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 oceans were never meant to be. We know life can get in the way. That's my excuse.

 Lake Tahoe 1979

This isn't to say I've never found tremendous joy on the water.  In 1978, we acquired our very first sailboat, a Catalina 22 named, Felicity.  Through the years, my patient wife Claudia and I have day sailed and cruised San Francisco Bay and numerous inland lakes on various sloops. Our daughter Jennifer, now in her forties, cheerfully rode the waves in 25 kt. winds whilst still in the womb. We raced one design and handicap events, and with dear friends, even won a race or two.  Wonderful moments were had watching harbor seals, sunsets and the classic wooden yachts sailing in our midst.

Jenny and Claudia 1981

Now, as I ponder the subject, approaching seventy years of age is much like nearing the windward mark, a moment where we anxiously prepare for the upcoming spinnaker set and make ready for the inevitable mayhem that will surely come our way. 

What calamities shall this milestone bring?  Will health issues bespoil the dream? Will I demonstrate good stewardship by pouring money into an odd passion?  Am I shrugging my responsibility as a global citizen by spending in this fashion while kids in the third world go hungry? Is there a balance there? Can I be satisfied with scaling my sailing down to a level commensurate with my age?  Will I figuratively or even literally foul the spinnaker sheet and fall overboard, thus causing undue stress on my family and crew?  So many questions exist. Only time will resolve these mysteries as uncharted waters lie perilously ahead.

Perhaps if one could be so utterly preoccupied with maintenance nightmares and actual sailing, these fears and concerns of broad reaching past seventy might go by quickly, sans any fear and trepidation. 

Seventy years is a clear signal that sailors are getting a bit closer to the proverbial finish line. There exists a great urge to wedge as much tiller time into one's logbook before the "eight bells" are solemnly sounded in their name. 

Claudia steers a Cal 40 on Carquinez Straits

Now at the very least, I'd like to feel the breeze in whatever hair remains on my head and to enjoy the lapping sounds of Lilliputian, three inch wavelets upon my hull. I suppose that old sailors never die, they just get a little dinghy. 

Check in from time to time and hopefully, you might discover the adventures of Monk, our small wing keeled Capri 16, and Ethete, our Santana 23 foot water ballasted sloop. 2022 is the year our granddaughters will receive their introduction to the sport and perhaps their journey will be the grandest adventure of them all. 

You're invited to observe this aging skipper's attempt to sail into the sunset with gratitude for having the opportunity to experience a part of his life under glorious sail.

When 70 rolls around this April, I'll look back upon that rusty buoy, the one adorned with bird droppings, and watch it rapidly disappear in my gurgling wake. I'll be grinning, uttering to myself, "meh!  That old mark rounding wasn't nearly as bad as I once feared."

- Mark Welch