Gary and I met on board a mercy ship 31 years ago in Mexico.
He was a young American maxillofacial surgeon who, following his training and residency at UCLA, spent five years working in the British National Health Service.
We came for different reasons--he wanted to make a difference, and I wanted to get away from a difficult situation for a few months. He was committed. I was tenuous, yet unexpectedly drawn to stay on.
After a few years working in the port cities of Mexico, Jamaica and the Dominican Republic, our ship was re-deployed to Africa. When we eventually married in 1991, I didn’t think to ask him how long we would stay. I mean, how long can two people live on a floating hospital ship? Two years? Five? Maybe ten?
As it turns out, I should have asked.