During the passage from Balboa, Panama, to San Diego I repeatedly told myself that this is the last hard thing I will ever have to do. I have been doing hard things for a very long time. Perhaps as long as anyone ever. Far longer than the four poets who envisioned Ulysses not remaining in Ithaca after his twenty year absence: Dante; Tennyson; Cavafy; Kazantzakis. They surely did not imagine a 77 year old Ulysses. Nor did I. But he has happened.
When I was off Point Loma in the pre-dawn light on Monday, April 29, 2019, I was tired, perhaps more mentally than physically, though physically I had lost more than ten pounds from my normal 154 pounds on a 6’1” frame. I profoundly wanted the ordeal to be over.
Now, twenty-six days later, I am envisioning other voyages. It is too soon to know when they will begin.
Where would I most like to be in the world? If you have been here any length of time you know: New Zealand’s Bay of Islands.
Now, twenty-six days later, I am envisioning other voyages. It is too soon to know when they will begin.
Where would I most like to be in the world? If you have been here any length of time you know: New Zealand’s Bay of Islands.
I am seventy-seven years old. I don’t have many years left. Why should I not spend some of them where I most want to be even if I can’t stay there permanently?
I believe I am an original experiment. I acknowledged more than forty years ago that most original experiments are failures. I expect I am a failure. But as I enter the dying part of my life I am still becoming and I am still trying to understand.
