Stylites at Sea

Yesterday we gave notice at Silas’ preschool, a move which struck fear into my heart. Actually, they don’t call it “preschool” here in New Zealand, they call it “crèche,” which is a French word meaning “that which prevents Mom from going batshit crazy.” Whatever you choose to call it, this magnificent institution has given us two days per week of baby-free productivity and adult conversation, and I am extremely nervous to see it go.

“Two weeks more?” asked the nice receptionist lady. “You’re off on your sailing adventure, then are you?”

“Yes, we’re off,” I confirmed, heart pounding in my chest.

She must have smelled the fear oozing from my pores. “He’ll be fine,” she reassured me.

“IT’S NOT THE KID I’M WORRIED ABOUT,” I shrieked, then corrected my voice to a more respectable level. “He’ll be fine. As long as he’s got us, he’s fine.”

“Fine,” she repeated.

“It’s… me,” I squeaked. How to explain to this woman how nervous I was to move back on my yacht?

For all she knows, it’s the Maltese Falcon, with a staff of twenty and a deep flight submarine, although the fact that I wear the same raggedy jeans every day might tip her off. She doesn’t know that we clean our dishes in sea water, shower with a tea kettle, and get one shelf each for our clothes. She’d be surprised to learn how rarely the toilet functions, and if I told her about the maggots we’ve met in the tropics, she’d probably call the cops.

And why would she guess? Why would anyone volunteer to live on a leaky boat, forgoing such modern pleasures as washing machines and cold beer, and periodically getting tossed around the cabin like a dried bean in a maraca?

There is an ancient tradition of saints and pilgrims, who do loony things like stand on a pillar in the desert for forty years. I would like to cast Peter and myself as modern-day stylites, enlightened ascetics seeking wisdom on the high seas. Perhaps we could build ourselves twin platforms at the top of our masts, from which we would pray fervently, hand down blessings to our disciples, and mortify our flesh with whips made from halyards.

Unfortunately, that image is flawed. First of all, we are too silly to have disciples. Secondly, we are hedonists, and I don’t think saints are allowed to sail naked, knocking back the rum drinks and trolling for sushi. And thirdly, I’m only engaging in the most reluctant maritime asceticism. As soon as we can afford it, I’m getting a refrigerator. And a washing machine.

And maybe, depending on how things work out, a deep flight submarine.