I’ve come a long way from riding ice pans during spring breakup, and then from standing on the side of the road, as a teenager, thumbing a ride with whomever had the goodwill, the curiosity or the desire for company with a wind-whipped, rain-soaked, long-haired restless soul who had just started to recalculate the dimensions and boundaries of the world that had been handed to him. Since then, I’ve set sail in seafaring ships and inboard skiffs, ridden jet planes and jalopies, parachutes and pairs of boots, motorcycles and lawn mowers, elevators and elephants, fast cars and magic carpets — always headed somewhere, in whatever direction the ride was going before our paths intersected. Not to discount the lift of wind and wave, which has, in the meantime, also kept me in touch with my place in the grander scheme of things, and has served as a faithful gauge to measure just how far I’ve come.
If I’ve gone anywhere at all.
Brig Bay point or San Francisco: you still need a jacket in June. Bonne Bay or Big Sur: a cold wind still presses itself against the slope of the gallant hills. Bide Arm, Sapling Ridge or St. George: I can point out a whole array of wholesome people leading contented lives that resonate with the meaning they’ve found in whatever form the story of a coming savior has reached them. Continue reading