out that my father died when he was just a little older than I am now. So maybe I was feeling something breathing down my neck—i.e. eternal quietus? And she could understand how spooky that might feel but maybe could this particular psychodrama be solved w/ something less extreme, like a triathalon?
I don’t disagree! She was right. Every marriage needs one skeptic to keep it safe. But a marriage of two skeptics will fail to thrive.
* * *
—
Michael and I both recognized we had problems, we just couldn’t agree on the solution. I think what was happening was, I wasn’t just talking about the implausible plan to walk away from our house and the kids’ schools and Michael’s job, no matter how assured we would be of getting these things back. I was wondering, whether we were to go or to stay, what would we do—about us?
You think this will solve all our problems. It’s magical thinking, Michael. It’s the way a child thinks.
She kept avoiding the other thing. I wasn’t really allowed to talk about it directly, so I dropped hints. Did she know, I ventured to ask, that the ancient Romans believed that sea voyages could cure depression?
She put down her book and glared at me.
Yeah, she said. They also advised eating the brains of baby rams.
She started reading her book again.
I figured, what did I have to lose? I gently lowered her book with my finger.
Juliet, I said. Don’t you see? You’re stuck. It’s been years since I’ve seen you happy. You want to stay here in Connecticut and be depressed and not finish your dissertation? That’s your endgame? Maybe this would be good for you.
I’m not “depressed,” she said. Besides, I hate that word.
OK, what should we call it?
She fluffed the pillow behind her back, indignant.
I’m very faithful to my problems.
* * *
—
Listen—I did not want to go. Not because I was happy where I was. Not because I thought sailing was unsafe or unwise. Not even because I thought it would stress our marriage, because, well—too late.
I did not want to go because I was already struggling with a deficit of—I also dislike the word “self-esteem.” It had been a rough couple of years after both children were born. There’s a lot more to say about that. I’d also recently deserted my dissertation.
The truth was, I was worried I’d be a terrible sailor.
An embarrassment.
January 23. 10:15 a.m. LOG OF YACHT ‘JULIET.’ Cayos Limones. A.M. rain followed by clear skies. NOTES AND REMARKS: You know how folks out here define sailing? Sailing is repairing a boat in exotic places. First time I heard that one, I laughed. Not so funny anymore! This morning I opened up the electrical panel because a couple of the lamps were blinking & saw that half the wires were jiggled loose. Shocked that we have any lights. I’ve got my Twelve Bolt Bible here & my heat-shrink tubing & while seabirds cross the cloudless sky, I’m giving myself a tutorial on crimp fitting.
Doodle is sitting here next to me looking thoughtful.
Crimper, I say.
He passes me a Lego.
Tubing, I say.
He passes me a crayon.
But just when you’re starting to hate on your boat, something oppositely beautiful happens. The water beside us ripples as a pod of stingrays wash their wings in our lee.
* * *
—
I do know a lot of poems—from all those hours in my carrel at Boston College, trying to write my dissertation, before we moved out to the Land of Steady Habits.
Ironically, one reason I gave up on studying poetry is that it seemed brutally impractical compared to the urgencies of two children. But these days, inside my closet, poetry is as real to me as an ax. I need it more than food.
Lines come and go in my mind. I don’t even remember who wrote them.