At 50-something, a few reasons for hope

April 2004

By Tom Snyder

Recently I intersected with three sturdy people all in the space of a few hours. Their average age is about 80 and their average attitude is spectacular. One of them would be sufficient, but three in a row put a new spring in my step.

Arney’s wife died a few years ago. Now, after a very respectable period of mourning and adjustment, he has sold his house, astounded his kids, and purchased his first boat – to live on – a big cruising sailboat – his first ever.

I did not know Arney before, but his daughter, a friend, asked me if I would go to Florida to meet him and to join him in shaking down his newly delivered boat. (The only sad, or possibly funny, part of this story is that his daughter thinks I am a gifted seaman. She got that impression because I once told her that I’m a gifted seaman.)

So Arney and I got to know each other over lunch in Florida. We discovered that we had read all of the same books and articles about sailing. We shared that if it hadn’t been for our cruising boats we would never have known what a “thread count” was, or the exact hours of Bed, Bath and Beyond. Arney had just spent an exhilarating few months outfitting the domestic side of his new boat, and this was every bit the thrill it should have been. Now he was ready to take her out on the water.

Later, at the dock, I saw his boat. A few first impressions: one can afford a lot of boat if one sells one’s house; the name on the transom was that of his wife (who had been the one to handle all previous thread count issues); she was a beauty.

We sailed her out into the Gulf. He handled her unflinchingly, no over-steering, just appropriate nerves of respect. When the wind came up and the boat did her leap to hull speed, he seemed not surprised that a vessel under his command would perform so well. Then we spent a couple of hours playing games like “Swing the Compass,” “Set the Speedo,” “Empower the Autopilot,” and “Ready the Radar.” Then back at the dock we played a few rounds of “Find the Water Pump” and “Behold the Compressor.” I’m in pretty good shape, but he could have out-played me all afternoon.

That evening, we had some good burgers and one too many beers to drown out the effect of the guy at the next table describing the permanent plastic mesh inserted during his last stomach operation. I did discover the one question that I was not at liberty to ask of Arney. One must not ask, “So, what’s the plan? You know, this month, next month, next year?” There is no published plan. And that, I have come to realize, is that.

In the cab back to the airport, the very elderly driver just started talking to me. His wife of many years killed by a drunken driver, retired from a tiny police force in rural New York, this fellow migrated to Florida to kick around, to discover the end of his life. After a year of McDonald’s employment, he decided to retreat north, but fortunately met a guy in passing who told him about the problem of wounded animals in the swamp. Now he gets up every day, drives a cab for a few hours and then reports in to his government job of rescuing wounded birds, gators, snakes, and raccoons, to name a few.

He doesn’t just love his job. He also loves every minute of his life. Grand passion. I mentioned to him that the day before I had seen a sea gull lying apparently dead on a sea buoy. He got very quiet and insisted I write down the exact location of that buoy. That poor bird might still be alive! We all might still be alive.

At the airport I got a call from my Dad. Eighty-five years old, he lives on his own in Massachusetts. He was ecstatic to announce that he had just sold his boat after years of trying. Too damn big. Too damn heavy. Glad to finally see that great big girl sell. Too old for that nonsense. Oh and by the way, could we make a date for next week to go to the boat show? He wants to buy a new boat in the 28-foot range. Maybe something a little faster. Praise the Lord.

Tom Snyder sails his Island Packet 380 Blue Moon in Maine’s Casco Bay.