to get credit. Of course, the dinner and shower felt divine when I finally got to them.
In June of 1995, shortly after I started my new position at Girl Scouts, our HR manager walked into my office and asked for my vacation dates. Vacation was not even on my radar, especially since up to that point I had never taken one alone. I told her I didn’t have any dates, but she insisted that collecting every staff member’s vacation dates was part of her job. I gave her some dates and began to wonder where I would go.
My parents had owned a nice condo on the Big Island of Hawaii in Kona for many years and we had gone there often together. I decided this would be a good place for my vacation. After purchasing my plane ticket, reserving the condo and packing my suitcase, I left for my 10-day Hawaiian vacation. I felt like Alice in Wonderland because everything was so new. I wasn’t used to going on such an adventure by myself and didn’t know what to expect.
When I arrived at the Kailua-Kona Airport, I gathered a big selection of trip brochures describing all sorts of outdoor activities. I got settled into the condo and spread the pamphlets on the dining room table so I could begin to make plans.
Every day after breakfast I would go on an adventure, return home to shower, plan the next day’s adventure, put on a sundress and go to a fancy hotel on the water to enjoy a Mai Tai and watch the sunset.
The first day I made reservations for a kayaking trip. I had never been kayaking, so the idea was thrilling. When I arrived, I discovered that the rain had driven away the others with reservations and I was there alone with the tour guide. After teaching me the basics of maneuvering and paddling a kayak, we launched out into the ocean. I was glad to have all his attention since I didn’t really know what I was doing, but I caught on pretty quickly.
We paddled out past the waves and then dropped anchors to keep the kayaks from drifting. Then we dove down several feet beneath the surface and the guide pointed to an octopus. I squealed with delight as he raised it up and watched it squirt out a black inky substance. After admiring the octopus for a while, the guide returned it to its home.
Visiting Hawaii and creating impromptu adventures became my preferred way of vacationing over the next several years. I visited Kauai, Maui, Oahu and the Hilo and Kona sides of the Big Island. Each time I had new and exciting escapades.
I drove to the top of Haleakala on Maui just before dawn; where it was so elevated that the temperature was below freezing. I then rode a bicycle the 26 miles to the bottom of the steep hill. Thrilling!
I hiked the Iao Needle in Maui’s Iao Valley years before it became a tourist attraction. Just as the character in one of my favorite books, The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe, I walked through the thick bushes into a wonderland stretching for miles along a meandering stream. I never saw a soul that day and didn’t worry about getting lost because I could follow the stream back to the entrance.
I sat under a lush Koa tree and proceeded to eat the lunch I carried in my backpack and then meandered through this magical forest. Many hours later I emerged from the secret glade and headed back to my condo.
While on Maui I also rented a car and drove the long, windy road to Hana. I’m glad I had this experience, but I probably don’t feel the need to do it again because I got so sleepy on the long drive. I remember driving faster the sleepier I got, thinking it would help me stay awake. Looking back, I realize that probably wasn’t the best strategy. Thankfully I made it back intact.
I hiked the famous 11-mile Kalalau Trail on Kauai, moving along the stunning Na Pali Coast to the Hanakapiai Falls and then on to Kalalau Valley. There weren’t many people on the trail that day because the recent rain created a muddy, treacherous path. The sheer drop-off to the rocks and waves below required sure footing.
Even though it was scary, I couldn’t resist hiking the trail that day. I was just really careful and kept my eyes focused ahead. When I returned to my hotel, I was absolutely filthy and covered in mud. I felt bad for the chambermaid because no matter how hard I tried I couldn’t get all the mud out of the bathtub after washing up.
One year several of my fellow Girl Scout CEOs asked if I wanted to go scuba diving with them on the Big Island. “Sure that sounds like fun,” I said. I didn’t tell them that I had never been scuba diving. I was hoping I could learn and get certified before the trip, which was three months away. I quickly signed up for scuba lessons at Anacapa Dive Center in Santa Barbara. The first few sessions were in their large swimming pool.
As soon as I climbed into the wetsuit and put on the big tank, regulator and fins, I realized that my long history with claustrophobia would be a problem. Still, I was determined to go diving with my friends which meant I had to complete my scuba certification.
The first of the required three dives was from Butterfly Beach. As I walked across the warm sand on that hot day, I felt claustrophobic before I even got in the water.
I told my assigned diving partner that if I had to go back to shore early, he should just keep going. I knew this was against the diving rules we had learned, but I wanted to give both of us a way out of a potential pickle.
My panic grew as I swam further out into the ocean. What if I couldn’t get out of the water fast enough and ran out of air? Once again, I remembered my resolve to complete the dive.
“Okay you have two choices,” I calmly said to myself. “You can go back up to the top and stop the dive or you can go a little further and take a closer look at that fish and the reef over there.”
The more I looked at the underwater mystery unfolding before me, the less panicky I felt. Whenever I felt anxious, I made myself find something interesting to investigate on the ocean floor. That strategy worked every time.
After successfully finishing the beach dive, it was time for the two required boat dives. We all boarded the Truth dive boat and set out for the three-hour ride to the Channel Islands to begin our dive. I used much of this travel time to remind myself about my newly acquired skill at ignoring the fear and focusing on the beauty below.
After an exhilarating boat ride through the glistening ocean and playful dolphins, we anchored off Anacapa Island. Jumping into the cold Pacific waves was pretty scary, but once I was in the water I began to feel confident. I hurried beneath the surface to find something beautiful to keep my mind off the dread. Before long I was feeling comfortable and completely enjoying the ethereal beauty of the coral reef and fascinating varieties of marine life.
I felt so proud of myself when I completed the certification. I had a wonderful time in Hawaii with my friends and never told them about my newly acquired certification. I even got a tattoo of a dolphin on my shoulder by a local tattoo artist to commemorate my accomplishment, while my friends cheered me on from the sidelines.
While serving as CEO of Girl Scouts I developed close friendships with many of my board members, including Cathy Steinke who was the HR Director for Santa Barbara Bank & Trust. One day Cathy invited me to go with her to church at the Old Mission.
“Oh Cathy, I can’t go to the Mission,” I said. “I think it’s Catholic.” “Of course it is,” she said. “I can’t go to a Catholic church,” I said. Because they have all these rules about when to sit and stand and what to say. I won’t know what to do and I’ll embarrass you.” She assured me it would be fine. “Besides we’re all going to brunch afterward,” she said.
That next Sunday I took a seat with Cathy near the front by the aisle. As I turned to watch the processional, I was transfixed by the beauty and symbolism. Each gesture of the priest and others in the procession brought to mind a scripture. My mind was like a computer on steroids connecting each movement and symbol with a different scripture.
It was as though all of the Bible reading and study I had done over the years was coming to life as a carefully orchestrated play right before my eyes. It wasn’t long before I was deeply immersed in life at the Mission and ultimately went through the process of becoming a Catholic.
I served as a lector, a finance committee member, a Eucharistic minister and I even taught RCIA class for the adults who wanted to become Catholic. Every Sunday, for many years, I enjoyed a rich spiritual experience at the Mission.
One day Cathy told me she wanted me to meet Michael McGrath, a friend of hers. She introduced us during brunch at Harry’s Restaurant following mass at the Mission. At first, Michael and I accompanied Cathy and her partner, Mark Gross, to dinner and various events. Michael and I quickly hit it off and began to date frequently.
Michael was a great dancer and we often went to SOhO to dance after enjoying dinner at The Chase or one of his other favorite restaurants. He had a terrific sense of humor and was very charming. Michael had served as a public defender for Santa Barbara County for 35 years. He was also a staunch Catholic and beloved member of the Mission, attending mass every day of the week. The worst thing he could ever say about someone was, “Oh he’s hard to love.”
One evening, after about six months of dating, he took me to El Encanto Restaurant for a romantic dinner. After our nightcap we walked out to the balcony where he asked me to marry him. When I said yes, he put a beautiful diamond ring on my finger. Six months after that we were married at the Old Mission.
Father Vince conducted our pre-marital counseling and officiated our wedding ceremony, along with Father Virgil. “Hurry, bring the cameras, this will be the best wedding ceremony ever!” Father Vince said to his assistant, Pat.
Because of my deep knowledge of scripture and my love of the Catholic rituals I wanted to be sure that every part of the ceremony reflected Michael’s and my beliefs.
As we planned the ceremony Father Vince would often say, “Oh we don’t usually include that in a wedding ceremony.” For example, I wanted the priest to be the first to walk down the aisle holding the cross up high, but this is usually only part of a regular Sunday mass.
I wanted the initial focus to be on the cross and all it represents rather on the bride and groom. And I wanted a deacon to follow with an incense urn to represent our prayers as sweet fragrance to God. This, too, was normally reserved for Sunday mass. Thankfully, they granted all my requests.
The stunning Old Mission was packed to capacity on our wedding day, February 28, 1997. Jane Mauer’s angelic voice resounded from atop the nave throughout the church, blessing every ear with sweet melodies. Madaline and Nicole, Michael’s two daughters, gave the Epistle and Old Testament readings, Father Virgil read the Gospel, and Father Vince gave a touching homily.
When we were planning the wedding reception, I told Michael that I had learned that Catholics like potlucks and red wine. I suggested that we invite our guests to bring their favorite dish for the reception rather than a wedding gift.
We hired two people to dress in formal attire and receive the food as wedding attendees drove into the Mission parking lot. They put the dishes in the refrigerator or oven, as appropriate. Once the reception started, these same people kept the food coming out at optimum temperature. Of course there was plenty of red wine.
Later people raved about the food (mainly because attendees made their favorite recipes since it was our “gift”). We hired the popular local band, Leslie Lembo’s Raw Silk, to perform the dance music. Our guests said it was the best reception they had ever attended. In fact, many years later people were still referring to our wedding and reception as “the party at the Mission.”
I moved into Michael’s sweet house on a hill overlooking Santa Barbara and we began to establish our routine, which included daily mass attendance at the Mission. It wasn’t long before I began to notice something in Michael I had not seen before. He was controlling and had a hot temper. Since I don’t respond well to someone trying to control me or angry outbursts, I began to question the wisdom of this marriage.
I tried to calmly discuss things with him and asked him to simply tell me when I did something that angered him so we could discuss it. “No! When you’re angry you must yell,” he often said. He was pretty stubborn and set in his ways so I knew his behavior would never change.
I was so surprised by his change in conduct that I jokingly told him he had a drop-down menu called “wife”, but it can’t be accessed until one becomes the wife. After six months I was convinced the marriage would not last and after ten months we separated. Our amicable divorce was final on August 13, 1999.
We were both very social and recognizable people in the Santa Barbara community, so many people quickly knew about our situation. One of the most embarrassing tasks I had was to ask the various boards and groups I served on to change my name plate from McGrath back to Sinclair.
One unexpected positive outcome happened when I went to the Santa Barbara Courthouse to sign the final divorce papers. I had created the last name Sinclair when I first moved to Santa Barbara because I didn’t want to carry any of my ex-husbands’ names and I didn’t have a real maiden name.
Earlier, I had changed my last name to Sinclair with credit cards, social security, and driver’s license but I had never made it “legal” through the court. When I arrived at the courthouse to sign the divorce papers, the clerk asked, “Will you be taking back your maiden name?”
“I wonder what she thinks my maiden name is,” I said to myself. “Since I don’t even know myself.” I hesitated a couple of seconds because I know that when there is a void the other person will usually fill it in. Sure enough she said, “Sinclair?”
“Yes,” I replied. Once I signed the papers my new name was official.
Thankfully Michael and I remained friends and I never saw any more anger or attempts to control me because I was no longer “the wife.” Sadly, Michael passed away on August 29, 2016 at age 75. Unfortunately, I was unable to attend his funeral because I was out of the country at the time and didn’t even learn of his death until after I returned.