Pondering A PANDEMIC
To live is to live in uncertain times. As captain, it is my job to prepare for the worst while hoping for the best. Some shipboard preparations are, of course, easier than others. I was sitting at the nav table, and my wife, Carolyn, was standing beside me.
“Here’s our last will and testament,” she said matterof-factly. “I’ve already emailed Roma a copy, but this is the one that’s signed by witnesses and notarized.”
Roma is our daughter, a third generation liveaboard until she went off to Brandeis University. She currently resides in Singapore, in a condo a few miles from where we’re now anchored.
I nodded glumly. The envelope with our will was plainly labeled. I drove a pin straight through it into our mahogany bulkhead, silently praying that it would be me who removed that pin, not some stranger who’d begrudge the tiny hole in the varnish. Alas, we weren’t done. “Here’s the US documentation and all the step-by-step instructions for the boat, engine and windlass,” Carolyn said, handing me another envelope. “I’ve got our do-not-resuscitate requests in my purse. Should I keep them there?”
I nodded. We’d discussed all this. We’re life partners as well as 50-year shipmates. But I didn’t tell her about the little card I carried in my wallet. My intention was to slip it into my shirt pocket if, somehow, we ended up off the boat and in a hospital. It seemed too grim to share. It read: “I’m 68 years old, in perfect health, and would like to live for at least another 32 years. If, however, there’s a shortage of medical equipment, I’d like the medical professional who has to make such hard choices to know that I respect theirs.”
Of course, sheltering aboard during this pandemic was only one option. We had, seeing the viral storm clouds gather, fully provisioned. Every important piece of gear on Ganesh is in good nick—even our trusty watermaker. Our fuel tanks are full, our massive solar array bulging with electrical power. We have two different sets of charts of the world. There are 20 kilos of jasmine rice under the forepeak bunk. Best of all, we’ve got hundreds of fishhooks, dozens of lures, and untold yards of monofilament.
If the family— we have two grandkids, ages 6 and 9 —consensus ended up that it was more dangerous ashore than afloat, we’d head offshore to heave to. Once again, three generations of Goodlander crew united.
Who is to say when a 40-year-old plastic sailboat morphs into a modern, lifesaving escape pod? While this escape-to-sea scenario didn’t seem likely—to be offshore and still idiotically flying our Q flag—it was certainly possible. For Goodlanders, the sea is safety. Alas, the problem wouldn’t be to stay offshore but to ultimately find welcoming land.
Grim thoughts. And, yes, we live in uncharted territory.
The logical choice for us would be to just sit tight and wait it out here in pristine S’pore. On many levels, I’m where I want to be and doing exactly what I want to do with the woman I love. And I’m an eternal optimist.
On the other hand, people are dying in numbers too big for the developing world to count. We’ve read of countries where all the gravediggers have either died or fled, and stacked bodies are burning in the streets.
While it is true that we currently have a formidable moat around our residence, it is also only fair to consider those civil servants who might have to deal with our loose ends, so to speak.
Why is attempting to be a decent person so bloody hard? We’ve tried not to be an unnecessary bother to others in life, so why should our deaths be any different?
After all, aren’t we eternal travelers in search of new horizons to chase? Might not the next phase of our miraculous, cosmically unlikely life journey be even
We are happy that we consciously choose Singapore over Malaysia or Indonesia. Carolyn and I even discussed sailing nonstop back to the US, which is less than four months away as the fish swims. Instead, we stayed put.