To be truly challenging, a voyage, like a life, must rest on a firm foundation of financial unrest. Otherwise you are doomed to a routine traverse, the kind known to yachtsmen who play with their boats at sea- "cruising," it is called. Voyaging belongs to seamen, and to the wanderers of the world who cannot, or will not, fit in. If you are contemplating a voyage and you have the means, abandon the venture until your fortunes change. Only then will you know what the sea is all about.
Sterling Hayden
The Beautiful Blonde Viking God
Pierre, tickled and somewhat mischievous, eagerly passed on this curly blonde hunk's passage to me. We huddled down below at the satellite dock, and from the gleam in his eyes, I anticipated a valuable lesson. Like the impromptu charting lessons with the compass rose. Or the wild-eyed tales about my grandmother, his sister Emily.
Last night at my own "galley" table, I kept the company of Alex St. Claire, snow-making and trail extraordinaire. Over Coors and my perfect, slumbering Boo, we listened to the hysterical stories of Utah Phillips resonating with the strums of Ani Difranco and sat smug in our gratitude for how stinking lucky we truly are. For our town, our families, our hope for building our own cabins and meeting the loves of our lives; for our wealth of freedom and simple joys, our freedom to give up the world in the palm of our hands for the benefit of someone out there who is sure, and our capacity to ask why, like Socrates and inevitably receive peace of mind.
In the midst of a charmed evening, Pierre's reference came to mind and I excavated it from the mystical caverns of my travel diaries. I hope you enjoy and that you take a moment to REALLY know how lucky you are today.
Catail
Sterling Hayden
The Beautiful Blonde Viking God
Pierre, tickled and somewhat mischievous, eagerly passed on this curly blonde hunk's passage to me. We huddled down below at the satellite dock, and from the gleam in his eyes, I anticipated a valuable lesson. Like the impromptu charting lessons with the compass rose. Or the wild-eyed tales about my grandmother, his sister Emily.
Last night at my own "galley" table, I kept the company of Alex St. Claire, snow-making and trail extraordinaire. Over Coors and my perfect, slumbering Boo, we listened to the hysterical stories of Utah Phillips resonating with the strums of Ani Difranco and sat smug in our gratitude for how stinking lucky we truly are. For our town, our families, our hope for building our own cabins and meeting the loves of our lives; for our wealth of freedom and simple joys, our freedom to give up the world in the palm of our hands for the benefit of someone out there who is sure, and our capacity to ask why, like Socrates and inevitably receive peace of mind.
In the midst of a charmed evening, Pierre's reference came to mind and I excavated it from the mystical caverns of my travel diaries. I hope you enjoy and that you take a moment to REALLY know how lucky you are today.
Catail
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