Once upon a loft

Ever since I can remember I’ve always wanted to write a book. The plot had always swayed between “Life at University” and a guide on “How to survive University Life”, but being the university expert that I am- one university and one degree certificate- it had always begged the question where am I going to get my research from?

…


I was going through my loft this morning in an attempt to find my 2007 copy of Microsoft Office Home and Student and I came across a book I had stashed away many years ago called “The Faber Book of Favourite Fairy Tales”. This particular book was not to be confused with any Disney Fairy Tales and in all honesty the reason it had been stashed away was because the illustrations terrified me. We’re not talking Brothers Grimm terrifying here, we are talking pictures that were draw by an old spine-chilling widow who loathes children.

One such tale in the book was called “Baba Yaga, the Bony-Legged, the Witch.” Now don’t get me wrong, the title of this book is definitely called “The Faber Book of Favourite Fairy Tales” but having never heard of this allusive “favourite fairy tale” the need to read on was second to none.

Ten minutes later and my knowledge on dodgy-legged Witches, who lived deep in the woods and residing in huts built on chicken legs, had vastly expanded. The only downside was there was no princess or castle insight. Instead you unearthed the moral that opposed every girl will end up satisfied, incredibly rich and unexplainably stunning over night. The message here was simple: a kind heart is all you need.

But is this what the kids of today really need to be told, that if you’re nice to people and have a kind heart others will too? Why not put them all in glass slippers and tell all of them their dreams will come true?

The most valuable thing I’ve learnt from fairy tales is that every time you reread them you notice something new. Perhaps this is a result of my degree and the practice to break literacy down and scavenge for deeper significance, or perhaps I am yet to read a fairy tale that totally captures the imagination.

If the original sources of fairy tales are fables passed down through generations then maybe it’s time some new ones were written…

Welcome back

They say the modern day woman has the ability to balance life, family and work. And all of this is on top of teaching her children a foreign language, while still managing to have dinner on the table by 5pm. So if this is the case then why can I not balance writing and having a boyfriend?

This has never before been a serious issue and writing about men (in fact all things male-related), has been as easy as the ability to drool over Daniel Craig's biceps. But six weeks and two days later the majority of my literary content is in the form of text messages and very little else!

For some bizarre reason I've always held back writing when I meet a nice man, the thought of him reading something terrible and having second thoughts maybe something to do with it. Perhaps this is a type of test...we shall see.

Anyway, now that I am unable to write about the trials and tribulations of single hood you could say I'm a little stumped on what to blog about. I could write about how couples-culture is utter bliss, or how kissing in public really does make people gag (I actually had a little boy look me in the eye and physically gagged while "The Man" and I were holding hands on a table in Jamie's) but where is the fun in that? If you're in a relationship you will probably think "aw I remember when we used to do that..." and if you're single you'll probably already be clutching your sick bucket.

So warning in advance, if you'd rather read about petit pois than mushy peas you may have to open another book.

Daily commute.

So another day another dollar, will that phrase ever get old? Today my dollars are getting made in our Windsor store, which means over an hours train journey there and back.

I used to do a lot of covering in other branches, it was great sussing out other stores (seeing how badly they were run) meeting lots of new staff and getting a greater idea of all things 'Kew'. So its ironic that I should be spending my last week re-bonding with train timetables and covering another store.

Train stations are an absolute bugger at times and if I know they are my mode of transport the following day I can become a PMS driven woman. But when your sitting on the platform, sipping a coffee that isn't from Starbucks and watching the business world wake up all that Public Transport hatred vanishes.

That's not to say that I willingly got up an hour earlier, willingly burnt my mouth on my imposter coffee or willingly chose to spend 30 minutes (only 5 mins left now!) freezing at Weybridge station.

But that's not the biggest worry, not by a long shot. I'm currently sitting on a train waiting for it to leave and whisk me off to castle central, but this is the woman who left Gloucester at 7am one Sunday morning (to be in work for 11am) and ended up in Cardiff. Not only can I not cook, but my navigational skills also have a tendency to be non-existent: my negative dating credentials have just doubled!

But maybe that's half the fun of it, being paid to unintentionally tour the UK on British Rail. The sign outside my window currently still says Weybridge, but give it half an hour and who knows what station we'll pull into!

France: Could it be magic?

So here we are, a new time zone, a new language and an awful lot more crepes. In short, the Coussens family have arrived in France!

We left sunny old England at 5am yesterday morning (that's thursday the 25th depending on when this entry gets posted) headed for Dover, woke up in France and ended up in Serris some six hours later. Unfortunately what should have taken two hours had in fact tripled- Mum has some incredible navigational skills and let's leave it at that.

After flexing our French skills, who knew I could be so fluent, we located our hotel and made our way to Disneyland.

We decided to spend two days here before meeting up with the other three families tomorrow and heading on to Nièvre.

I would love to know how Disneyland has the power to transform even adults into children, it truly is magical. All that is stopping me from buying an overly-priced Disney princess dress is my boobs, apparently Cinderella and her princess crew didn't make it to puberty.

But not all is lost. While every little girl under the age of 11 is skipping around dressed as Snow White, Sleeping Beauty or Belle, there is one Disney accessory that does cater for the older woman: the Minnie Mouse ears. Yes, you may not be able to fit into a dress, but you can wear a giant pair of black plastic mouse ears on your head. Great.

We had our final day in the park today and will be heading back later this evening to see the fireworks and parade. All I have to do is control the urge to rugby tackle one of the dancing princesses and rob her of her costume. Knowing my luck I would get caught (once the female victim had been bundled)with the Cinderella costume stuck round my neck- the result of eating far too many croissants- kiss the wrong prince and discover my parade dancing skills aren't as good as I thought they'd be.

So there you have it. I may have to admit defeat on my princess dreams for the time being, but with 10 days still to go in France who knows what magic will happen.

Serious note.

I'm all for writing things down and writing will always be a part of me. Granted most of what I write is female clamor and hormone induced, but that doesn't mean I can't write serious topical pieces too.

I suppose this is the perfect opportunity to write something serious and prove the above statement, but the truth is I would rather snort Smarties than write about politics, the economical crisis or similar subjects.

Obviously having such a nonchalant view on "serious" topics hinders my ability as a journalist and encourages words such as "ditsy" and quite frankly I dread to think what else. Either way, my writing certainly doesn't promote hard-hitting news, paper shuffling and "..from all of us here in the studio, goodnight."

I've been asked a lot recently about the area of journalism I'm most interested in and without a shadow of a doubt the answer is- and will always be- "features." That's the one thing I remember most about journalism in my third year, my willingness to work until dawn on any features that I had to do or needed to be done.

In an ideal world I would become a columnist, but I need to find some strong opinion that doesn't relate solely to men. I wonder if there are courses on how to become mean and opinionated?

But that is all by-the-by and for the time being the column of Captain P**s Off (my newly appointed nickname from the uni girls after my flamboyant rage about the world of retail) is on pause. Its on pause until an employer takes me from a retail scream into a feature writers dream- check out the degree-level rhyming there!

Motorway madness: re-writing the rules.

So its Saturday morning and I'm (yet again!) sitting in Starbucks having my morning dose of caffeine and willingly doubling the size of my hips.

My morning mocha does two things for me, firstly it keeps me from saving up too much money and secondly it makes up for spending the last 30 minutes on the M25 surrounded by madmen.

Now, this could be the part where I rant about female drivers- yes, I'm fully aware of the irony- or I could use this time to introduce my novel idea for a book.

I trust you've heard of the Highway Code and if you haven't then you should be shot. The Highway Code is a list of do's and don't's for road users, allowing all drivers to drive in a safe, albeit a tad slow, manner.

This is great, but is there a published book that tells people how to drive on a motorway?

As a result of my daily motorway journeys I have made a few observations and I believe these could seriously enhance the motorway experience for drivers and passengers alike.

Firstly, have you ever noticed that if you drive at 80 MPH in the middle lane (second lane if you're on M25) then the people in the left-hand lane drive faster to 'keep up'. This is a simple fact and one I believe we can use to our advantage. Not only does this eliminate slow drivers, but it also decreases accidents due to poor (slow) drivers as well.

The people that fall into the above category are the ones who drive at 50MPH in the slow lane, whilst listening to pre-recorded stories (read by themselves) in their car tape player and most likely driving a Volvo of some kind or another. This is of course excluding old people and wimps- lets face it neither should really be on the road.

My next motorway observation is the erratic driving and behaviour of the so called "Boy-racers."

Now, for this example I should point out that I currently drive a 2000 Reg, black Golf. It is not the most powerful vehicle on the road, but it does make a fantastic sound and bizarrely has the ability turn heads. Sadly the head turning isn't due to men looking at my car and thinking "Wow, what a set of wheels!" It tends to be a glance in my direction, a wink and a engine rev.

This is where I get a tad confused. Am I meant to participate in this testosterone race (you're in a 1.2 Saxo and you're not going to win) or just act my age and watch them accelerate into a lamppost. Believe me the latter is far more fun.

My initial thought was to discontinue the production of all Citren cars and ban all Saxo models from the road. But just as I congratulated myself on this genius plan a pimped-out Punto rattled past me at 95 MPH. Not impressed.

However, the world is not at an end and there is hope in the active culling of all body-kitted cars in Britain. It tends to come on those motorway-rammed rainy days, when the weather is so miserable you're left questioning your dedication to your job and when the radio stations are all playing the ultimate collection of suicidal anthems. There in the distance, pulled over in the lay-by, smoking away is a little hatchback. Through the blustering rain you can just make out a 17 year-old boy kicking his £5000 Alloy wheels (that's at least 5x more than the car is worth), swearing to the high heavens and wishing he'd bought a proper car.

If you are still not satisfied at the Boy-Racers comeuppance feel free to drive past them slowly, smirking away, windows down and singing through the rain "Things can only get better" by D:Ream. You may be surprised at how good it feels!

Alongside the children in their overpriced-pimp-machines a third motorway observation is the timid mid-life crisis men.

I'm not talking about the men in the DB9s, 911s or the SLRs here, I'm talking about the men who have the engine power but are too afraid to use it. Some cars are built to be practical and some are built to look, sound and drive like a dream. So why have a beautiful automobile if you're going to drive it like a child on its first day at school?

There is also a very simple solution to this one too, give me the car keys so I can race every boy-racer until their car self-destructs and voila, two birds with one stone.

So there you have the synopsis for my book: "How to drive on the motorway." Not exactly a work of art, but definitely something to mull over with a mocha in hand and a full days work ahead.

Cheetah or Man?

It comes as no surprise that since leaving the university world some of my beliefs and attitudes have taken a new turn.

One such thing is my attitude to men in relationships.

This may sound callous but if a guy at university had a girlfriend, who wasn't at Chester University, then that meant you had the green light with him so to speak. There was nothing wrong with a few kisses and cuddles, everyone was young and there was no consequences.

However, now if I was approached by a guy and discovered he had a girlfriend he would be politely shown the door. Maybe this is the romantic inside and my determination not to share my non-existent sex god, or maybe I'm just normal after all?

This all sounds lovely, but there is only one flaw to this picturesque happiness: the good looking, smooth talking, instrument playing (9/10 he will play a guitar!) compulsive-cheating male.

They are out there, there's one in every Village and I can guarantee you will know at least one. These animals tend to be found eyeing up girls (and their mothers), wooing left right and centre, and charming the world with only a smile and a wink of the eye.

If you didn't think Prince Charming existed think again. He may not be straddling a six-foot stallion, but one touch of his bulging biceps and he will be straddling something else!

These are without a doubt the WORST type of men and there is absolutely nothing you can do about them.

I think it is men like this that are wiping out romance, they may not realise they are doing it- who are we trying to kid. With a First class degree in female-ology they know exactly what they're doing... but I truly believe romance is dying because of men like this.

What happened to roses, holding hands, love letters, kisses in the moonlight and that beautiful three worded sentence?

If you are after the meal deal instead of the real deal then join the queue and don't look back. But if your philosophy circulates around love being patient then I don't believe you shouldn't have to compromise your own happiness and your heart.

So grab a brown paper bag to catch your love sick: The time of the non-cheating male has begun!

Shoe-looms

I'm not one for splashing cash and I've been brought up on the proverb "don't spend more than you can afford." But sometimes you do get hungry and your eyes do get bigger than your stomach.

Today Mum and I went to London. We spent the morning plodding around the National Portrait Gallery, peaking at black and white photographs of Movie stars from years gone by. Then in the afternoon we hit the shops!

In three weeks time 15 of us are heading to France to take on their waterways and to test our navigational skills- I'm not responsible for the map reading so we should be ok.

On the shopping list today was the usual holiday attire, shorts, flip-flops and a french guidebook full of useful phrases (thankfully my French does not require a phrase book, unlike my brothers! He learnt German at school instead of French.)

It was while we were walking down Savile Row that I felt a twinge in my bank account. You see I've been planning to treat myself to a certain pair of heels for a certain event that is due to take place in November.

This is admittedly not the wisest of things to do and if I was to tell you that it will take till November to pay for them you will see my predicament.

I made the decision on the shoes a few months back, and as my rent is not too expensive and I have no other bills to pay/ children to feed and dress I decided now was the only time I could really afford to be so extravagant.

Ordinarily I would have laughed and thought "Keep wishing Miss Coussens" but for some reason these shoes seem to scream at me "You messed up, but you know what? You came back fighting and you did it!"

I know that every time I look at these shoes it will be a reminder that no matter what the hurdle is you can always jump it and land upright on the other side.

They will probably only be worn about three times in my life (November being the first occasion) but they will be left in my will to my daughter and become the first of many heirlooms I hope to pass on down and add to the existing collection.

They say that money makes people mad. I'm glad I am poor.

To Morocco and beyond.

Apologies first. My lack of blogging has been appalling and as I am not really one for excuses you will have to settle for "I'm sorry."

Secondly after a very spontaneous trip to Gloucester last weekend it would appear that the Uni girls and myself are suffering from our first real batch of separation anxiety. As a result when the word "Morocco" followed by the words "One week all inclusive" was uttered you can imagine the excitement.

We know from past experiences that we can all live together so that won't be an issue, and we all get along like family so that won't be a problem either. The only exception to this theory is when I'm having a huffy moment or Becky is having to battle her Mac and Blazin' Squad- both instances cause great amusement and there would be much rejoicing.

Anyway, this is my breakdown of events when we land in Morocco: Claire spooning the toilet within 20 minutes of arriving at the hotel, after accepting a few too many welcome drinks. Amy on the balcony gazing out over Morocco and most likely humming and trying to be very very mature. Becky jumping on the bed and laughing to herself. And myself hyperventilating until I find my phone charger.

In reality we will probably lose our suitcases and Claire, get food poisoning on the first night and then get sold off for marriage. Note how I didn't write: "and then WE get sold off for marriage." Yup you've guessed it the victimisation is back!

The Sex and the City girls may have done it with camels, but we will be taking Morocco by force. (Unless we find a better deal for Butlins at Bogner first!)

Lost boys

Only having four senses really does open your eyes to the world around you. I know it is no comparison to people who are blind or deaf but nonetheless sometimes its easy to feel a little inhuman.

Self-pity isn't an admirable trait in anybody but at the end of the day it happens for a reason. Much like everything in life, and if we spent every hour wishing we had done things differently or said something else then that would be a lot of time wasted.

I have a sneaky suspicion I'm just rambling now. It wouldn't be the first time.

Confused? Me too.

Still shining bright.

So its that time of day again, sitting in Starbucks and sipping on my daily dose of caffeine, the only difference being today I have opted for a Mocha instead of the usual Macchiato. How cultured is that!

I would love to know why Starbucks is such a satisfactory way to start the day? I'm sure its not the same as starting your day in a non-branded one of a kind coffee house but I'm sure the overall feeling that you can conquer the world once you leave is the same.

Life without this ritual of liquid would be a tad odd and I doubt my body could function without it.

With the cup in my hand and new sandals on my feet I am invincible and nothing can faze me. Not even the news of a past datee settling down with someone new can bother me, ok that may be a tiddly lie, but after all I am female.

Onwards and upwards!

Retail in Reigate

Working in Reigate is lovely. Once again that is a very poor attempt at describing a place but that will have to do for now.

Anyway, I'm on my lunch break blogging from Reigate park and munching my way through a tuna and cheese melt- the quicker this is eaten the sooner I can attack my YumYum!

Sitting here reminds me of uni, lying on the field by the SU without a care in the world, just watching it all whirl past us and polishing off Snakebite after Snakebite.

Obviously I'm not drinking and although there are other people in the park/ sitting/ lying on the grass and eating their lunch it feels like its just me here.

*Amie takes a huge mouthful of her YumYum. It is very yummy!*

I guess what I am trying to get at is that I'm sitting by myself in a place I'm unfamiliar with and it doesn't faze me.

A few years ago the sheer thought of being alone in a field of strangers would have made me head straight back to the staffroom. But not today.

Somethings changed and I can't quite out my finger on it.

Day seven/ Home Sweet Home

We arrived back on Friday afternoon and after a swift drive from the airport to our sunny house in Surrey the unpacking began- sunny in a very English and rainy sense of the word.

I then spent saturday, sunday and monday back in the role of supervisor in Reigate and all memories of sun, sea and sand rapidly disappeared along with my tan.

Today was the first time I was able to sit back and have a proper look at the photos. This probably isn't the best time to have a moan about facebook and their ever increasing 'photo uploading' time. But what I will say is six hours and several cups of tea later, my bum had left me and I had seen an awful lot of sunset photos.

It was lovely to get away and I hadn't realised how cluttered my thoughts had been recently, bordering on dangerous that's for sure.

So with some 375 photos, a few very impressive tan lines and a taste for travel, I begin settling back into retail routine and life as a graduate.

Roll on August when 14 of us take to France with four cars, two boats and what I fear may be an awful lot of onions!

Day Six: Greek participation

As is customary in all hotels the night time entertainment is not only provided but generally shunned as well. Maybe us Brits have come to expect too much on the entertainment front or maybe cabaret acts have all but had their day.

Last night we were lucky enough to witness our third Greek dancing act. Mum and I had previously seen the dancers earlier in the week, and after an embarrassing dragging on stage and horrific attempt at their national dancers we thought we were safe.

The dancers were not bad- I like to think that with my history of dancing I can distinguish between talent and the cause of Simon Cowell's next culinary heart attack.

It was probably the lead male dancer coming up to Mum and I after the show on the first night and attempting to Chat us up that was a tad unprofessional. I think it was his repetition of the words "I like rich woman" (his english wasn't the Queen's) whilst contently ogling Mums boobs that almost made me fall off the stall in a fit of giggles.

But like all females we managed to get control of the situation and our plan of escape was flawless: "We're lovers" we told him. The response we were after was a nod, him walking off, accepting defeat and understanding he had no chance.

Sadly the response we got was a colossal grin, further more ogling and a serious invasion of personal space. He also put his stool leg on my foot, but having already stood on my foot twice whilst dancing I was able to overlook this!

So when last night rolled up and the dancers took centre stage you can imagine Mum and my excitement- I knew I should have worn boots on my feet.

It was a lovely evening a BBQ by the sea, fairy lights, bunting (Another British trait. Why do we love bunting?) Ouzo and Greek dancing.

I was half way through a glass of white wine and mid conversation when I felt my hand tugged, and before I knew it I was on stage forcefully demonstrating my natural flare for all things Greek, again. I think this is called victimisation?!

The only difference was this time my participation involved dancing around fire and happy holiday goers throwing plates at the dancers. I was going to die!

Thankfully it was around this time that our camera ran out of battery, there clearly is a higher power.

After I had played with fire, literally, and retrieved my dignity (thankfully with my feet still intact) we were able to sit back and enjoy the rest of our night.

Maybe next time we should venture to a destination where they don't dance...

The climb

Good morning world, thought I would add a blog in-between the daily ones, partly to prove that Mum and I have been experiencing some of Corfu's culture and partly to prove we've not just been tanning/ burning and drinking cocktails for the past five days.

Yesterday we toddled in to Corfu town, some how managing to conquer their bus system, arrive at our desired destination and leave in one piece.

However, what Mum had failed to mention to me was the gigantic lighthouse she planned to climb once we got there.

I use the word 'gigantic' purely because it wasn't until we reached the bottom that the sentence: "We probably should have got a guide book" was ushered by Mum. Therefore it was a gigantic climb and as I'm not 100% sure the actual distance in height so 'gigantic' will do for now.

If Dad had been with us he would have insisted we got a guide book and done things properly. As it was just Mum and I we played the tourist card to the maximum taking a ridiculous amount of photos and oooing and ahhing at the views as we snaked up the hill.

The views from the top of the lighthouse were fantastic and as a camera enthusiast I was furthermore kicking myself for leaving my SLR at home.

I could describe the view from peak, over the ocean, the teal reflections and general allurement of what we were looking at but I don't think I could do it justice.

After our hike we played hide and seek in the never-ending corridors of streets, munched our way through a packet of limoncello flavoured turkish delight, grabbed two tubs of ice cream and headed to the bus stop and back to Dassia.

Normally I'm a sucker for historic monuments abroad- not a lot will beat crawling on my hands and knees through the pyramids of Giza- but at least we got to see a little piece of Corfu.

The town was lovely, but it is a shame we didn't really have the opportunity to get lost and discover the country outside of its tourist attractions.

Day Five: Burnt

Sun tan lotion and holidays go hand in hand like cocktails and cocktail umbrellas, left shoes and right shoes and newly formed couples.

However, it will always puzzle me that no matter how much lotion you apply you are guaranteed to burn at least one part of your body.

As I type this blog I am currently nursing a burnt ear, two feet (both my own) and a pair of elbows (also belonging to me). Call me Charlie but the above body parts are not normally first on the list of anatomy to brun!

When my brother and I were kids I remember being constantly drenched in sun tan lotion and to the point where we resembled a couple of arctic creatures as opposed to children on a family holiday.

This importance of lotioning up has stuck with me throughout adulthood and my own children will become little lotion monsters too, so it remains a mystery as to why I have fallen victim to burnt skin.

On a positive note at least it's not the soles of my feet that caught the brunt of the sun- that would take some very special tanning skills!

Thankfully I've been blessed with the ability to tan very easily, this is something that the recessive ginger gene in my body is not a fan of.

So that's another reason why I'm baffled by this burntness and I'm refusing to let Corfu ruin my 22 years on non-burning.

Corfu may have distorted my speedo innocence, it may have throw numerous boobs at me (and a few male Greek dancers. Mum and I had to pretend we were lovers and than ran off- but that's another story) but I will not be beaten by a few frazzled body parts!

Day three/ four: Books

I am the worst type of reader. I don't read continuously (not the best when you consider I have a degree in English lit) but when I do pick up a book I cannot put it down till the back cover is closed. This is normally fine unless you find yourself with four days of sunbathing to go and no more books to read!

I've just finished a beautiful novel by Victoria Connelly called 'The Perfect Hero'. Unsurprisingly it tells the story of a man and women who fall in love and their destiny is saved at the last minute when she realises he is her perfect man after all and she has fallen hook, line and sinker for him- already the book has a fantastic plot. Then throw in a million and one references to Jane Austen's 'Persuasion' and you can see why 48 hours later I am now bookless.

I bought my first Victoria Connelly novel back in January, another Austen themed read, and I couldn't put that one down either. It was called 'A weekend with Mr. Darcy' no prizes for the Austen novel this book was based upon!

Sadly she is quite a new author in the british seas so I will have to wait till July 2012 for my next instalment of Connelly's work. It's probably a good thing as too much fictional reading on heros, handsome men and old fashioned courting cannot be good for an already romantic brain.

Day two.

Maybe its my middle-class upbringing or my love for manly men but there is one item of clothing that sends shivers down my spine and puts fear in my heart: speedos.

Now I will accept that some women love men in banana hammocks- let's not forget Freddie Ljungberg's CK tighty whities- but is there a more undesirable sight?

We have been here for 30 hours now and it is total bliss. However, I have come to one conclusion: everywhere you look there are men in speedos. In short Mum and I left the UK and vacated to budgie smuggler heaven!

But you may be thinking: 'If that's the worst of your problems why are you complaining and secondly stop starring at old men!" but there's more...

Whilst averting my eyes from the above you also have watch out for the old topless women.

Now this is also a holiday norm for most women and there's nothing wrong with it- after my brief boobage escape yesterday I'm practically one of the team.

But the sight of another woman makes me realise just how shy and reserved I really am. Maybe tomorrow I shall set the beasts free and take on the world...even though knowing my luck I'd probably end up with my bikini top wrapped around my head, trip over and land head first in some unexpecting pair of dong definers.

Bodily harn

It's official, my bikini hates me...just flashed half the beach including the 17 year-old male bar tender.

Miss Coussens 0: devil bikini and corrupted boobs 1.

Greetings from Corfu

Hello and welcome to Corfu!

Mum and I have been here for three hours so far and all is well. The average age is 50+, I have been winked at by an old wrinkly and just walked past a false leg.

Sipping on an ice coffee, gazing out onto the ocean. So far so good!