Notes on becoming a landlubber

How did this happen? How did I, the person who spent the last 20+ years saying that I would sail until I someday sailed off the edge of the world, hopefully when I was so old and gray I could barely handle the boat, how did I go from that to deciding to go live in the woods?

Is this a permanent illness? Or is there a cure? Do I want to be cured?

I had always viewed landlubbers as, well, somewhat lacking. And, dare I even say it, possibly even slightly retarded. No offense meant to those of you I know and love, and even those of you I don’t. But I failed to see that given a choice, how could anyone stand to live in a house? Houses, for the most part, barring earthquakes, landslides and termites, just sat there. They didn’t carry you to far away lands. If you wanted to go somewhere else, instead of merely raising an anchor and sailing off, taking along everything you owned, you had to pack. What a silly thing, trying hard not to forget anything vitally important, like your Viagra. Although if you were going to Mexico, ‘hay no problemo, tengo aqui’, on every street corner of every village. That and valium. The magic ‘v’s…

I had visited people who lived in houses, and while unlimited hot water, heck, even running water, period, could be a real novelty, was it worth the price? Was it that great to spend each and every day in the same place, watching the same cars come and go at the same time every day, listening to the same screaming drunken fights, or having one, every weekend? Where was the thrill in that, when you could be out in 30 foot seas getting your butt and your boat royally kicked by mother nature?

What was wrong with everybody? Damn landlubbers.

And now here I am, one of you. Waking up looking at the same squirrel in the same tree every morning.

???