I round the edge of the cove and I almost don't see my boat. Then it is clear to me: somewhere in me I want my boat to disappear. I want to come home one day and for home to just be gone. No note. No wreckage or ruin. Empty water where once I did sleep. A large wind or large wave. Or vandals. Or another boat's propellor clipped my anchor lines. Because then what? That would be the beginning of an adventure.
When I see that the boat is not enough, to sail is not enough. When I see that I am used to sailing so that it is no adventure. That I want my boat to disappear for the sake of my adventure, that is when I worry for my safety. That is when I worry that I have developed a bad taste.
