In search of simplicity

August 2010

By David Roper

The thousands of items of marine gear on the market today supposedly exist to allow us a myriad of choices to facilitate our ability to get away, go boating, relax and be happy. I wonder, though.

Robert Bellah, one of today’s most influential sociologists and recipient of the National Humanities Medal from President Clinton, wrote:

That happiness to be attained through limitless acquisition is denied by every religion and philosophy known, but it is preached by every American TV set.

How much do we really need to acquire before these things eclipse the value and beauty of our original quest, which is often the simplicity of just going out on the water?

Over a decade ago, way Downeast and lost in the densest of dungeon fog in my tiny sloop Chang Ho, I unwittingly sailed out of our modern world and into one man’s realm of true simplicity. Feeling my way close to the uninhabited shores of a deepwater river east of Roque Island, I had somehow veered off into a smaller, also uninhabited tributary, which led to a tiny, deepwater cove with room enough to float one boat.

As Chang Ho and I rested at anchor next to an abandoned trapper’s shack, the fog lifted slightly, bringing to view a blurry outline of the shack and the dense woods around us. I was in awe of our isolation. I wondered how many decades ago that lone trapper was living here, and I wondered if anyone had been here since. The answer came immediately, for out of a tidal hole in the trees slid an ancient, 20-foot wooden canoe.

I blinked hard and rubbed some fog dew from my eyelashes just to make sure. Standing in the stern was a lanky man in his 60s. His clothes were ragged. His long, thin hair was disheveled. From his precarious standing position, he took long, careful strokes with what must have been an eight-foot paddle, moving the slender craft easily and gracefully by, paying me no notice. He disappeared in the fog by the entrance to the cove. I wasn’t sure if I’d really seen anything; it had been a very long day lost in the fog, imagining things that weren’t there.

Several hours later, on the return tide, I watched the canoe re-enter the cove and then disappear into the tidal hole in the woods. The next morning, I rowed in and found a 20-acre pool circled by more dense woods. No sign of canoe. No sign of life. Then I spied something sticking out of the trees. It was the canoe.

I eased the dinghy over closer. What the woods covered was a lean-to filled with firewood; ancient-looking cookware hung to its sides. Next to that was a big, stone-rimmed campfire surrounded by handmade stools and chairs. When the dinghy touched the shore, it seemed as if the crunching sound would wake the universe.

“Might as well stay for a bit.”

The voice from the trees startled me. A hand reached out from the bushes. I handed him the bowline and stepped ashore.

“I saw you in the canoe last evening,” I blurted. “Is this your land?”

He moved silently to one of the handmade chairs, and motioned me to do the same. He sat and gently stroked a caterpillar that was inching along his outstretched arm.

“Far as the eye can see,” came the reply finally.

“How long do you stay here?” I asked, figuring it to be a weekend retreat.

“All the time.”

“All summer, then?”

“All year.”

I looked over at the lean-to and the Spartan supplies, thinking of the harsh Maine winters and how that would be impossible.

“All year? Really? For how long have you been doing that?”

“Thirty five years.”

He winked at the caterpillar, and then looked up at me, a gentle smile on his face and a timeless look in his eyes. “Would you like to see the yurts?”

“The yurts?”

“Yes, the yurts.”

We walked along a pine-needled carpeted path, over a stream, and through a flowering meadow. And there, in the midst of a clearing in the pines, stood a gigantic structure comprised of three stacked concentric circles. It looked like an alien spaceship that had found its perfect landing spot in these remote woods.

He lifted his arm toward it. “Know much about yurts?” he asked. My eyes were wide with amazement. I was speechless. “Guess not,” he continued. “Well, come on in and you soon will.” The outermost circle had a dirt floor. One section was filled with cords of neatly stacked firewood; the remaining area housed enough hand- and leg-powered drills, saws, and lathes to outfit a cabinet shop. “Built the whole thing with these simple human-powered tools; no need for electricity” he said.

We walked up several steps and entered the next circle, which was the living unit. It was furnished with comfortable, hand-built chairs and couches. The floor was covered with felt pads and carpets. Books were shelved in every conceivable space. A long, low woodstove, used for both heating and cooking, jutted into the center of the living area. Another set of stairs led up into the middle circle, which was a sort of glass-rimmed cupola. It was the master bedroom. Perhaps 30 feet up, it commanded a spectacular view of the wilderness around us, which I now saw contained guest yurts, storage yurts, and even a yurt outhouse. Before me lay Yurtdom.

The man spoke softly. “We need an enlightened time. A time when people truly question everything that is labeled ‘progress.’ We don’t take enough time to look back at the wisdom of time. It’s so simple. We need to learn from the old and not be so quick to jump at the new for its very newness. The old is time-tested. The new is as fraught with the potential for disaster or chaos as it is with promise.

“Take yurts: Yurts are ancient dwellings used by Mongolian pastoral nomads of Central Asia. They’ve stood the test of time. You’re standing in a perfect example. We need to take advantage of – and not forsake – all that history has taught us about ourselves and the way we live. You see, if we don’t look back at what we’ve learned in the past and apply that knowledge, we’ll make tragic mistakes in the future. We can’t just devour newness and new things.”

I tried to look pensive and take all this into my tiny brain. “So we’ve got too much stuff,” I said finally.

“Civilization, in the real sense, consists not in the multiplication of wants but in their deliberate reduction. This alone promotes happiness and contentment.”

I was amazed by the thoughts of this wizard in the woods. “Did you just come up with that saying,” I asked.

“Guy named Gandhi said it first,” he replied and smiled. Then he looked down and gently stroked something yellow on his arm. It was the caterpillar.

And it was safe with him.

Dave Roper sails Elsa, a Bruce King-designed Independence 31, out of Marblehead, Mass., where he lives and works.