Vagrant Gypsy Life

A chilly, whipping wind battered the tress today as I tried to focus inside the walls of OutsidePR. The sun shone brightly through the window of our WWII era officers home- yet Dodger paced the floor restlessly and my mind churned like the wind-torn waters of the bay a half mile away.

When I don't surf, run, or get outdoors for at least a small portion of the day I operate at a much lower level. Today, while procrastinating, my mind pondered longevity and putting myself in the barrels of my dreams. Sometimes you have to reevaluate and decide where you want your current sessions to lead you in order to thrive.

Reaching goals therefore, requires conscious and unconsciously planning and positioning. You can't just keep saying- if only I quit this I'd be able to make it at that, or- maybe next year I'll sell all my stuff and leave. When the end goal is getting in/on the water every morning there really is no excuse if we put our minds to it. What is holding us back?

The freedom granted by controlling the overall structure of your schedule can be very rewarding- that is, until you become exhausted by trying to juggle too much, or struggling to make rent. I have reached another fork in the road that is both exciting and daunting. Do I continue to work multiple jobs, in order to maintain the status quo of minimal obligation, or conform to a certain degree in order to gain back some semblance of stability? And if I do commit to normalcy- is there no more opportunity to strike out on my own, both on the road and as a entrepreneur?

Matt bought a boat last week and his reality is starting to bloom. I am pondering importing goods from the orient, working with hops, landscape design, architecture, running tours, and running amuck. I miss the long, muggy evenings PPPing at the East Chop Beach. This poem, written by the Poet Laureate of England in the first half of last century, reminds me of those laid back times; let's go back to the seas again... the vagrant gypsy life.

I Must down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky,

And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by,

And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking,

And a gray mist on the sea's face, and a gray dawn breaking.

I must down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying.

I must down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull's way and the whale's way, where the wind's like a whetted knife;

And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover,

And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over.

John Masefield