The Sailing Kabala of Doctor David

On the ancient wall of China, where a brooding Buddha blinks, deeply graven is the message, ‘It’s later than you think.’

The clock of life is wound but once, and no man has the power, to tell just where the hands will stop, at late or early hour.

Now is all the time you own, the past a golden link, go cruising now my brothers, it’s later than you think.


All I want to do any more is sail.

Find a way to finance my habit. From the minute that I light the first piece of canvas, till the boat is washed and the sails bagged, I want to explore distant tropical islands and seas, maybe finding a homeport far from the chaos that is rapidly spinning out of control before us. I'll admit it. I spend countless hours in nautical catalogs, and have pushed google pretty much to the limit purusing infinite links to sailing sites. I am presently at work, outfitting Olivia in spartan, utilitarian splendor, provisioning her for the series of passages to the hinter world of the sailing promised land. My dreams are filled with azure water, warm trade winds and coconut palm covered islands.

I know the reality. Sailing is mostly work, hard work, with contrary winds, currents and seas. It is living in shoebox sized spaces often wet tired and dirty. It is worry about your anchor holding in some shitty rough bay, or the possibility that the dreaded H word will fuck up your day. It is also magical work, transported by the wind to destinations that otherwise normal people, in all reality, will never see.

My friend Jim, from Island Time says that they don't subtract the days you sail from your existance. This might be true. Better yet, I think that one day on the sea, under canvas equals twenty two point five days ashore, doing things you don't want to.

Like all addicts, I thought I might be alone in my illness, this obsession with the sea. The other night I was sitting on the back deck with my good friend Doctor David, an equally addicted sailor. We were drinking a couple of cold Spaten Optimator dopplebocks, watching late night fishermen coming in trying to trailer their boats in semi drunken stupors, and talking about all things nautical. I mentioned that I detest yard work, hate it, hate anything that has to do with lawn maintenance. For years I have wrestled with this apparent abnormal, deviant and antisocial behavior. I would rather be working on a boat, down in the engine room, covered in oil and diesel, or sweating in some closed compartment painting areas that require the contortions of a carnival rubber man.

I told David about this, said I didn't even want a yard and he laughed, said he hated yard work too....didn't want one either. I mentioned to him that every time I drive down the street and see some guy slaving in a yard that looks just like it came out of the goddamn Sunset Magazine, I wonder to myself "what's wrong with me?". He snickered and replied: "I wonder....what's wrong with them?".

So I have now decided that I will surrender to the sailing kabala, and consider all who don't understand, outsiders.

I won't be much of a party conversaionalist if you want to talk about varieties of roses, or mulch, or weed eaters, or sprinkler systems. I'll probably be over in the corner dozing off.

But if you want to talk about raritan heads, norseman fittings and Micron 33, things like that, you just might get a response.....