Death Of A Dream

Wednesday, November 4^th, my dream got killed. Its murder was brutal. The ‘Dream’ arrived sometime in my adolescence. I wasn’t passionate about it at first. That came later. Dreams don’t arrive in their final form. They come as little gifts with no strings attached. They don’t cost anything, no effort is required and negative elements are never mentioned or considered. They occupy the ‘illusion’ part of the brain and create a wonderful, peaceful, personal refuge from reality.
 
In its earliest form it was just to get ‘on’ the water. Big water. It wasn’t about journeying to tropical isles or to the Mediterranean. It was just to spend time on the ocean. Growing up in a solidly middle class family I was part of the repetitive and boring rhythms of a 1950’s life. A day of labor for my dad, the drudgery of school for me, dinner always at 5:35, scouts for me and my brother and maybe a six pack for my folks on Friday night, Saturday was always spend trudging to the A & P Supermarket and then the 10:30 service at Zion Lutheran Church on Sunday; a real living breathing Ozzie & Harriet tableau.  That was my folk’s life.   What a dreary, mind numbing rut. I swore with all the naïveté and righteous indignation of youth that my life wouldn’t be anything like that.

I dreamed of escaping to the sea.  At one point it was to solo the Atlantic, then it was boosted by reading Thor Heyerdahl’s adventure on the Kon Tiki, a reading counselor exposed me to the writings of C.S. Forester and I began to walk the decks with Lt. Hornblower as he sailed in the defense of mother England. Mutiny on the Bounty?  I was enthralled by Captain Blights 3618 mile open boat escape more than in the charms of Fletcher Christians ladies of Pitcairn Island. Small boats began to capture my nautical wanderlust. 22 footers around Cape Horn. The dream was to get on the ocean, challenge and test myself against its power, its whims and all its mysteries. I craved going offshore! My dream allowed me to embrace the customs of daily life with a smile on my face and some pep-in-my-step. It was a constant companion, a friend who never whined, asked for favors or demanded anything from me.

Last Wednesday started out pretty normal here in Columbus. I was working off of a 12 foot ladder when my ‘Dreams’ wake-up call came through. It was broadcast on USPS’ Sail Angle mass email.

Seeking crew to sail south – full trip or part way

A Buzzards Bay Sail and Power Squadron (D14) member’s son-in-law is looking for crew to help him sail his newly re-commissioned Swan 441 south.  …..He’s an experienced ocean sailor, so there’s no worry about going to sea with an amateur who has “more dollars than sense” He’ll take any help he can get, either for the entire trip or partway. He’d like to head for Bermuda if he can get enough crew but will settle for Miami. …. Leaving next week.

In the amount of time it took my brain to read and comprehend the above message, I realized that my ‘Dream’ had finally arrived! It immediately changed from being a fantasy to a ‘Reality.’

My ‘Dream’ now looked like this. An offshore voyage with a very seasoned skipper, heading to the romantic isle of Bermuda! All I had to do was get to Cape Cod, throw my gear below, pull my weight and my life-long dream was realized. Cape Cod to Bermuda, or at least, Miami! My ‘Dream’ didn’t look half bad in it final form. I can finally get underway on this long-awaited adventure.

Imagine, a free offshore voyage in a well founded 44 foot Swan, and let me tell you, a Swan is a very nice sailboat. At the helm is a well-seasoned, licensed, ocean-going, knowledgeable skipper who has just finished refurbishing it. He was so confident in his abilities that he was reaching out to the ‘general boating public’ to gather together a crew of complete strangers. H-m-m-m-m. My mind, also known as ‘Reality’ immediately put up ‘Storm Warning’ flags. Going offshore in a new-from-the-yard boat, with a green crew of total strangers, in November sailing due south of Cape Cod, across the Gulfstream to Bermuda….sounds like fun. Doesn’t it? Or does it? What normal Captain would want to do that?

There was something like a prize fight being fought inside of my head. My ‘Dream’ and ‘Reality’ were battling. My ‘Dream’ would lead with a left jab ‘it’s a 44 foot Swan’ argument and then ‘Reality’ would block with ‘the boats fresh from the yard with no shakedown cruise.’ Shuffling right the ‘Dream’ would feint with “the skipper has 150,000 offshore miles under his belt” and ‘Reality’ would dance away with ‘if he’s so experienced why doesn’t he already have his own crew; why is he reaching out to a bunch of strangers?’ It went on and on, blow after blow, strike and counter strike, jab and move. ’Dream’ would throw a hard overhand punch and the ‘Reality’ would shake it off. ‘Beautiful Bermuda’ was countered with the ‘wicked weather of the Gulfstream in November.’ Then when the ‘Dream’s muscles were jelly ‘Reality’ served up the  killing force by squaring his hips, squatting and bringing his right hand upward with force generated by his calves, quads, gluts, abs, his entire being into a uppercut,  by saying “unknown skipper, unknown boat, and unknown crew.” And with that killer punch, my ‘Dream’ was down for the count never to rise off the canvas again. 

I came to the conclusion that while I wanted to say yes to my ‘Dream’ the ‘Reality’ of my mind was screaming NO!  I had cherished this dream in its ‘illusionary’ form, had looked forward to it as an ultimate test of my sailing ability,  but found it’s ‘reality’ too much for my mind to embrace. It was easy while it was just ‘A Dream.’

Isn’t it ironic that after fifty years of dreaming I now yearn for the boring life my parents lived? On dry land.

Sharks That Swim On Land

Women, always women, prowling like Great Whites searching for the next great meal. Either singularly or in schools, they cruise the waters of the mall searching for their next kill. All different types of Great Whites; young, old, short, tall, big, skinny, shy, aggressive… they all collectively, instinctively move, searching for the scent of a bargain. Some just cruise and others, having already picked up the scent, move with speed and alacrity, to the prey.  

An item at 50% off! Buy Two and Get 50 Free! Store Coupons! Managers Special! Oh, the intense, and machine gun rapid, synapses that occur in the Great Whites brain, the increased heart rate, the dilated pupils, the shortness of breath, the sweating of palms, the sense of potential loss of prey until it’s finally yours.  

How satisfied the Great White is as it slowly takes it purchases and moves away from the checkout….moving back into the cruising stream of the mall traffic, yet knowing the next deal is just a step away; mall cruising. Slowly moving thru the crowds of other Great Whites, not paying any particular attention to them, yet with ears sharply attuned for any overheard talk of a ‘Great Deal or 2 for 1.’ Eyes aggressively searching, brain attuned to any stimuli that screams ‘bargain’ which immediately sends a signal to their lower extremities ordering them to swish their hips in that direction, pace quickening, nostrils flaring as they close in on the scent trail of the offer…like any great hunter, they don’t rush in, yet aren’t shy about pushing in for the kill.  

And the mall prey, unlike the aquatic variety that flees and hides, shout, scream actually to be eaten. Stores hang posters on their windows proclaiming everything in the store at 30 to 70% off, Buy 2 and get 3rd free!, their pilot fish offer food parcels for tasting and perfumes for spritzing…in short they prostrate themselves in front of the salivating Great Whites. They want to be devoured.  

Yet, when it’s all over and done, and the Great White returns to her family unit where all the details of the hunt must be shared with her male partner. How the hunt went, what dens she visited, the kills she made and so on with a great smile and sense of inner peace coming from the Great White as she gushes,  

“ WE got this darling little number for 30% off and I had a store coupon for another 10% off and if I opened a store credit card, which I HAD to do, I got another 15%...it ended up costing US only …. Well, it was practically FREE! “ 

Oh, the joy of being a shark that swims on the land

One Minute You're On Top Of The Ocean and The Next

The other day while I was feeling on top of the world, I got that funny feeling. You know the one. The one that asks, ‘what’s coming next?’ I’m always waiting for the ‘other shoe’ to drop. Like the one that follows the statement, “you really are a nice fellow BUT……” At that point my primordial genes kick in…I find that I immediately suck in my stomach and tighten my muscles, the little hair on the back of my neck sticks straight out, I feel my face beginning to turn red as my blood pressure takes off  and I half hold my breath in anticipation for what is about to follow the ‘BUT.’

 

While not affecting me personally I recently I observed this ‘optimism/pessimism’ part of daily life. We where fishing off of Destin, Florida.  The red fish where lining up to take our offerings. It was great fun.  But we had used up our supply of bait fish. So the Charter Captain quickly grabbed a pole and dropped it over the gunnel. Quicker than you can say, ‘here, here little fishy we had a bunch.’ Quick as a flash he grabbed one thrashing off of his line, put it on my hook and I dropped it 40 feet to the bottom of the East Pass leading into Choctawhatchee Bay. Immediately I got a hit and hauled a 25 pounder aboard. From the time that little fish hit the bait line, cleared the surface, to the time the red fish had swallowed it and was hauled to the surface, was less than 2 minutes. I keep thinking about that particular bait fish…one minute fat and sassy, optimistically swimming along with your pals, just feeding off whatever the incoming tide has to offer for your dinner and the next instant you’re, pessimistically, inside the stomach of some bigger fish being hauled back to the surface. Geeez.

 

To sailors it happens all too often. One minute you’re on top of the world and the next minute the world is sitting on you. Steven Callahan, an intelligent and hardworking young man who built a 21 foot sailboat and put to sea. Nothing unique about that, lots of young and not so young,  men have done that. What makes Steven Callahan special was that one minute he was comfortably below, steering his boat from a special seat that gets him out of the wind and blowing spray, chatting on the radio, jotting notes, cooking up a mess of potatoes and onions and the next his whole life is turned upside down, his precious Napoleon Solo is sinking and he grabs his ditch bag and inflates his Avon. He has just embarked on 76 day journey of personal challenge. One minute he’s on top of the ocean and the next he’s headed to the bottom of it!

 

Even big boat sailors face the possibility. On the night of 13 January 2012, the pride of the Italian cruise industry, the Costa Concordia, was cruising along carrying 4,252 souls. One minute it was all rosy and the next minute it was all noisy as she torn a 300 foot long gash on her starboard side. 32 people lost their lives.

 

The Captain, Francesco Schettino, who had been entertaining a  female passenger quickly abandoned her, his ship, his passengers and crew to fend for themselves. He is currently standing trial for manslaughter and has brought disgrace onto the Italian merchant marine.

 

Here’s the point, like my bait fish, happily swimming along one minute, the next taking the bait, being hauled to the surface, put on another hook and dropped 40 feet into the mouth of a red fish….life ain’t always fair. Sailors Steve Callahan and Captain Schettino now know that. Callahan had crossed the ocean solo before. Schettino was at the top of his particular ‘food chain’ and now the whole world is about to put him in chains.

 

So the next time everything is going along wonderfully for you, keep a weather eye to windward because the ‘other shoe’ is always out there; always ready to drop!

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Dick Sorensen doesn’t have to worry about any maritime mis-adventures since he sold his beloved WaterDog. He’s boatless. So the next time you see him, give him a pat on the head and tell him it’s going to be alright. To read more of his ramblings visit his restaurant blog ColumbusChow.Blogspot.com.