Sandbox Sailors . . . What to Do ?

[rognvald]

Rognvald was close reaching in a light southeasterly as it approached the old harbor. There was a rolling three foot swell from the north after several days of gale force winds. Its stern lifted and rolled in a rhythmic dance as they passed underneath. The sun was bright with scattered cirrus clouds that disappeared out into the lake. It was the terminus of a long reach before they jibed and headed north to return to the marina at day's end. The vision was juxtaposed and apocalyptic--from the salt encrusted tropical palms of old Zihuatenejo Bay to the looming, desolate, abandoned smokestacks from a long forgotten power plant on the Western shore of Lake Michigan.

[SabreKai]

Ishmael says it best:

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely— having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

From Herman Melville, Moby Dick.


Go north, hang a right and keep going down hill from there til the water gets salty. Quickly before you start "bringing up the rear in every funeral you meet."

[rognvald]

Originally Posted by SabreKai

Ishmael says it best:

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago—never mind how long precisely— having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off—then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me.

From Herman Melville, Moby Dick.


Go north, hang a right and keep going down hill from there til the water gets salty. Quickly before you start "bringing up the rear in every funeral you meet."

Ishmael's profoundly perceptive dialogue from the great novel of the sea and the human soul and an equally profound comment by Sabrekai assures me that, indeed, a few bright lights still shine on the distant clouded shore. Good luck and good sailing, Ron