I eat very little, mostly just dinner with the kids, and I lap from the bathroom tap when I’m thirsty. During the day, when I have to leave the closet, I push open the bifold doors and cross our carpeted bedroom in my socks. The body creaks. The bladder longs. I avoid the bathroom mirror. When I return to our bedroom, sometimes I linger by the front windows, where birds mob our blighted apple tree. I spy on them, just as the occasional curious neighbor spies on me. Our plain white house is now a point of interest. It’s been on the news. I see the way people walking past our house slow down, and how, if in pairs in the evening, they exchange a somber look.
Vivas to those who have fail’d!
And to those whose war-vessels sank in the sea!
And to those themselves who sank in the sea!
It’s true—history is written by the victors. That’s why we need poets.
To sing of the defeats.
January 25. 11 p.m. LOG OF YACHT ‘JULIET.’ Cayos Limones. Brisk NE winds. Clear weather. NOTES AND REMARKS: Will sail east in 2 days. Maybe finally get off the beaten path. Sky tonight amazing. A bowl of stars. I love it on deck at night. Sometimes after Juliet falls asleep, I come up here & crawl into the sail cover. You don’t even need a headlamp to write by, the moon is so bright. Like a spotlight. Like the sun of a black & white world. You can see every frond of every palm on the island, thrashing in the trade winds. The sand bright as snow. The surf rolling up & down the beach.
If I had it my way we’d be circumnavigating the globe. If I was by myself I’d be halfway to the Marquesas. 3 weeks out of sight of land. Then I’d have me a real night watch!! Instead, in order to reassure Juliet, we’ve plotted a course that clings to the coast of Central & South America. Panama City, Cartagena, Caracas. From there I am hoping she will sign off on a crossing. We could go anywhere across this huge sea.
Monserrat? Punta Cana? Havana?
But for now, it’s just me, my Captain’s log & a couple curassows I can see when their roosting tree blows a certain way. Somebody forgot to secure their halyard the next boat over. I have half a mind to swim over there & fix it. Funny how the more alone you get out here, the aloner you want to be. You want to find an anchorage with nobody in it at all. Just you and the stars, stars, stars. Stars get you thinking.
We’re just a hyphen between our parents and our kids. That’s what you learn in middle age. Mostly this is something a mature person can live with. But every once in a while you just want to send up a flare. I too am here! Everybody is sympathetic until you try and make your minuscule life interesting and then they’re like, What’s wrong with you? You think you’re special?
You learn a lot about people when you tell them you’re going to sea w/ your kids. About 10% of them will say, Hey, that’s amazing, Godspeed, and the other 90% won’t hesitate to tell you why it’s impossible. Then they want you to spend a couple hours walking them back, explaining how you are going to get food, or take a shower, or keep up with the news.
Whenever we told people that we were going to sail as a family, they’d fixate on different things. Some folks worried about whether it’d be good for me & Juliet’s marriage. Wouldn’t it be tough to live 24/7 in a 44-foot floating capsule?
(A fair question, one that I’m still mulling over.)
Everyone was worried about the kids. How could you do this w/ kids? they asked. Aren’t you worried about their safety? What if they fall overboard? What if they miss home? Why not wait until they’re 18? Why not wait until you’re retired?