MY CHRISTMAS GIFT FOR GRETA

by Ray Jason

Greta,

 

      You don’t know me, but we share something in common that is very special. That something is enormous and powerful and beautiful and elemental. That something is Mother Ocean.

       I too have spent long periods of time at sea. My longest ocean passage was 30 days, sailing my little 30 foot boat from Hawaii to San Francisco. In my case, I was also doing this alone.

       So you have experienced something of extraordinary magnificence. You have glided – or on difficult days - pounded – across the Wide Waters. Very few people have ever done this. To be hundreds of miles from the nearest humans, in the gigantic vastness of the Sea, can teach a person just how tiny we are compared to the mighty eco-systems of our watery planet. And looking up at the immense dome of stars, with the clarity of deep-ocean darkness, reinforces that lesson in humility even more.

A SEA GYPSY GIVES THANKS

by Ray Jason

      How sweet was this? Looking at the tables full of sailors eating, chatting and smiling, I realized that I was one of those rarest of individuals – someone who had found his Tribe. In a world cursed with profound loneliness that is deliberately hidden behind the charade of cyber connectivity, I was blessed with genuine community.

       These were not Facebook friends, they were face-to-face friends. We were not communicating via screens and pixels. We were interacting with our voices, our glances, our laughter.

  

THE HUMAN LIGHT-HOUSE

by Ray Jason

Birthday photo 2019

      What a magnificent birthday gift I received this morning. As I sat on deck with my clipboard and pen, sorting out my thoughts for this essay, the nearby jungle erupted with the unmistakable barks of howler monkeys.

       This bellowing symphony was made even more delightful by the fact that I could enjoy it despite my simple and spartan lifestyle. Had a Silicon Valley billionaire wished to experience the same primordial cacophony, not even the world’s best travel agent could guarantee it for him.

     The throaty, but almost comical, howls of the monkeys also reminded me of an important philosophical lesson. If one seeks to lead a contemplative life, it is important to peel away the fleeting, transient elements of the human drama and focus on the enduring, permanent aspects. 
      And what could be more elemental than creatures that have lived in the tree tops for who knows how many thousands of generations?

And so this inspired me to explore in this essay the most basic of issues – specifically – What is their Plan?

SAILING INTO SOLITUDE

by Ray Jason

INDIO SCHOOL BUS

       My little ship’s bow was pointed towards one of my favorite destinations. It is a tropical lagoon enclosed by the steep, lush hills of a full-climax jungle. But more importantly, I was also sailing towards a “state of mind.” This idyllic bay would provide me riches that are rarely savored in the low-grade mayhem that we call The Modern World. The treasures I was seeking were Simplicity and Solitude.

       For twelve days and nights, I would bask in a hideaway so pristine that it had never been violated by a siren or a car alarm. There were very few humans and most of my immediate neighbors were creatures who lived in the Sea and the Sky. Occasionally, a smiling local Indio paddled past in a hand-carved dugout canoe. The tranquility was so visceral, that when a boat powered by an outboard motor passed by, it was as jarring as a chain saw at a yoga retreat.

ELDER EMANCIPATION

by Ray Jason

      It was a “chilling realization.” As my brain processed those two words, I chuckled quietly. More accurately, it might be described as a “frigid, terrifying realization.” That’s because I was in the Far North – the High Arctic - on-board a fragile, fiberglass sailing boat, trying to make it through the Northwest Passage. It took 86 days from Newfoundland to Nome, but we did persevere and prevail.

       The realization that had disturbed me was the possibility that I might not make it back. One misstep and I would slide into a watery grave. It was so cold that the Sea surrounding our boat was frequently turning from liquid into slush on its way to becoming solid ice.

       The question that I had asked was “What would happen to my essays if I did not make it back?” The stark clarity and elemental reality of the high latitudes, imposes a need for no-nonsense truth. And so, as I stood my midnight watch while the rest of the crew slept below, I answered honestly. “They would probably be dust in the wind.”

  

THE GRAVEYARD OF IDEAS

by Ray Jason

      The great American novelist, Jack London, used to host elaborate dinner gatherings at his ranch in northern California. He would invite a mix of notable people from the worlds of literature, politics and business. Sprinkled among these well-known “thought leaders,” as we would describe them today, would be a group of “regular folk” from the neighboring ranches and towns.

       After dinner he would rise at the head of the long table and announce that they were going to engage in a debate. Then he would choose a topic such as “Should alcohol be made illegal.” Finally, he would pause for dramatic effect, and exclaim in a ringing voice, “I’LL TAKE EITHER SIDE!”

       I first heard this inspirational anecdote from my debating coach in college. He, and the four students who comprised our team, were packed into a tired station wagon headed for a tournament somewhere in the Deep South.

A HAIKU RETREAT

by Ray Jason

Haiku master BASHO

       Elemental ecstasy – yes, that’s the feeling. A bliss so simple yet powerful that it finds and fills even the deepest pockets of emptiness within me. Here, in this quiet lagoon that is so authentic, I am safely cocooned from a world that is so artificial.

       With my back leaning against my sloop’s mast, I survey a panorama that would delight a hunter/gatherer rowing by in his dug-out canoe hundreds of years ago. Off my port-side, a predator bird perches alertly on a high branch, and up past my starboard bow a dormant volcano peeks through the morning mist.

       I sailed here seeking escape and solace. Too much study of the woes of this world, and too much failure at lessening them with the medicine of words, had drained me. I needed the replenishment that can only be found in solitude and silence.

KEEP ON RUNNING, KIM

by Ray Jason

As Bolton and Pompeo - who are a human Axis of Psychosis -  attempt to force the U.S. into a war with Iran, it seems like a good time to re-post my most heart-felt anti-war essay.  This was first published in 2013 just as Obama was about to lob Cruise Missiles into Syria.  Fortunately, international opinion and lack of support from England was sufficient pressure to restrain him.

Of my 120 essays, this was the one that received the most appreciation and support from my readers.  I hope it touches you.

http://theseagypsyphilosopher.blogspot.com/2013/09/never-stop-running-napalm-girl.html

THE SEA GYPSY SOLUTION

by Ray Jason

      Recently, when sorting through some mementos, I encountered three short quotations that had helped launch the Sea Gypsy decades of my life. It was startling to discover how much power and enchantment they still possessed. Allow me to share them with you.

“...whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul … I account it high time to get myself to sea as soon as I can.”

Herman Melville

“I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and sky,

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

John Masefield

“There’s a race of men that don’t fit in,

A race that can’t sit still;

So they break the hearts of kith and kin,

And they roam the world at will.”

Robert Service

       That final quotation is particularly important to the subject of this essay. When I first began to wander the Wide Waters, it was not because I felt forced to do so. It was because I chose to do so.

       But in today’s society, there is a large segment of the population that is scorned with such venom, that I believe that their best strategy is to escape from the abuse that is heaped upon them in the terrestrial world. I urge them to revitalize their lives with freedom, substance and adventure by heading out to Sea.

       Who am I referring to? You might have already correctly guessed. It is young, white, straight males. I am not recommending that they join a navy or a merchant marine, but that they sail away from the growing and darkening madness in their own little freedom ship. It is much easier and cheaper than you might think and I’ll explain all of that later in this essay.

ONCE UPON A TIME AT NOTRE DAME

by Ray Jason

How I will always think of her.

      Long ago and far to the North, a stranger gave me a little gift. It was a modest offering, but it proved quite meaningful at a crossroads moment in my life. Having recently returned from Vietnam, and seeking a way to make a living that would not contribute to the U.S. War Machine, I was doing a little juggling act on the streets of San Francisco.

      This was in 1971 when the American revival in street performing was just beginning. Scattered about the sidewalks, one could find mimes and singers and magicians. But there were no jugglers. I had learned basic juggling at a summer camp in my early teens, and decided to put together a little show to sustain me while I “got my head back together.” My assumption was that this would require a few months, and then I would settle into some sort of real job.

MESMERIZED

by Ray Jason

When the world weighs heavily upon me, I find comfort in a modest little cafe that overlooks an even more modest little park, here in the Archipelago of Bliss. Many people would probably describe it as a run-down, dilapidated park. But I love it because it is a refuge from the frenzy and artificiality of El Norte.

       It is full of authentic, ordinary people chatting with friends while their kids play on the swings and sliding boards. They are keeping an eye on their children, but they are not hovering over them like Smother-copters.

       Scattered on the perimeter are benches where Indios from the out islands sell produce that they grow on their little homesteads. The police do not move them along and code enforcement does not ask for their licenses. These officials realize that non-First World folks are smart enough to know how to clean their own vegetables, and that they don’t need the government to sanitize them.

      Every once in a while someone brings a box of baby chickens to sell. The Indio kids are ecstatic 

DISILLUSIONMENT OVERLOAD

by Ray Jason

Before I found my way to the Wide Waters, I spent a lot of time on the Asphalt Seas. I hitch-hiked tens of thousands of miles around the U.S. during my college years. The catalyst for this was my desire to feast on the visual cornucopia of the continent. And I also hoped to discover the special American spirit of nobility and brotherhood that Walt Whitman and Woody Guthrie celebrated through poetry and song.

       I wore a rugged, brown, naval aviator’s jacket from a surplus store and carried a small, tough suitcase that I adorned with decals from my travels. This was well before the back-pack era and the relative ease of thumbing rides with hippies in VW vans.

       One other item that also traveled with me was an envelope filled with my favorite quotations. When waiting for a ride in some inhospitable spot, I would pass the time finding comfort in the wit and wisdom of these insights and observations.

THE LABYRINTH OF INTROSPECTION

by Ray Jason

Something in the Sea awoke me. I wondered if the sound had only been from a dream, so I listened intently in the darkness. There it was again. It was near, but unrecognizable. I grabbed my flashlight and pepper spray and quietly slipped on deck to investigate. Nothing appeared unusual, but then I heard the sound again. It was up near the bow.

       The moon was half full, so I didn’t use the flashlight as I crept forward, because I know every contour of my boat like a sculptor knows clay. As I got close to the bow, I was startled by a sudden squawk and then the flapping of wings as a black-crowned night heron flew swiftly away. It had been fishing from my anchor chain.

       I chuckled and apologized to the fleeing bird, and then I went below to make some tea. There were still a couple of hours before dawn, but the unexpected encounter had jolted me awake. It seemed like an excellent time to seek some clarity on a topic that had been fermenting within me for a while.

       Recently, a young reader had written to me in muted desperation. He confessed that his life seemed like an indecipherable jumble of thoughts, emotions and insecurities. He said that he admired the way that I could discuss complex topics in such a clear and organized fashion. He was envious of how confident and free from doubt my life seemed to be.

       And so, in this peaceful, isolated cove I settled in with a cup of tea, my clipboard and its tiny light, to reassure that unknown reader that I too am often assaulted by a “jumble of thoughts, emotions and insecurities.”