Sailing is the last great way for poor people with a bit of luck to travel. Not the only way—there are buses, I have heard that people still jump trains—but the one with the most dignity. I think about this as I row along the Ortega River, looking up at the elegant lines of the rigging in the boats of every description that crowd the marinas. I have long resisted learning how to sail. I've picked things up passively. My approach to knots fluctuates between utter disinterest and brief ambitions to execute the most difficult, inevitably resulting in failure. I hate the feel of the sun on my face. Unquestionably, I have a bad attitude. And yet—perhaps the wheels of change will find me deserving. There are layers upon layers of the psyche to excavate. I occasionally realize that there is something about life aboard that is deeply strange to me—without precedent. The seas never captivated me as a child. I remember fearing deep water. But at last I'm putting a story together in my head—the seas, the refuge of artists. Those who live rough, seeking experience. Those who crave, above all, time.