I love the fact the I have a mobile life.
I don’t have a home phone number as I don’t have a home… You see, when I am in town I live aboard Sine Metu and, according to most government agencies, I am officially a transient. For example, if I were to open a new bank account, it would be denied as they cannot confirm my address “in accordance with Homeland Security,” according to their myopic interpretations of the federal regulation they think they are quoting…
Let me actually clear the air about a couple of things: A) I moved aboard the then unnamed, $800, 24′ boat to avoid being homeless as I was at day 900 or so of my soon-to-end thousand day odyssey of unemployment, food stamps and my two scoops of rice, per day diet; and B) to avoid being homeless… The fact was, my brother loaned me the $800 to buy the boat and I used just about every last cent to my name to cover the first month’s slip rent (which, was a sublet).
Let me tell you that not having to worry week to week if I would be homeless and stopping the “two-weeks to go” clock was wondrous! I also had a job offer that I had all but given up on, they kept pushing out the start date month to month (it would actually start late January, 2011, and my all-but-bankrupt ordeal would end on Day 1,000 — I was actually so damn broke that I couldn’t afford to go bankrupt!). But, that was then and this is now.
Now, I have recovered a little, but I am scarred from the ordeal. I have zero faith in elected “officials” as they — almost to the last — have proven themselves to nothing more than a group of self-serving jackasses, more interested in their own job security than they are in doing the job they were elected to do. Congress is inept and each side is more interested in blocking the other than they are in their own agenda. The President is more interested in looking Presidential than he is in leading. All of these, again, official jackasses, need to make decisions and get things moving…
Okay, that was my first and last political diatribe so please forgive me.
Anyway, I have revived my dreams and rekindled long lost hopes. The biggest of which is this voyage that I am contemplating. And this week marks a milestone which I must share. You see, I have been dating a younger woman for the last two years with the knowledge that we will be breaking up in September of this year. Yes, we have planned our heartbreak to coincide with her going off to another college in pursuit of her degree and I am heading out to sea to chase down my muse.
If you will allow me to segue from the normal sailing focus, dating a younger woman is hard! Being the first man she has dated (not her first…so get your head out of the gutter) makes this relationship a Catch 22. I have to be very diligent and thoughtful as I will be the guy she judges all future relationships by. If I screw things up (please allow me the honor of being very arrogant right now…did I mention that she’s 20 years younger?), then her outlook on men will be that we, as a gender, are nothing but fuckups and jerks. But, and here is the Catch 22 part, even if I do everything perfect, being perfect is itself is a mistake. No relationship is perfect, but in the two years we’ve been together, we have never had an argument. In fact, we talk about anything and everything. There are no rules, taboos, nor games! We are totally open with each other and it is fantastic!
She is so wonderful I know I should break our agreed upon plan and ask her to marry me, but I won’t as I would be the worst husband for her. It’s been proven that I make a lousy husband as I am twice divorced. And while both ex-wives sang the same sweet swan-song and said, “no one would ever love them as I did,” they still managed to sign the divorce papers without a problem. No, I would be a mistake for her no matter how much we love each other… Yes, we love each other, but we try very hard to not be “in” love. It’s a self protection thing, you understand.
Maybe loving with all your heart is a bad thing, but I know of no other way. I am one of those all-in kind of gamblers when it comes to my heart and my life and lost everything both times… As for gambling with my life, so far I’ve won every bet, so there is that. I’ve jumped out of airplanes and rappelled out of helicopters, down buildings and mountain cliffs; I’ve been bitten by a rattle snake, missed being hit by lighting by mere feet, twice, and I’ve seen combat in the first Gulf War… Again, other than loosing all of my hair, I’ve been very lucky. Dying while doing what I love isn’t a worry — what the Hell, I’ll be dead, so how could I care? Dying isn’t my greatest worry, surviving too damaged to be functional and being a burden on friends/family/society and simply suffering are my biggest concerns. Like when I’m rock climbing and I’m clinging to a granite wall, a hundred or so feet up, I don’t worry as much as I do when I’m only thirty feet up. Hell, above 80 feet, it’s highly unlikely that I’d even survive the fall, but at thirty feet I might simply shatter my legs and die slowly from internal bleeding. No, when confronted with the prospect of a quick death, I’m at ease. Always have been. Maybe that’s why I was so good with explosives back in my Army days: Disarming an anti-tank mine ten inches from my face, or setting up a 20-pound, C4 satchel charge was a very Zen experience.
Okay, enough of this self centered bullshit. Time to start sailing.
Damn, beer for breakfast makes me chatty!