Telephone Calls & Skinny Dipping (Episode 4)

The grass is always greener on the other side. We’ve all heard that saying, and maybe even believed it enough to make a change—only to find that, as another proverb warns, “while running away from a wolf, you run into a bear.”

Every time I left a significant relationship, I moved. I never regretted moving, even if the new place was not as I’d imagined. But with relationships, the same unresolved core problems would resurface—only on a grander scale each time.

Today, I want to share some memories. At the time, the emotions were raw and heavy. Now, they’ve been processed and laid to rest, though the lessons remain. I offer these stories as metaphors—because metaphors can be powerful tools for insight.

It’s evening. I’ve just put my baby to bed. I’m 22, and cell phones don’t exist yet. The home phone rings.

I walk across the rug to answer. It’s the same rug my first husband empties his bags on when he returns home—a dramatic downpour of money, accompanied by the same kind of pride a cat shows when it drops a dead bird at your feet.

The voice on the line asks, “Where is he?”

I say I think he went to Kazakhstan, but I’m not sure. I’ve caught him lying before—like the time I found his wedding ring in the kitchen towel. He claimed he’d jumped into a river to save our dog, and the ring had slipped off.

“I think we can help you refresh your memory,” the voice says. Next, I hear about a “technique” involving being tied to a tree. They’ll “take care of the baby” in the meantime.

I don’t remember if that treatment ever happened. What I do remember is hiding at a friend’s apartment, escaping my husband, his friends, and his many enemies. Then, I boarded a plane to a Mediterranean island where my baby and I could recover.

There, I took advantage of my appearance—tall, fair-skinned, blonde—and became a model. I even landed the cover of a women’s magazine. Life felt safer, but the undercurrent of stress was never far away.

Fast forward to the weekend before Midsummer in Latvia. I’m 38, separated from my second husband, and my parents have the kids. My only responsibility for the day is my Dalmatian, Sara.

We explore the countryside. A forest walk, wild blackberries, then a narrow path through reeds leading to a remote beach near the Estonian border. Most beachgoers are far to the left, so I head right, spreading my blanket on the empty sand.

The sun invites me to bare more skin. My underwear passes as a bikini, so off comes the dress. I nap, wake to Sara still counting seagulls, and later we wade into the water. By evening, the beach is ours. I slip off the “bikini” and go for a naked swim.

The sea is waveless. I float on my back, savoring the freedom. If you’ve swum naked, you know the feeling; if you haven’t, put it on your bucket list.

Then, a group of seniors appears, talking to Sara, who ignores them. They admire the sunset, unaware—or perhaps very aware—that I’m still in the water.

The northern sun takes its time setting, and I start to feel cold. I make my way back in stages—bent knees, then crawling, then elbows dragging like a legless mermaid—until the water is shallow enough to stand.

That’s when I rise from the sea like Aphrodite. The giggles and jokes stop. I feel the weight of every gaze. It’s my moment, and I take it—catwalking past them to Sara, scooping up my underwear, and disappearing into the reeds.

What I miss most about Latvia is solitude—forest paths, deserted beaches, the freedom to sing or shout without anyone thinking I need medical help.

But life had other plans. One day, my phone rang again. This time, it was my boss from the United States. Technically not my boss, but the client my company relied on most.

He asked what was wrong—he could tell from my voice. I told him my husband had once again threatened suicide, this time lying in the garage under the exhaust pipe, timing it so I’d find him. It wasn’t the first time, and I had begun to see the pattern: his “crises” always happened the night before an important work event for me.

My boss listened carefully. Then he said, “You can’t live like this. You deserve more. If you’re willing, I’ll help you get out.”

I accepted. His help paid for my attorney and a move to a beautiful seaside town in Latvia. In that town, I spent some of the happiest years of my life.

One Midsummer night, he visited, proposed with a rock both impressive and persuasive, and I said yes—preparing for yet another move, this time to the United States.

But that’s a story for Episode 5. 

In real life, I sold the big rock and used the money to pay for the divorce lawyer...

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