Motorcycles, prostitutes, pimps, and gypsies...

News over the past few days has been hard to digest. I’m outraged over the lack of moral leadership in the George Bush administration, as illustrated this time by brain-man Karl Rove, who has proven once again the old adage that “power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.” America’s corporate leadership exasperates me as they continue to distance themselves light years away from the reality of 99.9 percent of the world’s population, to wit Philip Purcell’s $113.7 million “golden parachute” for three months work as CEO of Morgan Stanley. And, I simply don’t know how to feel in the face of the new blitz visited upon London by Muslim religious fanatics.

It all makes one want to escape! And then I read the story of how Toby Michael Younis on Chesapeake Bay came to name his means of escape, a Cal 2-29 sailboat, A Gypsy’s Kiss.

His Cal was named Bluet when he bought her, and he decided to rename her A Gypsy's Kiss:

"Mainly because I couldn't figure out how to correctly pronounce 'Bluet': the French 'Bloo-ay' or the English 'Blew-it'. And, because every boat I've ever owned has been christened 'A Gypsy's Kiss'. Except for the first one, a Sea Ray Sundancer. I named it after my then current spousal unit, 'Laura Anne'. I found out later that naming a boat after your spousal unit is the equivalent of tattooing your girlfriend's (or boyfriend's, depending on your sexual orientation) name on your arm...it's a guarantee that you'll break up. Sure enough, she left me (and all six of the children, no less)).

"The name comes from an event in my past. Here's the short version...

"When I was sixteen I ran away from an all-boys Catholic Boarding School, stole my uncle's motorcycle, and rode from Santa Fe, New Mexico to New Orleans for Mardi Gras.

"In the three days that followed, I fell in love with a prostitute (only three years older than me), was tied, blindfolded and held hostage in the back room of a bar in Algiers, fought (with her pimp) my way free, and returned to Bourbon Street to find my motorcycle gone, and a the N'awlins Police searching for me on a grand theft warrant. We (Mariah and me) ended up falling asleep on top of a mausoleum in the Lafayette Cemetary, where the police found me, arrested me, put me in jail, and then, after speaking with my mother's lawyer, stuck me on a train returning to Santa Fe, where I was met by a crying mother and a smiling Uncle (he got his motorcycle back, eventually).

"Somewhere in all of that, Mariah (the first love) took me to a fortune-teller (with a scarf, and crystal ball and everything), who promised that I would lead an long and interesting life and sealed her promise of that life adventure with a kiss. Mariah told me afterwards that the kiss was rare, and very important.

"I tend to think the gypsy was right. I felt like I owed her something for keeping her promise. Thus...the name of the boat."

Toby, thank you for brightening and lightening my day. I can hardly wait to weigh anchor and hoist sails!