Hard To Do

Warning: A whole lot of navel-gazing follows. This is, to paraphrase my friend Jon, your front-row seat to my psychotherapy. If you don’t want to be witness to that, c’mon back another time.

I was seeing someone for a couple of months and we broke up a couple of weeks ago.

This likely comes as a surprise to some of you. Not that I broke up with someone — that’s happened in every single relationship thus far in my 51 years; it’s such a common occurrence now that my buddy Dave just sing-songs every time it happens, “Another one bites the dust” — but rather that I was seeing someone. That might have been surprising. We were only about two months in so we hadn’t done enough to where my relationship status was visible, on Facebook or, you know, in real life. But yeah, I was dating someone and it was good.

But going through another (apparently inevitable) break-up leads me to the question: What the hell is wrong with me?!

She and I met this summer when we were both participants in our local bicycle shop’s weekly group ride. In this era of online dating, it was especially awesome to meet someone organically and to hit it off right away. I’ve been online dating for so long now — going back to the days when my company, Citysearch, was under the same IAC umbrella with Match.com — that I can’t remember the last time I dated someone I’d met in everyday life.

So this was particularly exciting. And maybe that was part of the problem: I set my expectations too high. But part of the problem was definitely timing: I was so of the mind that I was in some fashion taking off to travel after the summer ended that when my dream of a sailboat began to take concrete shape, I went so all-in on making that dream happen that I didn’t invest enough in the potential relationship that was taking shape at the same time. For that lack of investment I’m sorry. But I’m not sorry that I invested in the pursuit of my dream.

And that’s why this failure of mine has prompted in me the questioning of why, when I dream, is it never of a happy, successful relationship but rather of another “thing” on my to-do list?

In 2004, I opted for my dream of a life in Alaska over a truly great love. It wasn’t a simple relationship-or-Alaska quandary; there were other factors, of course. But at its simplest level, do I regret that choice? I don’t know. I always say that while I might have done some things differently in my life, I don’t do regrets because my life as it has been constituted thus far has shaped what I feel has become a pretty good, pretty fun life. But as good and fun as it is, there’s still a huge hole in it. And while to this day I am deeply saddened at the ending of that relationship, I am deeply pleased I went to Alaska. I got so much out of my time in the Great Land that achieving that lifelong dream — even though I was in the city in Anchorage and not out in a cabin in the Bush — is one of the greatest satisfactions of my life, something I’ll take to my grave. But I sure would have liked to have taken that relationship with me as well.

And there have been others. In 2011, I chose to sail the extreme North Atlantic over what was shaping up to be a great relationship in Alaska. I could (the therapist would say “should”) have relocated with the woman I lived with in 2005 as her career went gangbusters. And way back in 1996 I chose to stay in Montana rather than return to Utah and make an effort to save what might have been the great relationship of my life. Again, do I regret those choices? No. And yes.

So now another relationship has come to an end. And it’s not a case of forgetting the past and having to relive it. I’m in full grasp of my abysmal track record when it comes to relationships. That track record has me wondering if I’m just incapable of being in love, of being involved with someone. If so, boy oh boy, that’s a shitty way to go through life. And if not, why do I keep failing at so important a part of life?

In the eulogy I did when my mother passed I described myself as “an emotional cripple.” I repeated that assertion in the therapy I finally got into several months later. After a few sessions, the therapist refuted my assertion and said instead that I’d never had relationships properly modeled for me. I won’t go into the details of his theory and while I appreciate the pass he gave me, I’m not buying the excuse. I’ve had too many opportunities to make a relationship work and I’m still 0-for. And that, to put it bluntly, sucks.

So what am I going to do about all this? I don’t know. I really don’t know. I’ll keep self-analyzing, I know that. And hopefully I’ll find some kernel inside of me that leads me to find a feeling of love for another human being, a feeling that inspires me to open myself and my heart so that loving that other person becomes the top dream on my list and we live happily ever after.

Yes, the fairy-tale ending. Hopefully it’s not too late for me. Through it all, I remain a romantic at heart. Ever hopeful.

Navel Gazing, Personal

Take To The Ship

Say hello to Further

The eyeglasses weren’t the only long-impending event to recently — finally — occur. To paraphrase Andy Samberg (caution: VERY explicit language): I own a mother@#$$#@ boat!

That’s right: After 35-plus years of dreaming, scheming, reading and gaining some small bit of experience, I finally grew enough of a pair to drop some serious coin and buy a sailboat. And my first reaction was, naturally: HO. LEE. $#*T!

The boat dream goes way back to my youth. I learned to sail at summer camp and then my family had a Hobie Cat I sailed off the beach at Plum Island during the summer. Too many surfing magazine stories about tropical idylls and too many Jimmy Buffett songs cemented the image in my head of a wind-borne escape to warm, turquoise waters with perfect waves and no crowds.

And I came close a couple of times to approaching the dream. When I came home after playing hockey in Europe, I had a little bit of money saved up and I found a 1950-something Hinckley yawl in South Carolina for sale in magazine (the World Wide Web had yet to be invented). I asked my mother for the ten grand to make up the difference and, knowing full well my dream, she immediately said no. Can’t say as I blame her but boy, what might have been…

Looking aft from the bow during the sea trial in early November

In the fall of 2011, after an amazing summer of crewing for my friends Boogie and Marlies in the WAY North Atlantic (there are tons of posts on that time contained herein; see the archives in the right-hand column), I began surfing boat listings online. Boat porn, as it’s called, became a serious addiction, but it almost paid off right away when I found not just one of the boats I’d dreamed of since I was 13, I found THE boat: the exact one I’d seen in photos and stories was available. I made an offer that was accepted, but upon doing a survey (an inspection), I learned that there were issues with the hydraulic centerboard. I pulled my offer and the yacht broker turned into a serious dick, yelling about how it was no big deal. Several months later, I was once again aboard a boat with Boogie and Marlies, this time in St. Maarten for the Heineken Regatta. As it turned out, we were in a slip in a marina next to the guy who had been the project manager on the aforementioned dream boat when that Rhode Island company had been going full-bore in the 1970s and ‘80s. I told him what the survey had revealed and he exploded (in classic Yankee style) that what the broker had suggested as a fix was “goddamned stupid” and that the broker “didn’t know what in the hell he was fucking saying.” So I felt like I’d dodged a bullet, but I was still kinda bummed.

I took this selfie while at the helm during the pre-purchase sea trial

I came close on a couple of boats in the summer of 2012 but never pulled the trigger. And when all the shit went down in October of that year — Mom’s sudden passing and Dad falling and breaking his hip — I wound up relieved that I didn’t have the additional burden of a boat. But I kept surfing the boat porn just in case.

And then this summer, there it was. A Dutch-built boat (hey…Boogie and Marlies are Dutch! It’s a sign!) was listed in Annapolis. It was a bit out of my price range but I kept my eye on it now and again because that brand of boat had a reputation as strong, solid, fast boats, and that’s what I wanted. But I couldn’t quite rationalize the expense the owner was asking.

Three weeks before the Annapolis Boat Show, which I would once again attend and help a friend of mine whose company has a booth at the show, the price dropped by almost 25 percent. I called the selling broker and saw the boat the day I arrived in Annapolis. It was nice and it was in good shape. And it was calling to me.

I called an Annapolis broker I’d worked with in 2012 and asked him to represent me — I didn’t want to go into such a deal without an advocate on my side of the table. A few offers and counters, a survey and a trial, and I closed on the boat two days ago on Friday, Nov. 17, 2017. And again I say: HO. LEE. $#*T!

The view forward

The boat is a Trintella 42. It is 42’3” long and is a sloop rig. It has two cabins — so that you married friends can come visit me and you’ll have your own, private cabin — as well as two heads (toilets, for those unfamiliar with the nomenclature), a nice galley (kitchen) and saloon (living room).

She is currently called Glory but I’m going to change her name to Further. Why? Well, further is where I want to go. And Further was the name of the bus Ken Kesey and the Merry Pranksters drove around for the acid tests in the ‘60s. The bus was their means for searching for higher truths and I’m hoping my Further will be the same for me — without the need for pharmaceutical assistance.

I moved Further yesterday to her new home at a funky marina way up at the head of a creek in Annapolis (my broker said of the owner of the place, “he’s a funkmeister.”) The place has a dozen or so slips, most occupied by folks who live aboard, and there’s a small bathroom/shower in a shed on shore. Wedged in at the head of the creek as we are, there are a lot of ducks and herons and trees and quiet. What there isn’t is glitz or glamour. I like it. I also like the cheap rates and walking access to Annapolis/Eastport lifestyle.

The current game plan is either: a) leave the boat here in Annapolis for the winter and either live aboard or make frequent trips down from Plum Island to work on the boat and get my boating legs back (I needed my broker’s help to move the boat yesterday; who am I kidding…he did the move I just helped); or b) get the boat ready to go ASAP and head down the Intracoastal Waterway to Florida and spend the winter getting my legs back there. This Thanksgiving week will be the time I make up my mind on that front.

Expect to see a lot of the posts hereabouts to involve this major step in my life. And it is just that: a major step. It’s not just a new toy. I’ve had two great dreams in my life: one, to live in Alaska; and two, to sail away. I accomplished the first. Now it’s time to (finally) go for the second. In fact, this second dream took root in my soul a few years before the first. And who knows? After my time in 2011 aboard a sailboat in places like northern Norway, Iceland and Greenland, it may just be that Further is my ticket to combine my two dreams. You may just see me sailing away to Alaska one day…

2 CommentsOcean Fun,

It Had to Happen

Well, I made it into my 50s, at least. But as is ALWAYS the case: Mother Nature and Father Time triumph and remain undefeated. I’m talking, of course, about this:

Four eyes!

Eye glasses. Me. What the ever-loving $#%$?!

Time for some back story: Back in June I had the physical required by the FAA for private pilots. In that exam, the doctor (who was a total douche but more on that later) announced that my blood pressure was way too high and there was a dangerous asymmetry in my eyes that required an ophthalmologist’s testing to ensure there wasn’t glaucoma or cataracts.

The blood-pressure thing…well, that could have been explained by the fact that I’d just spent a few days with my siblings dealing with our late parents’ ashes, but the eye thing perplexed me. Sure, reading was, at times, getting a bit challenging and sure, it took my eyes a few moments to get dialed in upon waking up each morning. But I had always crushed my eye exams: the doctor (or DMV person) would say, “Read line five” and I’d jump to line 10, recite that and we’d move on. But this time I actually had a tough time reciting the designated line. I REALLY had to focus before I finally got it. As I wrote here, the exam—and what the douchey doctor had to say—really unnerved me.

It took me five months to finally visit an ophthalmologist (I may have been unnerved but I don’t like to be rushed), which I did this past Saturday. She found a slight challenge with up-close stuff but no real asymmetry, and the far stuff was fine. She also found perfectly healthy—but aging—eyes. And that was that.

The local eyeglass shop was having a sale so I bought the pair of readers seen in the photo. Yes, I know I can get cheapies at the CVS store but since there was a sale I figured I’d buy these semi-decent glasses and consider ‘em a trial pair.

How do they look? We all know I’m no fashion guru and I tried damn near every pair on the wall: big, nerdy plastic frames to John Lennon wire-rimmed circles. I opted for the pair shown and we’ll see how it goes. Feedback from friends more fashionably inclined appreciated…

But here’s the thing: I don’t really need them—except when I’m reading in low light. Daytime reading? Fine. But in the evening at the coffee shop? Yeah, the letters start to blur. Driving, flying and everything else? Fine. Well, my parents were wearing glasses by their early 40s and all my friends have been wearing glasses for years, so I guess I actually got kinda lucky that I made it to 51-plus before succumbing.

I’ve now worn these things a few times and I gotta tell you: they made my head hurt the first time I read for a bit, and I really hate the way my eyes are out of focus for that instant after I take them off. But given how much I read, and how much I love to read, perhaps I have to accept what Mother Nature and Father Time have decreed and just get used to the fact that I’m now the not-so-proud owner of reading glasses. Sigh…

P.S.
As for the douchey doctor: The guy had ZERO sense of humor. At all. And he derided the fact that I’ve stayed active my whole life and played sports often, by pooh-poohing, “Athletes are always the worst. They think they’re never going to age.” I wanted to smack him and say, “Dude, I get the clearest view of my aging every time I skate with 20-somethings I can’t keep up with anymore.” And the way he pronounced the blood pressure and the eye situation…he made it sound dire, as though my heart was going to explode at any minute and I was going to go blind before my next birthday. I covered the eyes already and, well, when I gave blood on Sunday my BP was perfect. Fuck you, doc!

Navel Gazing, Personal, ,