The Renaissance Begins

Written: 16 May
36,000 feet over the Atlantic, midway between Boston and Nova Scotia

Just departed Logan Airport in a nor’easter tempestuous enough to prompt my mother to ask if I ever got nervous flying in such weather. I don’t. In fact, I dig flying in almost any weather, no matter how bumpy (maybe that’s why I got my pilot’s license a few years ago). But this flight has already been different — and we’re just half an hour into it.

I’ve become a pretty jaded traveler over the years (OK, jaded about a lot more than just traveling, but let’s stay on-topic here). But over the course of the past hour or so, I’ve actually giggled a couple of times and I wear the smile of someone who is truly relaxed. Why? Just one step into the plane and I was already hearing that Irish lilt — and being spoken by a female speaker no less, which creates something so subtly intoxicating about the medium, no matter how mundane the message. A few moments later, upon taking my seat, I listened to the French being spoken in the row behind me. And it hit me: for the first time in more than 20 years I was flying to a different continent, to a place where English (or least American English) isn’t the primary language. I was headed to places where the provincialism engendered by having a large ocean on each side of our country is not possible; where different languages and different cultures and different ways of dealing with life are encountered every single moment, whether one likes it or not. And that’s kinda cool, in a humbling sorta way.

INTERRUPTION: Wow! The full moon just came into view between the starboard wing tip and the overcast below. Meanwhile the sun shines brightly off the port side. Can you tell I’m just a wee bit excited?!

Anyway, listening to the various languages being spoken in the terminal and on the plane, and realizing how long gone my abilities with French and German were, reminded me of the old joke:
Q: What do you call someone who speaks more than two languages?
A: A polyglot.
Q: What do you call someone who speaks two languages?
A: Bilingual.
Q: What do you call someone who speaks one language?
A: An American

I’m not knocking my homeland. I’m an American through-and-through. But sometimes our my-way-or-the-highway attitude is just plain embarrassing. And I’m excited about getting out of my comfort zone and into some situations where I can practice a little humility, learn new ways of seeing and expand my horizons just a bit further.

Opinion, Personal, Travel, Uncategorized,

A New Path


It’s been an interesting year since leaving gainful employment in San Diego. And in that time, there’s been a steady theme rolling through my head: a steady flow of cliches, famous sayings and all-too-real stories of life. You’ve heard ’em before:

“Life is a daring adventure or nothing at all.”
— Helen Keller

“Twenty years from now you will more disappointed by the things you didn’t do than by the ones you did. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”
— Mark Twain

“There is magic in boldness.”
— Goethe
(Never mind that research indicates that most of these platitudes are incorrectly attributed; they’re still good sentiments.)

Throw in images of other lives abruptly interrupted by tsunamis, earthquakes and things such as diagnoses of illnesses, then mix in a year of living in friends’ and sibling’s guest rooms and out of storage units while trying to figure out which career path to pursue, and you get a heady stew with an aroma that bubbles up long-dormant dreams from the subconscious.

So into this mindset comes an interesting Tuesday in early April. On the same day that I received an offer letter for an intriguing job in Anchorage, I received a solid offer on my not-listed-for-sale home, also in Anchorage. The couple who made the offer had seen the house back in the fall when it was listed but were waiting on the sale of their condo; well, that condo was now in contract and they just wanted to take a look and see if they still liked the place. At the same time all this was going on, I’d been in contact with my friends Boogie and Marlies, owners of the Swan 51 sailboat Star Chaser; I’d sailed aboard Star Chaser from St. Maarten to Newport, R.I., in May and had a thoroughly awesome time — and now, in 2011, my friends were going to be operating the Challenge 72 yacht, Polar Bear, and wanted to know if I’d like to crew for the season. Hoo boy…what to do?

I’ve had two big dreams in my life: Alaska and sailing away. And while I pondered during that week in April, I kept hearing those great speakers, kept seeing people whose lives were ripped apart by a wall of water they never saw coming, wondered what the hell was happening with the economy (and with the value of my home in particular) and realized: wait a second. The house offer, the sailing opportunity…the universe was offering me the chance to pursue that second dream. I had hoped to be able to do so while also keeping my house in Anchorage, but liquidating in this economy wasn’t a bad alternative. And in the course of the coming year, I could work on my writing a bit, right? (OK, a lot.)

So after the hardest decision of my life, I chose to take the plunge. In a whirlwind over the next month, I sold my home, my car and three-quarters of my belongings. I shipped the other quarter of my stuff to my folks’ place in Massachusetts and used my remaining Alaska Airlines miles to get a free ride to Boston (as opposed to driving six-plus days).

And later this afternoon I’ll board an Aer Lingus flight to Edinburgh, Scotland (with a stop in Dublin, Ireland). I’ll then take a train south to Newcastle, England, where I’ll join Boogie and Marlies and the yacht Polar Bear. We’ll set sail with a gaggle of guests next Sunday, May 22, for Scotland and points north, for a series of cruises to places I’ve always dreamed of exploring: the Shetland Islands, Norway and the Lofoten Islands, Jan Mayen Island (at about 71 degrees north latitude), Iceland and Greenland. Sailing, high-latitude summer, mountain fun…it’s all on the agenda. After that kind of a summer (with a return to New England in July for my buddy Tom McLaughlin’s wedding), we’ll head back south to Scotland and on to Ireland, Madeira and the Canary Islands, where we’ll take a month off in October and November, before prepping for the Atlantic Rally for Cruisers “race” across the pond to St. Lucia. At that point, it’ll be Christmastime with my folks back at Plum Island…and time for a next step, one that is still TBD at this point in time.

The bottom line (and here comes another cliche) is that I’d rather regret doing something than regret NOT doing something. So here we go. Stay tuned…

8 CommentsPersonal, Travel, Uncategorized,

Garage Sale Zen

What a strange experience, having a garage sale for the first time ever. A wide range of experiences, actually.

   Before…

The hectic preparation phase covered the entire past week. I posted as many individual items as possible on Craig’s List, each complete with photos and a write-up — and a mention of the imminent garage sale. Then there was the aggregated garage-sale listing that I tried to keep up-to-date. The bonus was moving a lot of items prior to the weekend; the negatives were dealing with the innumerable spam emails I received and, even more wasteful, the time required to simply post each listing.

Then came the insanity of the last-minute preparations. That started at suppertime last night, as I realized I wouldn’t have enough time prior to the 9am opening to get everything even into the garage, let alone arranged and priced. That delightful part of the process — the arranging and pricing — started at 6am today and didn’t let up at all before the early birds arrived (never mind the “no early birds” warning on the Craig’s List post).

Which then segued right into the frenzy of open hours. Oh. My. God. I’d heard about that subculture that loads up the car and goes garage sale-ing and yard sale-ing, but this was like nothing I’d ever seen before. I really hope some sociologist (and psychologist) has studied this phenomenon; it is rife with fascinating people that you normally only hear about in “can you believe it?” stories on the interwebs. There’s the guy who doesn’t want to buy anything but just wants to chat; the van load of Filipinas who are louder than a Who concert and offer you a dollar for everything despite the as-marked price of ten bucks; the shop-a-holic who buys things he will likely never use in a million years — and the locals who are clearly looking to make their dollar go as far as it can in these tough times.

They came to my garage sale, one and all, and they put a lot of cash in my pocket. And I’m grateful. More importantly, they took a pile of stuff — stuff that owned me more than I owned it — off my hands, making me feel light and free in a way I’ve not felt in some time. Am I sad to part with some of the stuff? Sure. But the memories are still in my head and my heart and my soul, whether or not that climbing gear that I haven’t used in years is still sitting in my garage. And I definitely parted with some things that I will have to replace at some point in my life. But for now, that light-and-free feeling is priceless.

   …and after.

Through it all, too, flocks of geese honked overhead as they made their way to their spring and summer homes farther north. A pair of songbirds did a call-and-response serenade from opposite ends of my cul-de-sac. A chill, light breeze whispered beneath an overcast sky displaying all the signs of the high winds that were forecast for the hillside area overlooking town. And the light of a northern afternoon in spring flooded softly between the budding trees.

Things are good. It’s been a great day. And it makes me love this neighborhood all the more. I’m going to be very sad to leave.

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