Thanks to those of you who wrote to ask where I've been.  About six months ago I decided to shorten the commute and sell my house in San Jose, a 100-year-old Craftsman, and move up the peninsula.  I'm a very slow decision maker on real estate, and didn't even know what zip code I wanted to live in, so I rented a home on the water in Redwood Shores, a subdivision created where Marine World used to be, apparently.  As you can imagine, selling and moving have consumed all my spare time for months, but I'm now settled in and ready to blog again.

Of course living on the water calls for having a boat, since sitting on the dock and watching the sun set over the Oracle databases was getting old.  On Saturdays during the school year, the Stanford crewing team practices right off my dock, so I decided that something I could row would be just the thing.  After a month or two of searching, I came across the perfect boat, good for flyfishing (a hobby) and stable enough to take out the dog.  Lightweight Kevlar, so I could handle it on my own, with optional sculling seat to do a poor mimic of the Stanford crew team.  Here's a picture of the boat I purchased, and the accompanying vision I had of what life would be like:

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Note the very obedient dog at the helm, the perfectly balanced weight in the boat, and the smile on the woman rowing the boat.  Uh huh.

The boat was unpacked on my driveway completely encased in a wooden crate.  Good thing I still had the tools from my last house for prying off trim to refinish.  Two hours later, the boat was uncrated and hauled around to the back.  It weighs 65 pounds, so no easy feat for a woman on her own.  End of day one.

This is the point that Learning 1.0 kicks in.  There's a training maxim that states: If it's easily caught, it shouldn't be taught.  Getting into a boat should be easy, right?  Uh huh.

Lesson #1: remember to tie the boat to the dock when getting in.  Feet were in the boat, hands were on the dock.  Boat floated away from dock; rower dunked into the lagoon.  And in case you're wondering, the Bay water is cold.  Fine.  Got it.  Tie boat to dock.

Lesson #2: remember oars.  I successfully got into the boat, untied it from the dock, and then it slowly floated out.  Ready to go.  Now lock oars into place.  Oars would be a good thing.  As you can see from the picture, it's a wide enough boat that leaning over and padding with my fingertips was not viable.  Before I got too far out, I decided to jump out, and in the process, sinking the boat.  A 65-pound boat filled with water in waist-deep water is another interesting exercise.  Boat and me back on the dock ended day two.

This is the point that Learning 2.0 should kick in.  Wet clothes off and hot shower later, I went on a google search for “how to get into a boat.”  I'll be interested if you find something better than I did, but after an hour or two of searching, I found nothing really helpful.  This will be the subject of a future blog – how we provide learning that is just in time, just enough, and just for you.  But it wasn't there for me.

Eventually through trial and error, and thankfully no more dunkings in the bay, I became proficient enough to really enjoy the boat, and take Harry the Labrador along with me.  Unfortunately, Harry doesn't stay quietly at the helm and that takes an interesting continuous blend of weight shifting while sculling, which I've mastered to the point that we can row about 3 miles in an hour.  Certainly not a competition speed with the crews, but it is a peaceful time.

Which leads finally to the amygdala, or why we learn so much from failure and mistakes.

See how close the amygdala is to the brain stem?  If we have a strong emotional (usually negative) reaction to something, the amygdala is the part of the brain that triggers that same emotional response--especially fear--should we ever encounter a similar situation.  Which means it's unlikely I'll ever forget to keep the boat tied to the dock or to leave the oars on the dock.  And that's a good thing ...

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