THE REST OF YOUR LIFE
I should tell you about my friend Charlie. His doctors gave him the verdict – he had six months to live. He sat down with his favorite brew one night, and thought about what he’d do with the rest of his life.
Charlie had a good job and money in the bank that he was saving for his retirement. He quit his job, sold his Manhattan apartment, made accommodation for an ex-wife and adult daughter, and bought a 42-foot sailboat in Maine. It took him a month to get it fitted out for voyaging, and then he took off alone and headed south along the coast. I asked him to keep me informed of his progress.
He hit a vicious nor’easter about half way to Boston and spent 36 hours in heavy seas and very cold weather, but he survived. His sloop was damaged enough that he put into a yard in Marblehead, MA to make repairs. He called me from there.
“The waves were incredibly high and steep, and they were traveling at me like a big freight train. I couldn’t heave–to in those conditions, and stayed up all night at the wheel. When I couldn’t do it any longer, I battened down and tied myself into my bunk. At some point I fell asleep and when I woke up the sea was still rough, but the sun was shining.”
“Scary.”
“You know what . . . it was liberating,” he said. “Hell, I’m dying anyway so what difference did it make. It was amazing to be lying there in my bunk in those conditions and not be afraid. Hell, I used to be afraid I wouldn’t hit my golf ball.”
“If you weren’t paralyzed with fear what were you thinking about?”
“I listened and watched clinically as the boat and all its parts struggled to survive. You couldn’t see the waves in the dark, but you could hear them coming. I can’t explain why we didn’t roll over and go down.”
“Were you ever sorry you left port?”
“I don’t think so. The irony is that that storm made a new man out of me. Maybe God made it a test to get me on the right track. I can’t tell you how great it felt not to be afraid.”
“So where do you go from here?” I asked him.
“I’m going to hit all the places I’ve always wanted to see.”
“Anything I can do?”
“Yes. Don’t tell anyone that I’ve been given what’s left of my six months. That would spoil everything.”
“Okay,” I said.
Charlie outlived the six months. When he finally lost the strength to sail the boat that was part of him, he moored it in the Bay outside his hospice window and sailed it in his mind, reliving his voyage half way around the world, before setting sail alone on his last voyage.
I didn’t tell anyone he’d been given a time line for death. Of course we’re all dying. Maybe we should take a page from Charlie’s book and stop worrying . . . at least about things we can’t control.