RISK
No certainty just danger, death and taxes
DANGER. I see the word every time my worn workboot lands on the top of that eight foot ladder. Do you disregard warnings like this? And if so, under what circumstances? When you think it doesn’t apply to you? Because the warning seems without threat (those damn mattress tags)? Or because there isn’t any other way to get where you want to go, to do what needs to be done?
The worksite path containing this ladder has been traversed thousands of times and there will be hundreds more before we’re done. Here’s how it goes: with your right foot on the danger icon, you swing your left leg way up, over the top of the scaffold, down onto a crossboard, then three steps across onto a wobbly, borrowed keel block to boost you two more feet up to the top, the level with the most risk, perhaps, and then you walk out to either side of the bow, usually against the wind, always acutely aware of the stunning force of gravity. Usually, at least one of your hands is full and it’s often something expensive and/or sharp; on a really dangerous day, it’s both.
This is a theme in my last month or so; there is a certain risk in many things that we do, and also risk in not doing them. Calculated risk? Maybe, but more so simply part of whatever deal you’ve dealt yourself, and decided to hold your ground, ante up, wait it out, go the distance. Sometimes there is little choice.
The top of that scaffold looks much higher from the top than it does from the ground, and a misstep would be a mess. So we don’t misstep. And we don’t get too comfortable, either. I think that is when missteps usually occur.
The carelessness of comfort is thinking that there will always be another day.
A few months after STEADFAST arrived at this boatyard for repairs, we were joined by a well-cared-for, classic cruising vessel on its annual haul-out. John, a well-cared-for, soft-spoken, slightly quirky, caring gentleman a generation beyond me, showed up even before his boat did, and then on a very regular, sometimes daily, basis to tinker and check on her and to check on us. She was for sale, he told us uncomfortably, shrugging off the importance of such a thing that was, clearly, very important, a milestone, a seemingly practical if counterintuitive decision that was unwanted and unwelcome, at least for that particular sailor. We shared friends, Friday Happy Hours and random conversations. The next fall, 2025, he struggled with the decision and then with certainty took his vessel southward. We admired him, and secretly encouraged the one-last chance attitude.
Our boatyard neighbor hadn’t told me that he had made a dozen or so solo passages, thousands of miles, on that vessel, traveling many of the same seas that we had, distinctly remembered by folks from the Florida Keys to the exquisite Bahama’s Exuma Chain. He donated hours and hours of time to the National Park there, I learned later, too late to congratulate him on such a worthy cause. STEADFAST has spent time in that region and it is stunning, postcard-perfect, biologically diverse. A place which needed protection because it is too beautiful, too coveted, and that can destroy those sorts of destinations. There is considerable brilliance in dedicating your time and energy to a place you want to be. He knew how important it was to all involved.
John also knew he had aged before he was ready, betrayed, as many of us are, by a body that has become sporadically untrustworthy. I think other things were at work in his decisions; John’s spirit was betrayed, too, by a society that tells us we’re too old for such adventures; it’s not conventional to keep taking risks, wandering the planet, making people wonder what you’re thinking, what you’re doing, where you are. To me, he was torn between what he wanted to do and what everyone thought was best.
John left this world in early January, so suddenly and unexpectedly that the shock brought waves of grief to everyone who knew him. He was a day away from taking his sailboat back to the Bahamas one last time.
His broken-hearted family carefully planned a tribute to his life and gathered today; I was honored to contribute considering how short our relationship was; I miss John, many tears were shed. He was a welcome part of this peaceful, difficult corner of my life. It’s a risk, isn’t it? A danger. Opening up your mind and your heart to someone new, no matter the circumstances. It takes time and precious energy to find commonality, comfort, companionship. He had generously offered us those.
My impression had been that John did not take a lot of risks. We often don’t know what people are really all about do we? Most folks don’t share their stories and often, I wish both that they realized it was important enough to tell and I’d taken time to listen. My website is titled Everybody Has a Story. Many souls and stories are worthy of your time and attention.
I’m trying to finish this piece for publication and tie it all together with a little more cleverness but frankly my sadness has taken over and I’ve given all I’ve got for today. As is our SPARRING routine, I scheduled this for tomorrow, Sunday, 6am on the East Coast of the US, and though I am trying to concentrate, I thought to myself, shit. I haven’t filed my taxes. Death and Taxes— the only two things that are a certainty in this world. Now, you may be groaning but I think my friend John would have smiled his, beautiful crooked smile.
Until next week, let’s not get too comfortable with the fact that there will always be a tomorrow because that is simply not true. ~J
Nature is a mother only as a crocodile is a mother.
She abandons her children and the wild offers no retirement homes.
In the end, how we feel dies with us.
What we did, and how, lives on in those we did it for.
Oh, so sorry JA. I think you have written about John before, too? My sincere condolences. Losing loved ones seems to be a thing of late. It's beginning to get tiring, frankly, to me, too. Take care dear amiga. PS love your website! and congrats on all those lovely books!!!!