In my fantasy, this is my reality.

In my fantasy, I have just purchased this boat. She is a little rough around the edges and needs a little love and attention. In my fantasy, I have the money, the skills, and the wherewithal to fix her up and get her shipshape.

She is the perfect size for one or two to set sail for far-flung lands. Up to the Arctic. Swoop down the Nordic edges, linger a while in Europe. Then down… across… I dunno, I’m going to need more maps.

In my fantasy, it is all fair winds and prevailing seas. My vertigo and anticipated seasickness have disappeared, replaced by master navigational skills and the oceanic resilience of an old sea dog.

In my fantasy, I have grown my hair long, and I have a shaggy wild beard (there may or may not be beads braided among it all). I carry myself with a lean muscular assurance of someone half my age. The assured copper presence of someone who has been around the block once or thrice and done the things along the way.

In my fantasy, the world is not going down the gurgler, and there is nothing more to do than make sunny, safe passage to far adventure and ripe old agedness.