Set Sail

"Happy Birthday to you, happy birthday to you, happy birthday, dear Reuben, happy birthday to you!"

A collective cheer went up at the docks, and I savored the sound because there wasn't another ten seconds in life where you were the center of attention. Technically, you were the main attraction at your funeral, but as if by some cruel twist of fate, you wouldn't get to enjoy it. Even the most cynical among us couldn't find the fault in a group of others singing our praises, and the smirk that always followed suit made us feel like maybe the other 31,536,990 seconds that year wouldn't be so bad. While the songwriter who penned it was far from Tolstoy, they had captured the essence of the message succinctly, if not a bit repetitively. 

I looked out at the water and then back at the throng of well-wishers, who collectively represented everyone I cared about —a number that somehow felt lean and perfectly adequate at five. It wasn't every day that your birthday coincided with something truly special in your life, but this 47th spin around the sun fell on the day I would take my first solo spin across the mighty Pacific Ocean. 

Why at the peak of my earning potential, I'd decided to scrap the acronyms behind my name and bet it all on the come was unknown to all, maybe none more so than myself? 

If I knew you well and you probed, I'd say that it was the voices, whispers that rattled in the back of places that I didn't dare go, but just loud enough and persistent enough to not be able to ignore. At first they were nudges, and were easy enough to shrug off. Then their requests became more disruptive. 

The questions came immediately. 

Had I gone mad?

Did I have a death wish?

The questions weren't unfair but also not accurate. 

When we see someone who's crossed their breaking point, we only then can recall with mountain spring clarity, the times when they gave us all the indications in the world that they were truly on the edge. They were shouting it from the rooftops with a megaphone and painting the sky with a shopping bag full of bottle rockets. As outside observers, we chalked it up to things that made us feel comfortable in our analysis.

The stress is just getting to him. 

He's depressed. 

He just needs to settle down.

I had been yelling for so long that I thought no one would ever hear me. Then I realized something one night at the top of a long drink, one of the tall ones that invite you to keep coating the ice in your preferred poison, unsure of what constitutes a complete cocktail. The kind where the liquor didn't know where it ended, and the mixer didn't want to begin for fear that it was an uninvited guest. 

I was the only one that could do anything about it. 

The he's couldn't and the she's didn't dare. 

I tried to involve them, blame being an old friend, perhaps my oldest, exclusive not just to me, but to billions of others who put the weight of their happiness on others shoulders. 

The first raindrops fell under an inquisitive sky that looked like a teenager trying to find themselves. I didn't know what it wanted to be, and I took that as an omen that we would learn together. Of course, the sky always knew who it was, and the ocean, too. The wind was wildly comfortable with itself and generally just did whatever it wanted since hurling curses into it was the only protest the human species could muster against it. I felt the breeze shift ever so slightly to the east under the confused skies, whose colors were now so vivid that I begged for another life where I had the talent to capture moments like these on a canvas.

The objections from the assembled well-wishers started in full force.

Can't you leave tomorrow?

Why start out under anything but sun-kissed skies?

I wanted to give answers about the new craft's sea legs, about her conviction to navigate the bumpy seas, but they sounded like lies before I could utter them. I had done enough of that, and I couldn't stomach one more. The truth tasted sweeter, and I liked the way it felt when it left my lips. There was a dash of arrogance in it that I knew the ocean would slap out of me before the day was out, but it felt good to stand at the precipice and jump. No one ever talked about the leaps they didn't make. If they did, it was in hushed tones. Anyone could justify anything, if they were given enough runway to landthe argument on. 

So I boldly proclaimed my reasoning with the conviction of a man who knew his why. 

Because tomorrow I might not go!

Because I'd been saying tomorrow since Monday, and the March before that, and the year before that. 

The excuse was an old piece of gum that had lost its flavor, and I had run out of desire to keep trying to extract the balance from it. It had been a trusted comrade and given me many things in the interim. There were some wins and some losses and everything in between, but what it had failed to deliver was a memory. One day, I woke up and realized I couldn't remember what had happened the day before, not from any chemical cleanser, but because nothing interesting had happened. The ability to differentiate between Tuesday and Thursday became impossible, and when Saturday lost its charm, I knew I was in trouble. 

And then I bought the boat. 

It was a foolish purchase by every metric that drives responsible purchases. My accountant told me it made no sense, but I guess that was what I was paying him for, so I appreciated his candor. Any outside observer would have thought it madness, but everyone really only had the capacity to worry about their own ten tons of crazy. They may snicker and jeer, either openly or from the comfort of the elevated equine positions where others are not privy, but the reality I learned was that no one really gave a shit. 

No one stands beside you in the real moments, the ones that matter most. There may be a physical being next to you, but any major decision comes with the stamp of approval from only one person, and that's the one putting something on the line. No one stood beside me that day at the boatyard, and no one knew what my true desire was. I would learn to sail this boat and one day I would launch myself into the breach, a place that upon leaving land I was no longer the dominant species of. I would be an outsider, and I would remember every day through either terror or exhilaration. 

More pleas. 

The last bastions of people that know they are defeated, a fort collapsing under the weight of the siege. 

I wouldn't cave. 

I wouldn't delay.

I would go. 

I would set sail. 

EO