An Embarrassment of Mangoes Read Online Free PDF Page A

but we do have aging parents—mine were approaching their eighties; Steve’s their seventies. How could we think about placing ourselves out of easy reach?
    Even as I raised objections, I knew I was moving closer to needing a change. I had been editing the same magazine for seven years, and it had become all-consuming. My whole identity was defined by what I did to make a living, and I didn’t like that. Steve was focused on the fact that we were growing older; he watched friends put things off until “later” when, they said, they’d have more money and fewer responsibilities; by the time “later” came, they were no longer in good health and and no longer able. “I never want to find ourselves in that position,” Steve said. “I never want to say, ‘If only . . .’ ”
    Four years into the Five-Year Plan, we decide to start shopping for a larger boat.
This still doesn’t mean you’ve agreed to sail off into the sunset,
I tell myself.
It’s not like you’ve set a date to quit your job and leave town.
     
    W e find her in Maine, an aging 42-foot sailboat with classic lines and a fine pedigree. She appears out of the gloom of a boatyard shed, her varnish gleaming despite a patina of dust, her graceful hull proclaiming speed and elegance and calling our names. She is the first boat we look at, and the one that six months and many boatyards later becomes ours.
    Not even sure exactly what to inspect when shopping for a boat, I lie down on one of the dust-covered, teak-slatted seats in the cockpit and stretch out to my full length (admittedly, only five feet, two inches). I know little about evaluating sail plans and hull condition, but I do know the importance of being comfy for a nap. Steve, meanwhile, examines
under
the other seat, checking storage capacity; he lounges on the coaming beside the wheel, to judge the comfort factor while steering; he inspects the stainless-steel fittings and—on his hands and knees—the condition of the nonskid surface on the deck. People fall in love in different ways.
    Inside, we go through her with flashlights. The oiled teak that lines her cabins gives her a richness and warmth. So what if the upholstery is a nubby weave in early-eighties-rec-room turquoise-and-orange stripes? Cushions can be replaced. Traditional glass prisms are set into her deck to refract sunlight into the cabins, a bit of boat-building finesse missing on newer sailboats. So what if her electronics are out of date? A bonus, says Steve: He can buy the new ones he wants, without guilt. Her sleekness—and Steve’s notebooks full of research—suggest she will sail extremely well. She is a sloop, with the bonus of a removable inner forestay, Steve explains, so she can fly three sails—a mainsail, a jib or headsail, and a staysail—giving us several options, an advantage in heavier winds. She will be fast, as befits a design based on an old racing hull, but also comfortable. So what if she doesn’t have the space of a more modern cruising boat? We can create more storage by taking out the second toilet (two toilets on a
boat
, when we don’t even have two toilets at home?) and an extra berth.
Surely
we will never need to sleep seven.
    The list of changes grows long enough to make our wallets quiver, but we both feel a powerful affinity for this boat. For Steve, the graphic designer, to be happy, the form of something must be as pleasing, as perfect, as the way it functions. “Just look at those lines,” he says longingly, returning for one last lingering glance as we get ready to leave the shed. I can picture myself cooking in her snug little galley; entertaining at her varnished table, which can easily seat eight (I’ve already counted); and curling up with Steve in the berth in her aft cabin. The usual practice of referring to boats in the feminine has always grated on me, and I’ve always made a point of saying “it.” But this lovely boat demands to be personified. She is sleek and elegant,