Syzygy Sailing

“I just want my mom to approve!” I huffed to my dad as we chatted one evening on the phone, a year ago, about my plans for sailing around the world. There.  I said it.  After 31 years of doing my damndest to assert my independence from my parents, I realized I wanted desperately for my mom to approve of my future plans. Her reception, three years ago, of this cockamamy idea to go sailing around the world with my two best friends could be termed luke-warm at best.  She was officially Strongly Against the Idea, for the obvious reasons. “You’re abandoning a career,” she’d said.  “You should stop being so reckless.  Why don’t you settle down with one of those nice girls with whom you keep finding a way to go separate ways. Why do something so dangerous?” Her disapproval grew as our plan slowly manifested.  Shortly before we bought our boat, if I wanted to even talk about the sailing venture when i called home, I had to make sure only dad was on the line, otherwise I would face grim silence.  It only took a few times of sensing the steely look through the phone, and am pretty sure I sometimes heard teeth grinding together, before I realized to not bring up the topic. I vented sometimes to my sister, admitting to her how important it was for me to have my mom say something to the effect of ‘go have a great time son!’ But why was it so important?  I suppose it’s obvious, she’s my mum.  I wanted them to be proud of my life, to think they had done a good job raising me, because I sure thought they had.  I wanted validation that my life is worth something, and if my mom didn’t approve, then it filled me with self-doubt. My sister’s advice was always the same: Talk to her about it.  Let her know how you feel. I couldn’t take it upon myself to face that conversation with my mom though.  So, cowardly, I avoided confrontation and discussion about it. But I sensed an olive branch at an unlikely location. My mom, dad, sister, and I were in a large children’s furniture store, surrounded by baby-cribs and pint-sized dressers, over a dozen example baby rooms perfectly laid-out with every required baby accessory, shopping for furniture for the niece on the way.  My mom pointed at a large map of the world and quietly asked where we might be going.  Where was our route?  I sketched out an idea for her, mentioned a couple of places that I was really excited about like Thailand and India.  Then I gave her a hug.  I hope that hug said what I didn’t:  Thanks for asking mom.” And, “I love you.” And,  “Thanks for playing the role of parent and making the first step towards reconciliation.” I felt better, but still uneasy.  And so a few months later I took the next step, and asked her if she and dad would come visit me in San Francisco over Thanksgiving, the winter holiday I usually spend with the fam.  She had adamantly declined previous invitations the summer prior, but this time she agreed they would come out. Three months later, my mom stepped aboard Syzygy.  I showed her around the boat, pointing out work we had done, highlighting our safety improvements as well as some of the things I had learned along the way. “See these wires, Mom? They’re called stays and we put in brand new over-sized ones all around the boat so our boat would be super-strong.  The deck is a little slick right now, but we are going to put down a new rough surface so that it’s safer to walk around on.  See these?  They’re called fairleads and I helped install them.  Hey Mom, check out the engine room!  This is what I love learning about.  Let me show you.”  I watched her furtively but intently, assessing her eyes, her noises, her tone.  ‘What was going through her head?’ I wondered. I’m quiet by nature and often hold emotions inside; a trait I inherited from my mother.  So she was hard to read as she walked around the boat listening to me blather on anxiously.   But I think seeing the boat drove home that this concept I had been talking about for three years was real.  After seeing the boat, seeing the work and effort put into the boat, and hearing about the learning derived the experience, I think it came through that this wasn’t just a larger version of the carefree adventures we had taken so frequently in the past that, in the end, are individually trivial and superficial.  Jonny, Matt and I had worked hard at creating the opportunity for a life-changing experience involving enormous sacrifice and choices, and that we would emerge afterwards with an experience that would profoundly affect us; this will be a time of such greater import than the week-long climbing getaway. I think the enormity of our collective effort was made real when she saw the boat.  Or realized that I define those superficial carefree trips, but this trip, this trip will end up being part of what defines me, and by extension, a reflection of the values she raised me in me.  Values of which I am extremely proud. The next  day, Matt and I treated my parents to a Thanksgiving dinner.  I’d never been in charge of a Thanksgiving meal before, though in the past I had taken on such important T-day duties as setting the table, making ice-tea, and heating up bread. Despite repeatedly being ordered to stay out of the kitchen under threat of being cut off from the wine, most of my pictures from Thanksgiving have somebody posing for a picture, and my mom in the background, in the tiny kitchen quietly trying to help.  In the end, Matt came through with a stellar turkey, my side dishes were generally a winner, and the meal was a success. The next day was another big day.  We were going sailing.  Matt played an excellent role of knowledgeable captain, correctly intuiting such a role would help put minds at ease.  Not that he was acting; he was just being clear in his captain-worthiness.  This was the first time that any of us had taken the parents sailing, and the wind was perfect for it.  Enough wind that we were able to move along at 5-6 knots, but not too strong.  We rarely heeled over much, allowing everyone onboard to walk around without having to hold on for fear of falling over. As we sailed out through the bay, I talked to my mom about the wind, the sails, work to be done and plans that we had.  We relaxed.  We drank some wine.  We laughed.  And finally came the moment that happens whenever we have someone new on the sailboat. “Would you like to take the helm for a while mom?  I’ll be right next to you.  It’s a great feeling.” She demurred initially, but with some more prodding from my dad and I, eventually wrapped her little hands around the wheel.  I could tell she enjoyed it.  Enjoyed the wind in her hair.  Enjoyed feeling the pressure on the wheel from water sliding over the rudder.  And at that moment, I felt like everything became O.K..  She was silently saying, “Go have a great time son.” Happy Mother’s Day mom.  I love you.

I’ve never been much of a prankster. The furthest I ever took an April Fools joke involved telling someone I didn’t like his shirt. Yes: lame. I know. As the day crept up this year my friend Amy regaled me with stories of epic April Fools jokes in her family. They sounded like so much fun. I felt so left out. To hear Amy tell it, April 1st was the only holiday worth celebrating. So I got to thinking about a prank. I started by searching for a victim. An obvious target was Amy, since she so enjoyed such shenanigans. She’s a professional April-Fooler, though, and I figured she’d see right through my meager attempts. What I needed was unsuspecting victims. Someone who trusted me totally. Someone who’s known me for years, and as such, never heard me pull an April Fools caper. Oh, Matt and Jonny: I would pity you if it wasn’t me doing the pranking. The three of us lately have been pushing our fingers into our temples, frowning in thought, throwing fake smiles every once in a while as our minds wandered toward the financial challenge before us. We have little money, a lot more boat parts yet to purchase, and (most importantly) a two year trip to save up for. We’ve tried prioritizing projects, but that only made the monstruous task before us more evident. What we needed was some levity. So I sent them this e-mail: —– From: Jon Haradon Subject: umm….news Date: April 1, 2009 5:52 PM To: Matt Holmes, Jonny Walman So the Superintendent of my district swung by our school today. Apparently she didn’t get the message about me leaving. She said the district was starting a STEM (science technology, engineering and mathematics) charter school in the district and she asked if I would be interested in running it. She basically implied that if I wanted the job it was mine. It would pay a bundle, and as director of the school, I would get to decide exactly how it looks. Couldn’t be be more perfect with where I want to go with my career. I have to admit, I’m strongly thinking about sticking around and taking the job…. I’ll give ya’ll a call to talk about it tonight. —– I let them sweat on it for four hours while I busied myself. I actually forgot about it. Matt and Jonny didn’t. I’m not sure what happened, and they seem unable to recall the events during the time in question, so traumatized were they. I heard hints, though, of emergency meetings, soul-searching conversations, and maybe — OK, definitely — some searing words for me. At 9PM, I called Matt. “Hey what’s up?” I feigned ignorance. After some pleasantries, Matt, slowly started, “So… uh… that was some bomb you dropped on us.” I couldn’t hold the facade any longer — I told you I’m no prankster — and offered “April Fools?” I felt like a little kid lighting a fire-cracker the size of a torpedo, and sprinting away while the fuse quickly burned down. Silence can reveal many emotions. In this long silence, I could hear disbelief and dumb-foundedness, and then relief mixed with incredulity. “You’re shittin’ me….” About all Matt could say after that was that I had better call Jonny. In the background, I heard Karen yell at me. She later flamed me on Facebook. I suppose I deserved it. I called Jonny. He asked if I had talked to Matt. I confirmed, which was about all I was able to do before spilling my beans. “Well I don’t know what he said, but I think I’m going to be a bit more harsh.” I cut him off. Yet again, I lit the fire-cracker and sprinted in the other direction. “April Fools,” I timidly let out. There was less silence this time. Jonny told me I ought to know how much he simultaneously hated me and was glad that we are the kind of people who are pranksters. He also said he’d need a week to get over the shock. I hadn’t thought about what the hoax might prompt as an aftermath; I was just hoping to fool them, and definitely succeeded. It’s strange, but swindling my friends made me feel really good. Not because I lied, but because my friends were truly moved and devastated by the possibility that I might not join them. Yes, love reveals itself in strange ways. In the next few days, Matt and Jonny mentioned that my firecracker actually prompted interesting thinking on their parts, something about soul-searching and opportunities in life and trusting your instincts and taking chances and friendship. For us to have conceived this adventure, have made it through over three years of planning, and be on the verge of leaving, there had to be some intense bonds of trust, respect, and compassion. Some serious man-love. And so while I might have severely severed that bond of trust, (and I currently don’t trust anything they say, because I know they are scheming up some way to way to exact revenge) I think I’ve nudged us all to think about what this journey means to us, together. We’ll need those bonds when confined for a months in a tiny, floating, 40-foot boat with no escape. Unless they prank me by throwing me overboard.

Everyone at my school — students, fellow teachers, and administration — has known about this sailing adventure for a couple of years now.  So it shouldn’t have come as a shock six weeks ago when Sarah, the principal (and my boss), emailed me this note: Jon, could you please get me your resignation letter as soon as you have a chance?  I want to start the search [for a new teacher] as soon as possible.  (Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind : ) Thanks, Sarah But it did. It shocked me. The note made me pause, blink, blink again, and contemplate the magnitude of the choice laid bare in the e-mail — quit my job or not –  and how it all began with seemingly innocuous choices four years ago. I’m about to quit my job, a job I’ve had for eight years. For Jonny, the purchase of the boat was the terrifyingly committing step. For me, this step is the extraordinarily committing one.  I think I know why. If things ever went sour or didn’t work out, I could simply shrug off buying the boat as a poor financial decision, like the decision I made to leave money in the stock market for the last six months. I wouldn’t be the first boat owner not to go sailing. But quitting my job is more undoable. I’ve got the job security of a teacher, and the comfort I derive from that snuck up on me, without me realizing it.  Why in my right mind would I let go of that?  I know plenty of other people who have asked me as much. Four years ago, when the idea for our trip was first hatched, it wasn’t so committing.  Matt and I had just taken our first sailing course, and the idea seemed more fanciful than anything else. It was distant and intangible. As a first step, we committed to saving some money. No big deal. In fact, we treated the money-saving as a competition, and spontaneously e-mailed each other screenshots of our savings account just to rub in our positions. It was playful, like keeping track of who has done more weekly push-ups.  Jump forward four years, and it doesn’t seem like a game anymore. I’m walking away from a career. I should have been able to fire off a resignation letter that same day in response. All it required was typing a few sentences, and after all, I’d already made the decision to resign four years ago. The decision to buy a boat took me down a path, and I’ve gotten so far along it that now much of what I do feels pre-ordained. My choices have become necessities of the circumstances I’ve put myself in, and I’m feeling swept along… and I don’t have any control. To try and take back a little control, I spent six weeks chewing on the decision to formalize my departure from my job.  What ended up happening was it chewed on me.  One little person on my shoulder would try and call me crazy.  If acted out on TV, that would be a  caricature of my  mom.  Another romanticized the possibilities.  That little person whispering in my ear would be some amalgamation of Tom Robbins’ fictional characters. I finally wrote the letter. I had to and felt that out-of control-feeling as I wrote it.  I hedged, however and asked for a leave of absence instead, which makes it easier for me to come back.  I also apologized to my principal for taking so long.   And even if I feel a loss of control in this particular decision, I kept coming back to the excitement I feel about what lies ahead.  About the learning that will happen, the experiences that will unfold.  Friendships created and deepened.  Now I’m impatient to get started, and scared about the scope and breadth of preparations we have yet to make.  I’m ready for the next chapter of my life. And it’s coming quickly!