I didn’t find out the reason for the name until decades later. It turns out that when the boat was designed, the public was up in arms about some extravagant china Nancy Reagan had purchased for the White House. And this lovely boat, a 15-foot trailerable, could be built for about the same amount as a single place setting.

This week, there’s been a bit of hullaballoo about Sarah Palin’s $150,000 campaign wardrobe. I’ve been thinking about that $150,000, and I can’t imagine spending that much on clothes in my lifetime, let alone in a month. Then again, I shop at the Salvation Army.

Anyway, going back to Sam Devlin, I think there’s an opportunity lurking in this silliness.

There are a few boats around here that cost about $150,000. Some of them look great, slightly maverick, but with lousy performance. If you’d like to buy one, we have the perfect name: Sarah’s Wardrobe.

Our boat is not eligible. Besides costing much less than $150,000, it’s not going to be launched in time for election day. And we had to pay for it ourselves.

We were out for a sunny, relaxed evening of boating when Jeff told me about this. He’s a laid-back blues musician, but when he started talking about his crusade, his eyes flashed with real anger.

Why the crusade? Because the signs are illegally placed on the road right-of-way. Since no one will enforce this, Jeff takes the law into his own hands.

What is strange about this is that Jeff is not the only one. He’s just lucky that his tires are intact.

Three years ago, at a party, I heard the following amazing tale from another, completely unrelated Seattle friend. I’ll call him Floyd, because while he’ll tell the story to anyone over a beer, he doesn’t particularly want publicity.

In 2004, a four-by-eight-foot Bush-Cheney sign appeared beside a freeway north of Seattle. It stood on the grassy verge between the interstate and a small side road — smack dab in the public right-of-way.

Floyd drove past this sign every day, and like Jeff, it bugged him. He and several of his friends contacted the Department of Transportation, notifying them of the transgression and asking that the sign be removed.

The Department of Transportation took no action.

Like Jeff, Floyd decided to take the law into his own hands. But this wasn’t a sign you could just yank out of the ground. He purchased a cordless saw, and one evening, he drove out to the sign and cut it down. “The thing was huge,” he said. “It stood way over my head.”

Mission accomplished. But like Jeff’s signs, this one sprouted back like a giant weed.

Frustrated, Floyd drove back with his saw one Sunday evening. “Going back was definitely a mistake,” he admitted.

As he got out of his car with the saw, he was blinded by bright lights. Two huge men leapt out of a camouflage net, screaming obscenities at him.

Floyd’s first thought was that he could defend himself with the saw. Then he had second thoughts. “I thought I could take off somebody’s leg with this thing, and that would get me into real trouble!” He deliberately tossed the saw into the car and faced the enemy unarmed.

The two men advanced on him and began to rough him up. Both were over six feet tall, and Floyd isn’t a particularly tall or beefy fellow. He did the obvious thing: He ran. As he ran, he thought about his situation.

Since he was the one being assaulted, the smart thing would be to call the police. He stopped and pulled out his cell phone.

“I shouldn’t have done that. I should have kept running while I got the phone out.” Before he could make the call, his attackers caught up with him. Ouch.

They knocked him to the ground, tied his hands, and one of them put his heavy boot in the middle of Floyd’s back. It looked like a brutal beating was imminent. At that point, Floyd began screaming to attract attention, which annoyed and disconcerted his attackers.

“Go ahead. Call the cops,” they said.

When the police came, Floyd was tied up, face-down on the ground. “Am I under arrest?” Floyd asked. “Because if I’m not, you’d better untie me.” The policeman ignored the request.

“It seemed like the cop talked with the men forever, out of earshot, leaving me there tied up.” When the policeman came back, he arrested Floyd. He was unsure what to charge him with, and finally decided on something about defacing a political advertisement. “I’m not sure if I should impound your car. It’s not parked illegally, but…” the policeman said.

Floyd spent four hours in jail. When he returned to his car, all four tires were slashed. “Multiple times,” he said.

Floyd had his day in court, with mixed results. The sign was placed illegally, but it is also illegal to deface a political sign. Evidently, the two don’t cancel each other out.

Still, the judge and prosecuting attorney were sympathetic liberals, even if they couldn’t say so. According to Floyd, “At the final hearing, the judge joked, ‘Are you ready to do your volunteer service for the Bush-Cheney campaign?’”

Floyd’s community service involved planting trees in a park with some little old ladies, an activity he enjoyed. It was fitting punishment for cutting down an illegal weed. Still, he won’t be taking the law into his own hands like that again.

That’s OK, because I know Jeff is still on his crusade. I only hope that he’s keeping an eye out for camouflaged vigilantes, taking the law into their own hands, as he removes the political weeds in the public right-of-way.

I have the money. I can take time off from my work. I have a passport, and I am free to leave the United States any time.

But my government says I am not free to go to my dream destination: Cuba.

I have wanted to travel to Cuba since I was a little girl. When my parents met, in Florida, the Cuban influence was strong. My mother had had a Cuban boyfriend in Miami, and she told me she had flown to Cuba to visit his family in the 1940′s. My father had a Cuban stepfather back then, too. It influenced my mother’s cooking; throughout my childhood, we ate arroz con pollo and picadillo regularly for dinner (check out the Cuban recipes section of mepsnbarry.com).

Shirley, my father’s sister, in Cuba in 1956

On February 8, 1963, the Kennedy administration prohibited Americans from traveling to Cuba. In December of that year, Attorney General Robert Kennedy sought to end the travel ban, saying it was “inconsistent with traditional American liberties.” The ban was not lifted until 14 years later, by the Carter administration in 1977.

I vividly remember my first trip to Key West in 1977. Over Christmas break, Mom and Dad and I drove over a thousand miles from our home in West Virginia. We sat in the Fourth of July café, and my mother drank Cuban coffee and reminisced. From the Fourth of July café to Havana was only 100 miles.

But we didn’t go. I don’t think we even discussed it. And Reagan imposed the ban again in 1981.

Last week, for the 15th time, the U.N. general assembly passed a resolution saying that the U.S. should end the embargo against Cuba. Three tiny countries voted with us — Israel, Palau, and the Marshall Islands — and 183 voted against us.

What a dope-slap. With the whole world against us, how can the U.S. continue to be so stupid?

If human rights are so important to us, why do we not have a travel ban on Burma? If communism is bad, why am I allowed to go to Laos or Vietnam? It’s just not logical.

It’s like those times when you get mad at someone, and you know you should get over it. But you are stubborn, so you stay mad. The U.S. should stop being stubborn. We should back down gracefully and eliminate the travel ban and the embargo.

Aesop wrote a fable that explains it. The wind and the sun were arguing about who could get a man to take off his coat quicker. The wind blew and blew and blew, and the man just pulled his coat tighter. Then the sun beamed gently down, and the man quickly removed his coat.

We should stop blowing on Cuba, and gently beam some sunshine on them. Who knows what positive change that might bring?

Over Christmas this year, Barry and I plan to travel someplace exotic. We’ve considered Belize, Hawaii, Spain, and India. The current contenders right now are Mexico and Portugal. But I’ll admit, deep in my heart, they’re second choices.

In my mind, I smell the tropical vegetation and the sea air. I feel the hot sun pouring down on my bare shoulders. I hear the upbeat sound of Rouge coming, not from my stereo, but from a battered truck driving down the street with huge speakers mounted on the outside.

These are the easy memories, the physical ones.

If it had been a simple beach vacation, most of the memories would have been like these. But it was not, and so, four years later, I’m still processing the rest.

That trip was the first of what would become Bahia Street’s small group study tours. There were seven of us, plus our guides, Margaret (of Seattle) and Rita (of Salvador).

We flew into Salvador, a city in northeast Brazil, and immediately we were whisked away to Arembepe (Air-em-BEP-ee), a small seaside town about a half hour down the road from the airport. We spent the evening on a veranda on the beach, drinking powerful caipirinhas and eating exquisite food — fried fish, tomato salad, and potatoes, presented on a stunning platter, lined with deep green leaves and accompanied by piles of ruby-red grated beets and neon orange grated carrots. We were getting to know each other as traveling companions, and that night, we told stories and laughed until we cried.

That was the only part of my Brazil trip that could be called a “simple beach vacation.”

The next day, driving through the countryside and along the beach, I snapped hundreds of photos. I was captivated by barefoot children, thatched huts, and women carrying their laundry to the river for washing.

As we traveled, Margaret and Rita began to gently educate us about the implications of what we saw. It was picturesque, but it was poverty: The people I photographed all suffered from a lack of healthcare, education, and income.

On our third day, I came down with an eye infection, and we stopped at a medical clinic. Even that was an education. We walked into a low concrete building, to a room with benches around the walls. Women sat there with their sick children, waiting for hours to see the doctor. We stood around, waiting, too. There was a lull, a momentary quiet that was broken by the sound of a child coughing. “Let’s go outside, ” Rita said. On the other side of the door, she shook her head. “That one’s going to die,” she said.

Over the course of the week, we learned a great deal about Brazilian systems, political, cultural, and socio-economic. Looking at the big picture, I could see how this poverty affects us all. Even someone in far-off, wealthy Seattle who doesn’t speak Portuguese.

It wasn’t all work and no play. We swam in the ocean and hung out at beach bars, thatched roofs on poles with cold beer. We took a canoe ride and spent a glorious day in dune buggies at Mangue Seco, a remote place with giant sand dunes and the largest palm trees I’ve ever seen. We hiked to a waterfall in the mountains and ate new and wonderful things like cashew fruit.

But we also passed roadside encampments, groups of families living in shacks of black plastic sheeting and scrap wood. They were part of Brazil’s Sem Terra movement, some of the country’s 1.5 million dispossessed, landless people.

Seeing the desperation of the landless people helped prepare me for the shantytowns. Both groups seem like refugees in their own country, eking out a living as best they can.

After about a week traveling the countryside, we arrived back in Salvador. Our briefings on the road had prepared me for the danger, the crowds, the shantytowns. And when we finally visited the Bahia Street Center, it all came together, and I could see where I fit into the picture.

The quote from Margaret Mead was brought home to me that day: “Never doubt that a small, group of thoughtful, committed citizens can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has.”

The last day of our tour was the Santa Barbara festival, an early December event celebrating the patron saint of firefighters. I was overwhelmed by the crowds, a human sea dressed in red, and the elaborate flower-covered palanquins bearing statues of Santa Barbara.

We followed the procession to the fire station, where the emcee and a bishop were perched in a cherry-picker above the crowd. The emcee kept shouting over the loudspeaker, “Viva Santa Barbara!” and everyone would respond with a loud cheer. Suddenly, Rita grabbed us and dragged us back against the wall. They turned on the sprinklers from the cherry picker, and the crowd was drenched with holy water. Rita’s quick action kept our cameras dry.

Standing against the wall, I watched a woman go into a religious trance, her arms upraised and her eyes closed. Her red dress clung to her body, and the crowd milled and spun around her, thrilled with the drenching.

Then the holy water shower ceased, and we headed out of the fire station. Although we had seen only blue skies and no rain since we arrived, it suddenly began to rain. “It always does that today,” said Rita.

In the African-Brazilian religion of Candomblé, Santa Barbara has a powerful equivalent, an Orixá, or goddess, called Iansã. I think she was responsible for the rain.

It was powerful experiences like these that I am still processing today.

I have not been back to Brazil yet. There are many other places in the world that I want to see first. But the lessons I learned in Brazil are lessons I take with me on all my travels, whether it’s a fishing village in Newfoundland or a native village in Alaska.

Things are not always as they seem. Look deeper. Listen. Get involved, stay a while, and gradually, things will reveal themselves.

A trip like this could change your life. It might lead you to improve the lives of others. And if you’re thoughtful and committed, it might change the world.

Bill, who’s not a senior citizen but an early retiree like myself, hangs out regularly with a group of senior citizens at a coffee shop in Anacortes, Washington. They’re the kind of guys who go to the coffee shop every morning because after they retired, their wives just wanted to get them out of the house. So when the subject of the war on Iraq came up recently, Bill was amazed to hear vocal opposition from the elderly gents. The way he describes it, they’re right-wingers who probably supported the war initially, but don’t seen any reason to continue. They probably agree with the Australian protest organizer, Jean Parker, who said “Iraq is a quagmire.”

It’s been three years since the Bush administration launched the war on Iraq. In that three years, the coalition forces have lost over 2500 people, an average of just over 2 a day. The Iraqi people, on the other hand, have lost 35,000, an average of 30 a day — our soldiers haven’t just killed soldiers and insurgents, but also civilians and children.

Imagine living in a country just a little bigger than California, but with fewer people. Not only are 30 people killed every day by bombs and guns, but countless more are injured and traumatized. And the United States is responsible.

There’s a group called Not in Our Name, whose pledge reads, “we believe that as people living in the United States it is our responsibility to resist the injustices done by our government, in our names.” It’s a simple message: Stop killing people on my behalf.

I’ve been pretty outspoken on this, since my first peace rally in 2001, before the U.S. invaded Afghanistan. But now, it sounds like more people are beginning to agree. A recent Washington Post-ABC poll says that 57 percent of Americans believe the war with Iraq has not been worth fighting.

Around the world today, anti-war protestors are rallying, because it’s the third anniversary of the war. Demonstrations have been held everywhere from Sydney, Australia, to London and Tokyo. But what’s interesting are the protests here in the U.S. — but not the news-making ones in Washington, D.C. or New York or San Francisco.

What’s amazing are some of the 34 local listings found in and around the Seattle area. As expected, there are rallies and vigils in Seattle, but also in Bellingham, Olympia, and Tacoma. Then the list gets even more interesting.

Bellevue, just on the other side of Lake Washington from Seattle, has a reputation for being conservative. There are at least two protest events there.

Port Angeles is having a rally, to be held, fittingly, at Veteran’s Park. The folks in Port Orchard are going to rally with empty boots and signs. In Twisp, a group is gathering “to commemorate the 750,00 children we killed during the sanctions.” Twisp is a tiny town in the middle of nowhere, population 909.

One of the more creative publicity stunts is the “Death of Democracy” funeral procession, in Vancouver, Washington. Their instructions say to “Wear black, at least on your upper half, and have gas in your car.” On the one hand, it’s likely to be seen by a large number of people. On the other hand, driving your car around protesting a war over oil is an oxymoron.

In Forks, the call is to “Commemorate the over 2,314 American military personnel killed; call for Peace & the end of the war; defund the war, defend our communities, fully fund the VA, end poverty, rebuild the Gulf Coast. Uphold the Constitution of the United States of America.” Forks is a little place in the middle of nowhere, kind of like Twisp.

Reading between the lines of the Forks announcement, these are a new kind of protestors. They may not have been out demonstrating before the war, but they’ve lost patience with it now. After three years, it’s time to end it and move on.

It was a mistake, and it wasn’t worth doing. As the war continues, I can only be more vocal in saying, “Not in my name.” Unless we end it, and we take responsibility and apologize for our mistake. Then I’ll be glad to help. Apologize to the families of those we killed? Yes, gladly, in my name.

=====

• Register your vote against the war at Voters for Peace (www.votersforpeace.us).
• For a listing of Seattle-area peace and justice events, see the Seattle Community Network (www.scn.org).
• For a nationwide listing of peace and justice events, see United for Peace and Justice (www.unitedforpeace.org).
• Interested in the real Iraq body count? Check out these two sites:
  Iraq Body Count (www.iraqbodycount.net)
  Iraq Coalition Casualties (www.icasualties.org)