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.