The Next Horizon
To be fair, I am not seventy years old - not just yet. That septuagenarian transformation looms just around that ominous looking buoy up ahead. Yes, you can see it. It's that grey one up there, the one with the rust, the one festooned with guano, replete with the clanging bell that beckons one to eldernity. Yes, that is a made up word. Through the years, I have harbored numerous dreams of sailing the seven seas, completing circumnavigations and standing steadfast at the helm of a sturdy, well found cruising yacht, adroitly handling twenty-five foot following seas with aplomb. Let's not rule out those coveted racing achievements either. Gloating at the awards ceremony in Hobart, or at least partaking in that famous, Boxing Day race between Sydney and Tasmania's capitol city, would have been nice. It's just as well because I don't look good in pretentious looking blue blazers and red yachting pants. But I suppose those glorious sea-faring accomplishments upon the...