23 January 2011


Dinner at our favorite local seafood restaurant, Molly Cool's, discussing our nearing future over Redneck Mai Tais and dirty martinis. I am acutely, even giddily aware of the more pragmatic tone these conversations have taken on lately. I attribute it to Bobby the Broker's entrance into our lives. Outside of family, Bobby is the first person who knows about this, this, thing we're about to do, this thing too big to be explained by any one word. It is more than a plan, more than an adventure, even more than a dream. It's the act of intentionally stopping one's life and pointing it in a completely different direction (insert nearly obligatory nautical metaphor here). Discussing with Jane the boats that she discussed with Bobby has moved this from the realm of the possible to the eventual. There is an exciting ordinariness about it now.

I think the reason I find this life so appealing (aside from the ones you always hear), is that there is something deeply intuitive about it. The "thing" about it that I get is its size. It's limited. I like the idea of a life that's manageable. Having only so much boat to live on and no more; having to know how much water, food, fuel we'll need; having to consider the trade-off between speed and supplies; having to create our lives as we go along, but with no more variables than we want to deal with. Say that I like immediate gratification for my efforts? Say that I find I have trouble keeping track of what transpires between "cause" and "effect?" Say that I can't find my bearings adrift in a sea of humanity? Yes. I'm nearly 50 years old and I have yet to grow into the life I'm living. Seems to me it's time to try a different kind of life on for size.