Still I continue to wonder what the appeal of it is—why hundreds around me are already hungering and thirsting for their next cruising holiday.
For many (whose countenance gives it away) it has to be a distraction from daily tedium. Whose faces are closed off from relational touching—whose joy in life has pretty much evaporated. I want to be mistaken, beholding this kind of pain. Then there's another bunch observed, who appear to enact what's likely the same oft-repeated script with one another, but go through the motions in a new-hotel context whenever they can.... and surely there must be some people like me who really cannot grasp the magic but do it for nice-guy points.
But to reassure me that life goes on, there's the inescapable intrigue of the ocean movement beneath—always the same, always fresh and new; ever peaceful, ever harboring fearsome danger.
This is day six of twelve, out here plying all those nautical miles from Montenegro towards Sicily. Guess I need to come to terms with the doing of it, to accept that maybe comprehending the cruising pastime is simply beyond my ken.
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