The night before I started a week-long sailing course I learned my not-so-recent-former boyfriend had gotten married. I was stunned. He was the one who introduced me to sailing; he was the one who convinced me to move to Annapolis, the capital of the US sailing world. 


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It had been nearly a year since I had seen my friend Gerry at church so the news that I had recently lost my job and been left at the altar (figuratively) came as a surprise. “But let me guess,” he said without waiting to hear the details. “You didn’t give up.” Not knowing what else to say, I agreed.


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Maybe it’s because I’m a writer so people are prone to tell me this but it seems everyone wants to write a book.  Mostly they want to write their life story.  Maybe not all of it, but there are always a few memorable events — being high-jacked over Africa, surviving a childhood illness, catching the garage on fire — they want others to know about before too much time passes.


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Sailing around Swampscott, Massachusetts, a charming little town nestled fifteen miles up the coast from Boston, I looked out on the water and wondered, “who am I?”  That the thought first occurred to me the summer I lost my job in 1999 was itself a mystery.  Up until then, it was either defined by my place in my family, my relationships, my job, my community, etc.


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Even before Congress passed the Patient Protection and Affordable Care Act in March 2010, making sense of your health plan was difficult.  Now, overlay hundreds of new requirements affecting virtually every American, and the task is more difficult.  No easy feat, for sure. I can help.


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