With all this downtime in Missoula, I’ve been able to dive into a book. It’s the first book I’ve read since leaving Houston. We have a kindle, but Scott monopolizes it, and I haven’t quite converted from physical books to e-books. And I haven’t yet been desperate enough for literature to want to carry the weight of a book. The two pound bag of trail mix wins out every time.
I’ve picked up Love with a Chance of Drowning by Torre DeRoche. It’s a true story about a young Australian woman who meets an Argentinian man at a cocktail bar in San Francisco and agrees to leave everything behind and sail the South Pacific with him. Having a phobia of water and sharks, she hilariously recounts tales of their travels while thinking up seemingly limitless ways in which they will die on the voyage.
It’s a fun read and her accounts of island hopping make me think, maybe we should seriously consider taking this adventure on the water. We are already planning on going to the Galapagos and Easter Islands. We need a boat. Mostly I romanticize about what life would be like sailing the equator, eating our way through the islands with tropical fruit and fish I haven’t before heard of. Having no need for clothes on the open ocean I imagine our own private nudist colony of two. Though realistically we probably need a captain for said boat, so I nix the naked frolic over the ocean and start outfitting Scott and I in my mind like refrigerator magnet dress-up characters. Sometimes Scott ends up wearing nothing but a life vest. Even in my imagination he doesn’t like this game.
It does occur to me that while on my own adventure I have become temporarily lost in the stories of another’s. It is as though we are addicts, with an insatiable thirst for adventure, ours or others’. This wanderlust is what keeps our wheels turning. Inspiration comes in all forms, seducing us with images of faraway lands, softly singing come away with me.