This was a terrible idea.
Three days into what could be a 20-day ocean crossing, and hes bleeding everywhere.
My fathers blood looks young and vital, smeared on the white hull.
But my father is not young.
The blood pools beneath his papery skin.
How fragile is he really?
It was nearly a year earlier that I had suggested we sail across the Atlantic.
My father had been depressed, unsure what to do with himself.
He tried to keep busy volunteering at local arts organizations and taking photographs.
But neither of these pursuits ever fully absorbed him.
The fully absorbing pursuit had always proved elusive.
Sailing was the exception.
Sailing, I knew, would make him feel like himself again.
But this was not my only motive in proposing such an audacious venture.
And I worried that when his time ran out, he would not be ready.
Im ashamed to say that this worry was not just for his sake, but my own.
I had been there when my maternal grandparents began to decline.
It was a job I did not want to perform for my father.
I was not strong enough.
He wanted to show me the plots he had bought for himself and my mother.
It was the sort of thing one didnt quite know how to react to.
The plots were good ones, as it happens, on a shady hillside far from the road.
We stood there awkwardly.
Death is never an easy subject.
Best to be direct, I figured.
So, how are you feeling about, you know, total extinction?
He didnt answer, but he didnt really need to.
I knew he was scared, because I was scared, and I was like him.
You would think that everyone would be scared of dying, but this is not so.
You live your life and thats it!
my father-in-law says with a cheerful shrug.
His attitude is perfectly rational, of course, but that doesnt make it any less crazy.
Death, to me, has always meant a moment of total helplessness.
And as a committed control freak I found sanguinity impossible.
On the other hand, were also free to test the limits of our helplessness.
This was a more manageable question.
I gushed, with relief.
Id even go with you.
There were real reasons not to go.
His digestion was not what it had been, and he had trouble sleeping.
At 6-foot-2, he might not even fit in a sailors bunk.
I doubted whether this methodology would ever yield a convincing decision.
Because it wasnt just a question of costs and logistics.
It was a question of how big to think, as you get older.
How ambitious to be.
When youre young, this question is easy.
Such is the wisdom of age.
What was the point, then, in setting forth on some Homeric voyage in your ninth decade?
Even as time grows short, you could still do big things!
And there was some truth to this.
Because its way too easy to underestimate our potential as we get older.
Especially in a culture in which that potential is underestimated at every turn.
Bucket lists were a way to correct for this error.
They reminded old folks how to think big.
Was this trip wise or foolish?
How do you combine the energy and optimism of youth with the humility and prudence of age?
These were the questions my father grappled with in the days following our walk in the cemetery.
And eventually he arrived at an answer.
Further testing confirmed the presence of prostate cancer.
F—, my father said.
How aggressive was the cancer?
When did he need to start radiation?
What side effects could he expect from the hormone treatment?
At a certain age your parents become like works of art.
You just stand around and admire them.
He consulted several doctors.
Yes, the cancer had spread.
Yes, it was aggressive but not that aggressive.
Ultimately the doctors cleared my father for travel.
He could start the hormone treatment before leaving, and start the radiation treatment on his return.
This was hugely reassuring to hear, at first.
But in the days that followed I couldnt help wondering.
Yes, the doctors were the experts.
But how many of them had ever been on a boat?
The 20 hours of plane travelnearly killed us both.
On finally landing in the Canary Islands, we staggered down the jetway like a couple of centenarians.
I was glad we were sailing back to the Americas.
I would take 20 days at sea over 20 hours flying coach any day.
My father was an ideal travel companion.
He could endure a lot and still emerge in relatively good humor.
This was but one of his many quietly winning qualities.
I was seeing these more clearly now.
At a certain age your parents become like works of art.
You just stand around and admire them.
The marina exuded the busy self-absorption of a bird colony.
Everywhere you looked people were hosing down decks, fiddling with rigging and stowing stores.
For such a dreamy breed, sailors can be unusually fussy.
If the ropes not coiled right, over you go.
Every marina is a boat show.
TheSkyelark 2was parked on the marinas last dock.
But there was also a roomy cockpit where rum punches could be lazily consumed.
Not that we would be drinking any.
With no onboard medical expertise, risking mishaps due to inebriation was not an option.
Our captain was Dan,a child of 39.
Wed been expecting someone old and grizzled, as sea captains are wont to be.
Dan leaned in the other direction, boyish and blond.
Short of stature, with chubby cheeks and British teeth, he was not a particularly imposing figure.
But even if we didnt paddle, the currents would still get us there in 90.
Almost all had either owned a boat at some point in their lives or else owned one currently.
One said he simply wanted to end a day of sailing not in the harbor.
All were impressed that my father had undertaken the ordeal at his age.
We slept onboard the next three nights, acquainting ourselves with the boat and each other.
The day before departure Dan gave a safety briefing basically a foreshadowing of every catastrophe we might encounter.
The bigger risk was somewhat less exotic: a valve falling off or hoses failing.
Illness and injury were even more likely.
Move slowly, Dan said.
Boats generally dont break, but people do.
If you were lucky a superyacht would be nearby.
But even if we didnt paddle the currents would still get us there in 90.
In the marina the water chuckled under the hulls and the masts glowed like birch trunks.
Sailors scurried around their vessels, drawing down pennants, battening hatches, hoisting dinghies and last-minute provisions.
Have fun, dont die!
The voices sounded small and plangent across the water.
One by one the boats turned their hindquarters to the land and set forth upon the wide blue sea.
Quite a few masts out there, arent there?
one of our crew remarked.
So theres lots of people with the same silly idea.
On went the life jackets, up came the bumpers.
Dan started the engines and eased us out.
Someone had left the transmit button on, as if to congratulate us on all we were escaping.
With a call from Dan a tower of sail unfurled above us.
Over the radio a voice counted down.
Then the distant pistol shot.
We turned just astern of the warship and went out on a starboard tack.
There were a few tense moments as another boat cut along the starting line.
On the radio,Blue Magiccalled in the first injury finger severed in a winch.
We were aiming for an angle to get around the islands southeast corner.
Then we would tack and head southwest toward the Cape Verdes.
Weve done two today already.
By afternoon there was noland in sight, and the number of boats in view had dwindled to two.
By evening a low-pressure system to the north had blocked what remained of our wind.
As land vanished, ordinary time did also, and the sea schedule clicked in.
The danger then was rogue fishing boats that ran without running lights to save power.
The French, it seemed, were frequent offenders.
He didnt talk much, and that suited me fine.
Blue ink only for log entries.
Wooden spoon only for the porridge.
No life jackets beyond the saloon.
He was already at two by that point, and couldnt remember the first.
The procedure for making coffee was no less prescribed.
Which brings us nicely to tea towels, the captain went on.
We dont want 16 out all at once because they will all go a bit manky.
But somehow juxtaposed with the oceans profound indifference the fussiness felt a bit absurd.
My father and I both chafed under the regime.
But I at least remembered the rules, mostly.
My father did not.
Physically, my father had always been a bit awkward.
He reminded me of a stork, tall and knobby, with limbs always folding all over themselves.
He walked with a funny bounce and often tripped on his feet.
He was no less awkward socially.
He was also very funny, though often in a way other people did not recognize.
Her arm was badly fractured in the fall, and had to be reinforced with several metal plates.
