May, 2002
By Tom Snyder
I can think of no reason why I should not use this column as a vehicle for personal therapy. It is just plain common sense that a respected and beloved writer such as myself, whose column goes out to literally millions of readers in the Scarborough, Maine, area alone, should take a little something back. And anyone who has ever read my column carefully will know that I do have serious, serious issues. Anyway, something has been bugging me, so here it is.
I look forward all winter to a well-planned solo cruise in June, but the fact is I don’t seem to enjoy cruising alone on my boat. No, that’s not accurate. I occasionally feel extremely, extremely uncomfortable after about one day of cruising alone. Extremely uncomfortable. However, knowing this did not stop me from carefully planning a solo cruise this year. No, that’s not accurate. It does not stop me from lovingly and euphorically planning a solo cruise every year. What’s wrong with me? Oh, and by the way, thanks for your help.
I know, I know, I can hear you saying, “Gee, Tom, you don’t sound sick – you sound like a healthy normal male.” Thank you, that is very sweet, but the fact is, I think we should dig a little deeper here.
Last summer I was in the middle of a cruise for which I had planned for months. I had taken on a crewmember for a few days in the middle of an otherwise solo venture. The miles we logged together had been fantastic – good beer, good talk, and good beer. When it was time for him to return home, we rowed ashore so I could walk him to the bus that would take him back to New York. As the bus pulled up, I punched him affectionately on the shoulder, and he returned the gesture. We both agreed that we would try to repeat the venture in the future. Then, as he turned to climb aboard the bus, I dove for him, wrapping my arms around him and whispering that I wasn’t quite ready for him to go. When after a few awkward minutes the bus driver finally got us separated, I was left standing in the plume of diesel fumes, bruised emotionally (and even physically where the driver had been forced to be quite firm).
I returned to my boat pretending that everything was the same. I was hoping to weigh anchor immediately and to busy my mind with the details of single-handing, but a veil of dense fog changed my plans. I was not about to panic because I planned to be preoccupied by a good book. I was blissfully unaware that this fog would not lift for 72 hours.
Reading a great book worked for about 10 minutes. I love “Goodnight Moon” as much as any man alive, but it was not enough. I placed a cell phone call to my wife at work back in Cambridge, Mass. All I said was one word, “Hello,” when she interrupted to ask me if I was OK. I reacted defensively, perhaps, telling her that she had a hell of a nerve criticizing me when I was risking my life aboard my boat. I quickly shifted gears and told her that I loved her, that I loved our family, and that I loved much of the furniture in our home. She asked me if Steve had just left. That’s why I love her – she is so smart. Still, I denied it. I said Steve was in the head, and that everything was fine.
She gently reminded me that she was in the middle of a class, so it would be hard to talk. I assured her that it really wasn’t a problem for me, but she insisted. That’s just who she is.
Then I called home to talk with my daughter to ask her if she remembered the day I had taught her how to ride a bike. She said she remembered that day fondly and that she loved me very, very much. She asked me if Steve had just left my cruise. I said no, he was still in the head. In the background, I could hear “The Simpsons” on TV and several of her friends laughing. That really is a very funny show, so I let her go. I felt no better.
For the next hour, I promised myself in various ways that I would never again cruise alone. Then I turned my attention to scraping aluminum oxide residue from the water tanks off of my freshwater pump diaphragm. That’s a place I always go when I need a pick-me-up. But that didn’t work either. In my ship’s library, I found a book of photos that went a long way to connecting me with my past. It’s amazing how much affection one can feel when looking at goofy and candid poses. But even then, after a few minutes I began to wish that all the photos were not just of me. I may have made a mental note to ask every member of my family for a wallet size photo. I hope I did.
I switched on my marine radio and felt close to happy tears as I listened to two lobstermen talking about a third man, Donny, who was apparently a real asshole. These two working men were obviously the greatest of friends, and were now feeling even closer as they decimated the reputation of Donny. I wanted to join them in their conversation, so, feeling that I knew enough about Donny, I piped in that neither of them deserved the kind of crap that Donny was putting them through. Then, in a confusing sequence of events, we all decided to move to a channel that unfortunately was not available on my radio.
Two days passed. I was lying on the cabin sole laughing at a mental image of a camel. You have to admit that the two bumps are nutty. I thought I heard a tapping sound on the hull. I scrambled topsides to see if maybe my friends or family had decided to make a surprise visit. I found instead a wondrous sight: A couple from Canada sat in a dingy looking up at me with the friendliest pair of faces I have ever seen, and I am not just saying that because they were Canadian. They said that they had just pulled into the cove and had spotted me on radar. I laughed and laughed and laughed at their joke about radar. They laughed a little bit too, and then they asked me if I would join them for dinner.
I realized that I might frighten them if I showed too much enthusiasm, so I said quite calmly that dinner sounded fine and could I bring something? They said a bottle of wine would be wonderful and how about 7 p.m.? That was absolutely crazy, and I told them so – there was no way I was gonna wait 8 hours in my hellhole of loneliness. I told them that too. They were startled but hopefully a little impressed by my honesty. I asked, “What’s wrong with right now?” then ran below and grabbed four family-sized bottles of wine. Back on deck I asked, “Shall I get in your dinghy with you or should I take my own dinghy? I guess I should get in your dinghy – yes, why don’t I do that!”
It turned out that this couple, let’s call them the Sweringeranzes, was not all that comfortable with hugging. Anyway, we had a great time for about an hour until they had to leave prematurely for Canada. I returned to my boat and tried to draw the camel.
What does this all mean? I guess maybe I’m just a people person. Maybe that’s all we’re saying here. But for some reason every year at this time I plan once again my lonely cruise. You’d think I would learn. I am not too proud to ask for advice, so I ask you: Am I a fool to do this every year and, more importantly, what do you think about my doing that around-the-world-alone race?
Tom Snyder lives in Cambridge, Mass., with his wife, Anne, and children. He sails his Island Packet 350, Blue Moon, out of Peaks Island, Maine.
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