The Call

Sometimes I think the wandering life wouldn't be so bad. Trade in my truck for a four-wheel drive, put a Lance camper on the bed, outfit it with all the things you need to survive off the grid, like the solar panel, generator, electric jack stands, electric sky vent, wireless remote camera for backing up, ac unit (25000 btu's--whatever that stands for), the micro-convection combo, and upgraded shocks to handle the weight, and maybe the slide-out dinette. With a custom surfboard rack on top, my Taylor 410 acoustic on the queen bed with pillows to keep it wedged, I'd be off somewhere, maybe the outskirts of Moab for a few days, and then Northwest to the Oregon coast, maybe Seaside or something. I'd drive into Portland for a day or two, drink Seattle's Best with Donald Miller and talk about narrative theology. I'd ask him why he's not married yet, and how the speaking circuit is going for him. Then I'd cruise the streets in my lifted non-diesel Bear Grills survival vehicle and pretend I'm John Steinbeck in Travels With Charlie, the soft rain on my windshield, about to head north to Alaska, now dripping with inspiration for the novel I'm going to write. When I reach Seattle, I realize that the time has come for the next vessel. I take a deliberate detour to the local boat building yard, and here I meet the owner/craftsman/nautical sage of the Northwest. He's an old man who lives in a floating shack next to his boat yard and invites me to help him finish his 42 foot wooden schooner. He tells me his name is Herman M. jr.   Like me, he's grizzly, misunderstood, and on the verge of something great. Because he's wise and therefore generous, he gives me the boat at no cost.  I tell him that I can't do the sailing thing, that I tend to get sick on the open ocean, that I've got to get to Alaska soon and don't have time to tack. So we rebuild a twin engine and install it, making this the ultimate hybrid sea craft. He says he'll keep my Lance 4x4 at his yard for when I return one day. And the next morning, early dawn, I'm motoring through the Pugent Sound on my way to open water in my yellow slicker. The seas are heavy at times, the storms fierce, but I sleep like Jesus in the bottom of my boat, knowing, as a seasoned sailor, that the journey is the destination, and my GPS auto-pilot will get me to Anchorage before long. After three weeks alone on the Pacific, the morning clouds part as Natalia (I named my boat) and I cruise into the harbor, coffee brewing in the galley, a few local fisherman waving me in. I get a text from my wife and kids, who flew in the night before, and we're meeting at the wharf for fish and chips in about an hour. The children eat quietly, displaying a deep contentment that is bred from both a self-imposed restraint to electronic portable devices and an exposure to natural beauty. Their mother, sitting mermaid-like next to me, expresses that same deep contentment, saying that the rational life really is overrated, that she's grateful for marrying a real man who thirsts for adventure, who values the immediate over the long-term, who feels before he thinks. And now my path is confirmed. I stayed true, like a martyr, resisting the warnings of many, the naysayers who casted doubt on my calling. Though tattered and weathered, like Natalia, I've come home to my harbor. I, too, am weathered and scarred, but I've earned the respect of my new town. I will live the rest of my days with my family in this seaside village, eating French bread, sipping Merlot from my organic vineyard, retelling the stories of my travels to entertain children and inspire the young men who will carry the torch to the next generation.