Boats and Goats

I'm not afraid of speaking in public. I'm not even that afraid of dying. I am afraid of being alone.

There is an episode of The Twilight Zone (or maybe it was its much scarier twin, The Outer Limits) where a colony of space explorers that have been stranded for decades on a barely habitable distant planet are finally rescued. However, there is one leader who still believes in their initial mission and tries to get everyone to stay. They reason with him, but he retreats into their cave, sure of himself and convinced that others will follow his example. The final scene shows him emerging just as the rocket blasts off, with all the rest of the colonists aboard. Only then does he realize what a fool he's been to stay behind. I remember being very moved by that episode, and a little bit freaked out.

When I was pretty young, seven or eight, I was playing with my trucks in the coarse granite sand along the single lane road that leads to White Wolf Lodge in Yosemite, where we often went for summer vacation. I was in the meadow right across from the lodge itself, so somebody knew where I was and it was no big deal that I was by myself (very different times back then, for sure). Hearing the sound of tires, I looked up to see my parents driving away down the road in our blue-green Ford Falcon station wagon. The image is still vividly etched into my memory.

I dropped my toys and started sprinting up the road, yelling my head off. My dad heard me and stopped. I'm not sure what I was thinking; though it certainly wasn't that they would suddenly abandon their youngest child on the side of the road and move away to parts unknown. Their explanation was that they were just out for a short sight-seeing drive and didn't think I would want to come along. They were probably right, but there was no way I was not going at this point. I left my toys right where they were and hopped in. We ended up stopping at many scenic overlooks, which turned out to be pretty cool.

Another time, I was much older and in high school. A good friend, John Slater, was planning to sail solo to Hawaii. To help him on his journey and provide a place for him to dock once he got to his destination, our history teacher, Mr. Sherman, had voted him into the (I believe) Santa Venetia Yacht Club, whose membership had now ballooned to two. That part taken care of, John had acquired a small boat and was launching it from the dock at my other friend, John Wuoltee's, house in Strawberry. From there he was going to sail it over to Sausalito to be fitted out for his voyage. Pretty heady stuff for someone still in high school.

Though I had my license, my parents were still at work with their cars, so I had arranged for John Wuoltee to pick me up for the launching. Unfortunately, wires must have gotten crossed and I was left cooling my heels in our driveway, waiting for the ride that never came. I don't recall being angry, just terribly forgotten and alone.

As it turned out, I apparently missed quite an event. Mr. Slater's boat was launched and nearly sank during the short four or five mile passage to Sausalito. I never had a chance to witness his sailing skills, but the seaworthiness of his boat (or lack thereof) put a possibly fortuitous cap to that particular adventure, which had the distinct possibility of ending badly.

Anyway, the saying goes that we're born alone, and we die alone. But in between those two inscrutable events there is also a lot of aloneness, which nature abhors as much as it does a vacuum. Animals in a pasture will always bond, even if they are of different species. At our home in Mill Valley, our sheep hung out every day with our goat, just to have some companionship. I guess I am no different.

Sometimes in the middle of the night, when I am lying in bed next to my wife, Pat, I will contemplate her sleeping form and imagine my life without her. I am often overwhelmed with gratitude that she has chosen to spend her life with me.

If you're reading this, sweetheart, thank you for sharing the pasture.