Evanston: degrees of solitude
Evanston: degrees of solitude
I have been thinking about solitude since I came across an article about a man who has now been at sea for more than two years.
The journalist who wrote the piece made some comments about the man and then wrote: “How do I know this? Why, I called him up! He answers his satellite phone after one ring.”
This morning I read in the SYDNEY MORNING HERALD of the girl who is attempting to be the youngest to sail solo around the world. She has just passed Cape Horn.
The article quoted her manager. Manager? After all these years I find out that you need a manager to sail alone around the world.
The article further noted that the girl’s parents are going to fly over her today and speak to her by radio, and that ships from both the Chilean and Argentine navies are going to visit.
Both of these people are maintaining websites while at sea.
I recall Francis Chichester complaining about having to make daily radio reports to his sponsors during his one stop circumnavigation. I felt no sympathy for him then or now. You take the money, you dance the tune.
In STORM PASSAGE I wrote: Not until a few months before I left on this voyage did I read Walden through completely. While I admire many of his fine words, I was shocked to discover that as a recluse Thoreau was a fraud. I had some notion of him living in the woods all alone for two years. Nothing could have been more inaccurate. There were people all over the place—walking out from town to chat, cutting the ice on Walden Pond, neighbors visiting. The man was practically running a wayside inn.
I have heard a rumor that there are sailors who go to sea who claim they don’t want to talk to anyone who is not on the boat and carry no means to communicate with the outside world. Of course I don’t believe it.
In STORM PASSAGE I also wrote: We attended an exhibit of Chinese art. One of the objects was a figure holding aloft thirty-two concentric spheres, only the outer half dozen of which were visible, all carved from a single piece of ivory. The satisfaction of the artist upon completing carving all thirty-two spheres and knowing that each--even the innermost which would never be seen--was perfect, is the same as that of a man who completes a solo circumnavigation, who fulfills any dream, even though no one else knows.
I wonder if the man who has been dawdling at sea for more than two years or the girl with a manager would have sailed if no one else ever knew.
Thursday, January 14, 2010