Thursday, January 18, 2018

Marathon: accelerating

        Google alerts, to which I do not recall engaging, sends me emails when my words appear online.  Usually these are unauthorized use of “A sailor is an artist whose medium is the wind”—all that I expect will be left of seventy decades of struggle and passion and joy—but I just received one that quoted me from STORM PASSAGE as saying:   “I would have set my course at that instant not for the nearest star but for the farthest.”
        I don’t recall ever writing that.   It is decades and millions of words ago, but I would be proud if I did.  And while frayed by time and chance, I am still what I was or I am nothing,
        So now I find myself considering a passage of six hundred miles, not light years.  
        The forecasts are not what I want.
        Not the nearest star but the farthest.  
        The forecasts show another front with strong gale force north wind in the middle of next week.
        I may leave Saturday instead of Sunday and try to reach Port Pierce before the next front.   I care about protecting GANNET, whose hull/keel cracks prove that I have taken her far beyond anything for which she was ever conceived, more than I do myself.  But tomorrow I might just buy another bottle of Laphroaig and then last it out at sea.
        I am seventy-six years old.  I am a work in progress.