'A Private Greatness' Chapter 2

-Chapter 2-

Like the northern lights appear, with sudden and disorienting brightness, so did this particular dawn over a cold, cloud swept patch of the Eastern Atlantic- May 26th, 1978. The significance of time had faded and been reborn with a different clarity- one which rode on the even, rhythmic swells of the sea and the familiar orange fireball which dipped and rose over the vast horizon each day. The terrestrial consequences of having essentially pirated a yacht at 3 in the morning in an LSD-induced euphoric mania were quite terrifying. Out here in the sterile expanse of the ocean, laws and guilt were not things to be considered with any great thought, I told myself. There were some things I missed already- a nice hot shower when I felt sweaty and salty, a restaurant meal, the wind through the trees, a car rolling aimlessly down the street. Oddly yet with perceptible satisfaction, people were not on this list of continental longings. I felt quite content for now in my own company, the physical divide of a thousand miles of ocean was marginal compared to the social rift I’d begun to feel lately between friends and strangers alike.

To be singular was a gift, to be singular was a gift; I kept reminding himself with blind neurosis. Really it was a curse- a fucking curse, goddamn it. I was not singular is a way that developed over arrogant alienation or misanthropic ideology, but genuinely, undeniably myself. The battle of assertion was constant- to be confident but not cocky, aware yet somehow not transcendent of mortal folly. The simple remedy of course was reckless distraction through things I found sincere and effortless passion in- rock climbing in North Conway on warm fall weekends, digging through old jazz records in the library, and now stealing some retired millionaire's yacht's at 3 in the morning. At this point in the journey or the experience rather, as it had become more sensory than physical, retreat was unthinkable. The only option was to ride the cresting wave of austere ambition I felt, and hope favorable winds and weather brought me somewhere along the South coast of France. Here I felt the authorities would be more understanding of my… situation. ‘The situation, well, the situation is that everything is fucking peachy!’, I said suddenly. The days were to be filled with purpose and spontaneity, the nights terrifying enough to keep me grounded to firm reality.

The sterile magnificence of the North Atlantic is completely incomprehensible to anyone who hasn't spent the better part of a week or a year in a small boat, adrift and with a minimum of plans. I’d always been fascinated as a child growing up in New England with the heavily romanticized, mysterious maritime tradition of both yesteryear and today. I recalled the rough-hewn, foul-mouthed swordfish long liner’s I’d seen in Gloucester, my mother trying to shield me from their steady stream of ‘Fuck! Piss! Cunt!’ pouring over the wharves at 100 decibels. I knew even then that their animosity towards the sea was in reality a profound respect. The mountains were imposing and real as well, I thought, but always seemed to offer some sort of comfort, some egress from the storm. Out on the blindingly 2-dimensional canvas of the sea, there was no cave to hide in during a blizzard, no warm, well-lit hut in the distance. This was truly a place we were not designed to inhabit, or perhaps even understand. I began to feel like an earth-bound astronaut, exploring some sort of alternate inner space. The old mariners, the sailors, they were always pragmatic and apprehensive, hoping for the best yet expecting the worst. The invisible lifeline that had kept me tethered to safety my whole life seemed to guide me eastward. I kept the heading steady across rising swells and horizontal rain: North 30 East.

Thinking of my current existence, a wave of peripheral satisfaction tingled from my toes up to my head, the joy of fleeting freedom, the ability to guide one's life in any desired direction if only for a minute. The hours wasted in bars, in the library, at home doing nothing, I wanted it all back; if only to postpone the endless niceties and trivialities of tomorrow until I could condense some sort of experience out of it. The 6 nights and 5 days at sea had begun to unwind the calculated indifference to discomfort I played too well most of the time. Things began to itch, to come undone, to turn bleach white and crack in the mean salt spray and relentless sun. While I still felt strong and immortal, the edges of my tidy world had somehow become ragged and organic. I wondered what it might be like to have a companion, not just on this trip, but someone who made time and boredom irrelevant. I thought of the insecurity that hid under my smug judgment of the complacent, domesticated couples I saw everywhere in my early 20's; like cows grazing on mediocrity in the prime time of their lives. Maybe they were happy though, that was the problem, in my own refusal to compromise his habits and absurdities I hadn't stopped to consider that perhaps these people had just managed to find something that had eluded me so efficiently.

Recreational sailing is a beautiful sport. Yet much like skiing and rock climbing, it suffers from a misperception in popular culture as a self-fulfilling reckless prophesy for rich white men. While this is essentially true, it did not invalidate the fact that there was something monolithic and singular about traveling in a little boat, and I suspected the urge to do so dwelled in many men. I was so tired of having to fit everyone into sharp, geometric boxes to understand them- uniformity and stereotypes were necessary to comprehend the skewed plane on which I now stood, an unwitting subject to everyone else. I had no dreams of business or conquest, no illusion of empire, only the desire to keep the company of a few good men or none, for as George Washington said, "it is better to be alone than in bad company." Right now I was neither alone nor in bad company, for I considered the sea and its myriad ecosystems to be a benign and familiar accomplice, the ballast and the medium of my journey.

The course and the liquidation of the adventure had begun, and its momentum kept me faithful that safe harbor in Europe would be reached soon. There, I thought, I would disembark, assume a newer, more optimistic identity, and travel on foot across the subcontinent. I’d meet fresh, vibrant people along the way-future friends and lovers. The snide smirks of the drones that made up most of the world, there to toil away at some dull bit of functionality all their lives, burnt off like the morning fog. I imagined the highlights of their lives, mere afterthoughts in the rear view mirror of my existence. Suddenly, amidst this self-assuring facade of superiority, I though of my best friend at Brown, how we were so unpretentious and natural in each other’s company, the warmth of proximity to someone who knew your ticks and cherished your shortcomings. Again I started to cry. On land I would have stopped this foolish show of emotion at once. Yet in the spirit of solitude and the experience, I just kept on crying for a good 30 minutes it seemed. The kind of wrenching and sobbing that clears you sinuses and leaves you sore and contorted, the body as weary as the soul. I didn't know if he loved Tucker; not that kind of love, well, whatever, it’s all the same really. Tucker Lindquist. I found an old pen in the cabin and, the boat on a long tack sailing itself, wrote his name on my hand. I looked at it, and then shook a little more. The world wasn't fair, it wasn't even close to just; the people who loved you most made you hurt so bad, out in the windy, cold expanse on the North Atlantic. The world was so strange, so fabulously incomprehensible, all I could do was love nature and my own shortcomings: the two things that seemed to point east to salvation. Steady as the dawn, they burned with sincerity.

Memories began to seem tepid and abstract, the anxious present and looming future clouding my reason as I reeled in a big, silver fish. No idea what species, but delicious sliced up on the teak deckboards and eaten in reddish marbled cubes, life that 20 minutes ago was writhing in the sun now nourishing me. How violent and cyclical nature was: apologetic to no one, focused only on survival and perpetuation. I looked wild and oddly handsome now, lean muscle and sinew taunt and faded to a rugged tan, hair tangled and bleached in the sun, all sharp angular lines of half-assed masculinity amongst the dull curves of the ocean. Perhaps I'd go for another swim, the day had too much flexibility already, and some order might bring the coming days into focus. The last swim had been gorgeous and terrifying; the 15 meters of so I could see down into the teal water fading into 2 vertical miles of liquid nothingness. This inner universe was comforting in its scale and uniformity yet I couldn't help but see the distractions that fouled my social interactions on land suspended at even intervals in the blue tomb, taunting me even here.

I thought with affectionate posterity of the crazy people- not the rich art kids and SDS activists who feigned eccentricity for attention, but the genuine kooks, the marginally functional fringes of society, endearingly unlikable. This is what I wanted to interact with, to stay fragmented and incoherent until suddenly some bit of indisputable brilliance emerged from the babbling, which it did occasionally; oh it did. I’d invent new cultural impressions, pseudonyms and alter egos when I pleased- the truth was always secondary to the experience. Besides, when the right person came along, the truth always found its way back into things. I hadn't drunk or done drugs in 7 days, and to be honest, I felt like shit. The worst of it had passed, but to emerge unscathed from the voluntary haze of narcotics and lies was both painful and a thing of beauty. A lone Arctic tern passed overhead en route to the north for the summer and I marveled at its sleek design, the effortless way it glided forward, propelled by instinct.