Michael Cosgrove wears several hats. In addition to being an author, he has been a print model and actor for the past twenty-five years, and he is the owner of an insurance agency in Tustin, California. He graduated from Michigan State and holds an MA degree from Western Michigan in psychology. During the summers, he spends his time with his wife, Sally, and their nine grandchildren on a lake in northern Michigan.

Imperfect Passage

A Sailing Story of Vision, Terror, and Redemption

By Michael Cosgrove

Skyhorse Publishing

Copyright © 2015 Michael Cosgrove
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-63220-500-1

Contents

Chapter 1 The View from Sixty,
Chapter 2 Three Good Reasons to Just Say No,
Chapter 3 Desperately Seeking Slip Appeal,
Chapter 4 King of Provisions,
Chapter 5 Single White Male,
Chapter 6 Rock and Roll,
Chapter 7 Hilo Hawaii Ho,
Chapter 8 Dry Land,
Chapter 9 Home School,
Chapter 10 Heaven Helps the Man,
Chapter 11 Bail Like Hell,
Chapter 12 Can't Seem to Say Goodbye,
Chapter 13 White Squall and Landfall,
Chapter 14 Changes in Latitude,
Chapter 15 Almost Paradise,
Chapter 16 Sail on, Sail on, Sailor,
Chapter 17 Endgame,
Chapter 18 Hellhound on My Trail,
Chapter 19 Exit Strategy,
Epilogue,
Basic Sailing Terms,
Acknowledgments,

CHAPTER 1

The View from Sixty

A man is not old until regrets take the place of dreams.

— John Barrymore

I'm afraid to look directly at the mast — not for the fear of the sixty-two-mile-per-hour winds that are ravishing my boat, and not because there's anything wrong with the mast itself, as far as I know. I don't want to look at it for the same reason a little boy averts his gaze when he has to walk past a cemetery: I'm afraid I'll see a ghost. The last time I looked, a minute ago, there was an old woman sitting there with her back against the mast, smoking a pipe and gazing at me with an unsettling detachment. I have not eaten nor slept in three days, forced to this by a raging storm in the northern Tasman Sea, set to be a slave to the helm. To relinquish control of the boat for even a minute in conditions such as these will mean my death, and I did not come out here seeking death.

I can't help it. I look at the base of the mast, and there she is: wrinkled face, clay pipe — what is she, a Quechua woman from Peru? When I look directly into her eyes, she seems friendly enough, and I feel a little foolish for being afraid. Maybe she's here to help me. "Please," I say, "take the helm, just for a little while." She stares at me for a moment as if she doesn't understand. Then she throws her head back and laughs, and then fades away.

Heartbroken, I turn away, just in time to see the lights of a massive freighter bearing down on me. In a panic, I yank the wheel around to avoid a collision, look over my shoulder where the ship was, and see nothing but the empty gray sea, boiling and folding over itself in infinity.

"Oh, shit, Cos," I say to myself, "this trip has, quite literally, driven you crazy."

* * *

It all started with a birthday, as these things sometimes will. Some of us happen to hit a birthday marking an age ending in zero, and suddenly, no matter our record of achievement in the decades previous, we discover that we have much more still to prove to the world (by which, of course, I mean prove to ourselves). It gives me no great pride to report that my seafaring adventure was born from a classic three-quarter-life crisis.

I should have been perfectly content with what I had accomplished in life, and in fact, I thought that I was. I had a beautiful family, a successful career, and a lovely home with never-ending views of the Pacific Ocean. I had worked hard my whole life, always holding down two or more jobs at one time. Growing up in Michigan, I had watched my parents toil for thirty-five dreary years at the local Ford Motor Company factory — so I knew what drudgery was, and I was determined not to let it creep into my life. I didn't mind working hard, which my folks had certainly instilled in me, but I sought fulfillment, not just security. Standing on the manicured lawn of my Southern California home, hitting golf balls into Bluebird Canyon — my canyon, I felt that I had arrived.

Then came my sixtieth birthday. The funny thing was, birthdays number forty and fifty had barely registered with me. Sure, they hadn't been causes for ecstasy the way birthdays are when you're a kid (Whoopee! One year closer to death!), but I had taken them in stride. Sixty was completely different.

In the days leading up to the milestone birthday, I was actually looking forward to getting to share this event with my loved ones. Sally, my fiancée of five years, had put together a party sure to be filled with laughter and joy. All four of my daughters, Kelly, Kerry, Kasey, and Katie, joined us with my eight grandchildren, four boys and four girls. Kelly and Kasey traveled from their homes in Colorado, and Kerry and Katie drove up the I-5 freeway from San Diego. A few of my closest friends also joined in the celebration.

As the party was getting under way, I stood and gazed appreciatively on the scene. Our wonderful Golden Retriever, Sedona, was milling about the backyard, sniffing curiously at the tables decked out with white tablecloths, fancy napkins, and party hats. There were colorful clusters of balloons floating above the tables, many of them with references to the over-the-hill gang. Behind the balloons, like a friendly old giant, lolled the great Pacific Ocean, from Dana Point to the Palos Verdes peninsula. A caterer was serving appetizers and a smartly dressed bartender stood ready to supply us with drinks. I was pleased to note that he was armed with a large bottle of Malibu Rum, which is my all-time favorite. All the rituals that mark a major milestone were in place.

Things proceeded nicely up until one single moment that is burned into my memory.

The moment that changed everything.

The moment that nearly ended my relationship.

The moment that nearly depleted my life savings.

The moment that would later have me peering through a howling storm at the ghost of an old woman sitting against the mast of my sailboat.

I had grabbed my youngest grandson, two-year-old Alexander, and pulled him up on my knee. "Let's open some presents, kid." Alex ripped into the wrapping paper with obvious delight, thrilled at the opportunity to shed the pristine bows and claim the center of attention. The first gift he opened was a dozen Titleist golf balls.

Without much forethought, I said, "Alexander, when you turn twenty, we're going to play a lot of golf together!"

And that was when Old Age first came into my life. It really was a presence I could feel, just as if the sneaky ugly bastard had crept across the lawn, laid his heavy cloak over my shoulders and hissed in my ear, "When Alexander is twenty, you will be eighty-two years old!"

Eighty-two years old. Jesus Christ. This lovely party had abruptly lost its glitter. It was hard for me to keep up with the conversations going on around me, as my internal dialogue became the only thing I could hear.

There's decidedly more sand at the bottom of the hourglass than there is at the top. Twenty years will go by in a twinkling. Time speeds up when you're old.

Visions came to me, none of them flattering: juice-stained shirts, an old fart staggering behind a walker, a helpless codger in a wheelchair, an ancient fool bending toward the utterances of the young with his predictable, "Ehh? What's that you say, sonnyboy?"

And golf? Hoo, boy. Playing golf at eighty is not an attractive picture. I had played with some octogenarians before, so I was familiar with how that goes. Here's a bit of science for you: men in their eighties are weak and slow. On one occasion, after I'd hit my drive...