It’s been three months. Three months of a six month voyage aboard Foxy Lady in France.
I love the moving, the possibility of each new destination, but more than destination, I simply love the moving – the whorls and bubbles in our wake – the surprise of a scene revealed by our advance.
But sometimes it leaves me weary, the moving. Sometimes I would like to stop, not knowing where I want to stop – not wishing for land – just longing to stop.
It’s been sixty years now. Sixty years in this vessel my body. My wake not so pretty, and I know I’ve passed the middle, and the name of the destination, which will still be surprising.
Between. Between house and boat. Between will and wish – between husband and wife. One rooted, one a wanderer. Between seasons, but feeling this – this is the way – the way of water – but knowing only the kindness of summer – not the cruelty of winter’s ice or torrent.
Choice. To have one’s selfish way? To have one’s way alone and know regret? Or not to choose and live always longing. Neither is a choice.
This middle is a tightrope slackening, and I teeter.