Testing the Winds
“The quality or state of being alone or remote from society.”
That is Solitude as defined by my Merriam-Webster Collegiate Dictionary. Is it fair to say those concluding words—“remote from society”—now carry some latent baggage? After all, remoteness has become our new way of life.
Still, I wonder:
How often in this undying remote do we find meaningful solitude?
I can only say that I myself have never yearned to be remote for the sole sake of being alone. That would just be plain lonely.
And yet, solitude, I crave. No different than a breath of fresh air. It gives me energy. It gives me life. Without it I’d be lost. Well—more lost anyway.
William Deresiewicz has described solitude as, “Finding your own reality-for yourself, not others.”
For me solitude can be found in a crowded car on Boston’s red-line. Sometimes, it reveals itself on a long run or walk with my dog through a hidden stretch of North Yarmouth woods. Almost always, it flows in the hours spent swinging around an anchor. Really, solitude is anywhere I momentarily find the space, the time, and the curiosity to listen. For what? That’s hard to say. My Voice maybe. If you will allow me. Not the one that lives in my throat. But the one emanating from my soul. The one which silently channels the whispers of life, making sense of all that unfolds around me.
Most reliably of all, I find solitude at the Cumberland Town Beach, a stone’s thrown down from the street on which I was raised. Particularly in the quiet months between September and May. I eagerly await as the faucet of visitors gradually tightens down to its final few drips. Then, once again, Dobby and I roam free. Undisturbed, but not alone.
But please. I repeat, please. Try not to get any ideas.
Strolling down to the beach, I always hear the distant hum of I-295. Hollow reverberations from scattered engine brakes pacify my stalking invitation to loneliness. It’s all I need, an illusory bridge gracing me with its gentle sense of harmony between distance and connection.
Tonight, each of my steps sank softly into the receded shoreline. A crisp, decisive breeze whispered to my back through the defiant tongues of brittle fall leaves. Every deeply inhaled breath married with the familiar scent of marsh and primordial life. Cunning darkness had come to envelop all but a waning sliver of peach-colored sky along the south-west horizon. Sirius perched anxiously determined to seize command of countless awakening stars in absence of the moon. A handful of flashing lights atop Wyman Station dashed across the nearly still bay. Their cadence like a conductor keeping time in the young night. One-two-three. Flash. One-two-three. Flash. Amidst this delicate symphony, my Voice was also speaking. It sure had—has—a lot to say.
…
Today, I officially entered unemployment. I resigned from my job. Actually, I resigned from my career. Since that is what I had, a career. The perfect 7:30-5 (most nights!), working alongside a phenomenal team, learning from a supportive manager, and getting paid enough to be happy. All that at a company I more than likely would have otherwise comfortably retired from 20 or 30-odd years down the line.
I hope I haven’t just lost you there.
If between talk of my soul and the thought of shooting a perfectly healthy golden goose you’re already questioning my sanity, I wouldn’t blame you. If the first two words that come to mind are “Friggin’ dipstick!” Congratulations, you are probably from Maine!
Should that be the case, from this point forward, there’s probably not much I will say to change your mind. This is that rare instance when context likely only makes things sound crazier. But if you have managed to remain curious, hopefully at a minimum you will find what I have to say entertaining.
…
The story behind my jobless, wandering, soul-searching state begins in the Spring of 2020. It was then I found myself graduating into an unpredictably strange world. A world so strange that I couldn’t even register for a fly-fishing course because the premise of whirling around a nine-or-so foot fly-rod wasn’t deemed social-distancing compliant. That was supposed to be my graduation present. I had long hoped to learn how to fly-fish. Not that by then anything to get me out of the house didn’t sound fucking brilliant. Too bad, I was out of luck, or so I thought.
Fate’s first wrinkle came when Ross and Sandra Williams invited me and my parents out for a sunset cruise on their Cape Dory 26. At this point, I had never once stepped foot on a sailboat. For me, sailboats existed only in myth or imagination. They lived elusively on distant moorings or under the mysterious cloak of shrink-wrap in coastal boatyards and a distinguished few backyards.
My only acquaintance with Ross and Sandra prior to that evening was through their son, Ben, who was a grade below me coming up through school and who I played football with long ago. I stepped aboard Stornoway with few expectations and limitless curiosity. Naturally, I could not shake the fattest of grins from my face for the next three and half hours. Exhibit A.
Of course, at that time, I was little aware Ross and Sandra were gladly substituting responsibility for beer. What did it matter? It felt like such a privilege to man the helm and pick up the mooring. Two porpoises and a blissful sunset off Diamond Cove later, I was decidedly in love.
Ross apologized. There had not been enough air to fill the sails. All the same, a strong and steady breeze stirred me in my sleep later that night.
Nearly three years have passed since that evening in June.
Fly-fishing lessons promptly became sailing lessons (Why five people sharing the cockpit of a 22-foot Pearson Ensign was permitted then, I do not know. I certainly wasn’t complaining!).
I also managed to save up some money working odd jobs with my friend Calvin Soule. We painted a house, refinished a handful of decks, and cleared brush like bandits. Please kindly refer to him if you have any doubts as to whether that money was well earned.
Living at home and knowing I’d soon have a reliable paycheck, I decided I was going to use my little stash of cash to buy a sailboat. Sailing was all that was on my mind. Perhaps I was also on a somewhat impulsive streak. That May, I spontaneously adopted a one-year-old corgi-black lab, who I named Dobby. Suffice to say he is a black lab with short legs and big ol’ paws, or as we’ve simply dubbed him, a “low ridah.” I, along with the rest of my family, have zero regrets. I assure you (and myself during times I am away) he is super well-loved. Always.
Anyhow, I managed to convince Ross and my dad to tag along as I began to kick the stands on some boats. In fairness, there was not much convincing. Ross was soon feeding my obsession with a daily barrage of boat listings. Turns out there are few places he himself would rather be than looking at boats and appraising them over a beer.
But the ultimate credit is owed to my mom who spotted, Papersails, a 1986 Catalina 25 listed on Facebook Marketplace. “Modified interior with almost 6ft of headroom.” Those of you who know me, know that would come in handy. “Possible mooring for this season in Freeport Harbor.” Yup, I needed that.
Most promising of all was the concluding picture of the boat’s singular pennant.
That, folks, is what we call an omen. The universe conspires. We must only pay attention.
Selling Papersails were Greg and Michelle Brown. Upon closer inspection, they not only had been loving stewards of the boat but were also unquestionably good and honest people. Our exchange went far beyond settling on a price of $6,000. Greg generously spent abundant time and effort helping me to get acquainted with my new boat. I was granted all the time I needed to complete some outstanding projects with the boat still in their yard. So, nearly every day for two weeks, I made my way down to Freeport after work and stayed for as long as the mid-summer sun would allow me.
I have come to appreciate why, for most owners, their boat is so much more than an object that floats. Many joke they would rather play on other people’s boats. Perhaps therein lies some truth if one only considers dollars spent. But a boat is, or should be, so much more than a proverbial “hole in the water.” As many find out, boat ownership borders its own religion. With each entranced hour spent whittling down on an endless list of projects, boats become extensions of ourselves, teaching us the value in patience, resourcefulness, and community. On the water, they are our gateways to presence, marvel, beauty, and joy. Occasionally, they also instill what is hopefully just a healthy dose of the fear of God. In doing so, boats bring forth and test our true character, molding our lives and identities along the way.
Papersails has done all this for me and more. Through her I rediscovered my home, experiencing treasures I could not ever hope to deserve.
Above all, she awakened a long dormant part of my soul. The part in search of a worthy quest.
Let it not be mistaken. Sailing, in and of itself, is a quest. One that extends far beyond the vastness of Earth’s oceans and lakes. No two days on the water will ever be the same. Wherever you should go, you will always discover another lesson to be learned. Especially because as those who sail know, opportunity often blows in your direction.
Down the rabbit hole I fell.
Opportunity first came knocking early in 2021 when local sailor Doug Coyle invited me to crew PHRF races at Portland Yacht Club on his Ericson 33. Those Wednesday nights turned my obsession into a full-fledged addiction. What I learned racing I refined on Papersails. In fact, I’d wager no other sailboat could be seen so routinely buzzing about Casco Bay, chasing the high of every extra tenth-of-a-knot. Miles added up. Before the end of the season, I even managed to log my first singlehanded run from Falmouth down to Port-Clyde. Horizons were expanding.
Sail Maine Bluewater Regatta aboard Ericson 33, Happy Ours — August, 2021
Before the year was out, Doug had been diagnosed with MDS—blood cancer. Utter disbelief. Not two months had passed since he was last reminding me to “move like a cat” and battling off Bob Daigle’s vibrantly blue-hulled C&C. His battle has since served as my constant reminder that life is delicate, and that the present is precious.
To be clear, blood cancer didn’t stop Doug from helping me locate a new gig. Hell, I bet he was more on top of it than me most days. Thanks to him I was introduced to Jeff LePage, the co-owner of Gunsmoke, their shared Etchells. Etchells are one-design race boats. 30 feet of mean-looking fiberglass. They are responsive to the point of being touchy. At 15-20 knots of wind the boat practically flies. You’ll almost surely get soaked in anything larger than one-foot seas. In short, they are fun as hell!
This summer, I spent almost every Tuesday racing Gunsmoke with Jeff, Kendra, and Elena. Upwind I worked the jib sheets. Downwind I worked the foredeck.
On the topic of unsolicited and irrelevant trivia, I am likely the tallest person to have ever balanced on the foredeck of an Etchells. Limit it to PYC Fleet 27 and you can safely exchange “likely” with “certainly.”
Once again, I was discovering new ways to advance my craft, learning from and alongside some of the best.
…
At last, I arrive at approximately the present moment. At least, the moment upon which my trajectory has by now so definitively changed.
It was a cool, otherwise entirely unremarkable Friday evening in September. Disgruntled, I sat behind the wheel of my parked car, weighing slim options. I had just driven 10 minutes to downtown Falmouth where I spent another 10 minutes sitting fruitlessly at the Bueno Loco bar. “Hey buddy, just want to let you know it’s gunna be an hour before you get any food.” Scratch the Bueno. I was out of there. Fast. Since not much is open late outside of Portland, I ventured 15 minutes back down the road in the direction from which I came. I had an obvious backup. The most surefire of spots, Brickyard Hallow in Yarmouth. Or so I thought. Upon arriving, I walked up to the door only to see every table and bar seat firmly occupied. This is Yarmouth, Maine we are talking about!
Our home fridge was hopelessly empty, it was past 8pm, my parents were away at a wedding, and the day prior I worked well past midnight only to have logged back on by 6:30am. I was only looking for a quick and quiet bite to eat. Could it really be so hard?
Sitting behind the wheel, I was ready to begin punching air. Instead, I mustered up a deep breath, walked back inside, and stood awkwardly waiting for the next available seat at the bar. Fortunately, I got lucky. Not terribly long passed before I was awarded with not one but three free seats at the bar. I went straight for the middle and promptly ordered two tacos and a chicken sandwich. All business. No cellphone distractions either. I was doing my best to embrace what most folks, at least most 20-something-year-olds, would find to be an uncomfortable situation.
That’s when a most recognizably out of place gentleman walked in. He wore a backpack and raincoat. A brief glance at the sky between my car and the entrance had been all I needed to know there was not even the slightest chance of rain that evening. Must be from Massachusetts I thought. Oh, and look, he was headed in my direction. No, he was headed for the seat right smack dab next to mine. Perfect.
What proceeded to unfold next is nothing sort of miraculous. Turns out Mr. Massachusetts was clearly not from Massachusetts. How could I tell? His heavy accent and lack of refined fluency in English were pretty good hints. Not knowing what chowder was, now that was a dead giveaway. Moments prior, so resolved not to speak to a single soul beside the bartender, I couldn’t help myself.
“Do you need help reading the menu”?
“Ah yes, my friend, can you tell me what is this (points to text on a menu I cannot see) chow-dare” (spoken with the heaviest of Latin accents)
After explaining the particulars of fish chowder to this stranger, I immediately asked where he was from. “Patagonia en Argentina,” he responded. Okay, makes sense, albeit still very little sense. I would have to reassess everything I thought I once knew if this man had travelled from Argentina to Maine for some premature “leaf peeping.” So, I continued to press for what could have possibly brought him into Brickyard Hallow, in Yarmouth, Maine, in the middle of September.
“I jus bought sailboat. Down the road at Yankee Marine. 42-foot Hallberg-Rassy. I have fix some thing and then I will sail back to Patagonia” (again heavily accented and liberally interpreted)
It was too astounding to be true. This man had strung together what were possibly the most fascinating consecutive set of words in the English language. That is, to the person listening.
Our conversation went on to last well over an hour. I learned about his plans as well as his life. Details I will spare you. Although, it might be helpful to share his name. Guillermo’s friendliness effortlessly won me over. Before leaving I offered my assistance should he need any in preparing the boat. Yankee Marina being 5 minutes from my house, I was happy to chip in an extra set of hands. If I was lucky, I figured I might even learn a thing or two. We exchanged contact info and went our separate ways. I felt alive.
A few days later, I shot Guillermo an email, not expecting much. I received a flurry of audio messages in return. He was very glad I reached out. Yes, he could certainly use my help, especially in connecting some new electronics. And in the final soundbite he said something that sounded like, “and if you want come on boat you are welcome esque.” The stakes of “esque” were high. As you can probably guess, I had officially been invited to join the crew.
The couple months since that revelation have been eventful. I toiled over the decision. I even initially told Guillermo no, I would not be able to come but was still happy to help. I was one month out from my bonus, no small sum of money. Not only that, but as I’ve mentioned, I wouldn’t exactly be leaving my job at a corner gas station. I would be leaving a career and a high-functioning, supportive team. I would be leaving valuable relationships.
But again, the universe gave me a nudge when I was looking for one. My car broke down. $5,000 worth of work needed to inspect a car worth less than that. The muffler had fallen off completely. My insides gnawed at me.
So, there I was, driving to Saco in my dad’s car to look at a Toyota Tacoma with 80,000 miles. Price: $28,600. And that valuation wasn’t even out of the ordinary for a well-used car. It was one of the best deals I could find after scouring the web. Thinking about it still makes me a little nauseous. Jim Croce was playing through my iPhone’s speakers since aux chords had not yet become standard feature in 1999.
And I carry it with me and I sing it loud
If it gets me nowhere
I’ll go there proud
Movin’ me down the highway
Rollin’ me down the highway
Moving ahead so life won’t pass me by
And I’m gonna go there free
Like the fool I am and I’ll always be
I’ve got a dream, I’ve got a dream
I can’t explain what occurred inside me in those moments. Perfect clarity or stupid sense. Either way, every fiber of my being united with absolute conviction. I was getting on that boat.
…
Back to the town beach. There I stand, contemplating this story, my story, as I have shared it with others, and now you. You will have to grant me some ambiguity in the omission of innumerable more nuanced details. Details I could easily obsess over. Truthfully, I almost always do. The details are responsible for hesitancy which lately burdens my every spoken or typed word. I feel bound by a frustrating ultimatum, to say too much or too little. Never just the right amount. If such a thing were ever possible.
Will you, the person reading this, judge me as rash or self-righteous? Careless or brave? Does it even matter?
All I have ever observed are people equally capable of finding truth in the arbitrary and absurdity in the truth. Striving to make every perspective agree with you will only drive you insane. At least, it has that effect on me.
Standing in the growing darkness, I try to understand what I have done and why I have done it. I am searching for some logical explanation, a means of reconciling my decision with an acceptable level of rationality. Nevertheless, I couldn’t feel more at odds with the “rational maximizer” discussed in distant college lectures. All I feel and know is Truth as it flows up through the eternal clay slowly consuming my feet. Infinitely vast and shapeless, it asks me to surrender from my desire for an answer.
I am reminded of Cicero, who long ago wrote, “Men decide far more problems by hate, love, lust, rage, sorrow, joy, hope, fear, illusion, or some other inward emotion, than by reality, authority, any legal standard, judicial precedent, or statute.”
Also of Shakespeare, who through the voice of Hamlet proclaimed, “There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.”
Whether our minds or our emotions are the better judge of reality, I’d better leave that question for the philosophers.
In the end I must accept my conviction to embark on this journey is anchored to a Truth only I will ever know, even if it’s a Truth I may never fully understand.
I take in one last deep breath before I turn to leave. Once again, solitude has worked its magic. Hopefully there will be more of that to come.
…
Some concluding thoughts. As the introduction to this project, I expect this post will be much longer than most. I will make no promises as to how often I plan to post nor as to what sort of content I expect is in store. All I can say is that I will do my best to take you with me on my journey as it unfolds.
P.S.
I would be remiss not to pause and pay tribute to the many influential friends and teachers who have offered up a hand, a halyard, a little wisdom, or opportunity along the way. To my sailing circle—Ross, Sandra, Doug, Jeff, Randy, Gale, Kendra, (Geoff) Tamarack crew, and many a generous stranger, thank you! Mr. CVANLO—LEGEND—thank you for growing my courage and my spirit. I could not hope to meet a better model for the man I aspire to become. To the friends who have been long-term sources of inspiration and encouragement, I will be thanking each of you individually. Lastly, a most special thanks to my parents and sister who not only tolerate my antics but also support me endlessly in all that I choose to do.