I can’t claim that Heck and Samba are naturally salty dogs. When I moved the three of us aboard a boat more than a decade ago, they went willingly because they were always up for an adventure — it is a hallmark of the Jack Russell terrier.
As you might imagine, the best part of my job involves looking at and thinking about boats. The frustrating part of my job is I get to do that much less than you might imagine because a desk job is a desk job is a desk job. I wind up thinking about serial commas, ledes, contracts and invoices, covers, writer assignments, photo searches and lower back pain much more than I do boats, alas. And yet each month the smoldering ember that drives the whole process forward is a shared obsession with the world of watercraft: How can we create a well-balanced, beautiful, authoritative magazine that you will love, on budget and on deadline? Well, we like a challenge, and luckily, we never lack for ideas.
It’s April, the month I long for each year more than any other. The first crocuses, daffodils and forsythia are doing their annual interpretive dances as David, waging small but bright insurrections against the Goliath of late snowfalls, muddy slush and the last of the endless gray skies.
It was kind of early for a swim, but later that day I’d be on a plane back to the loathsome winter of the Northeast. I knew I’d regret it if I missed a chance to float in the warm turquoise of the Caribbean, so I roused myself, shaking off my natural laziness, stoked to its peak by the sun’s hypnotic whisper to just relax. Why, oh why didn’t I listen?
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