During the weekend I had time to reflect on past relationships. I’m not really sure how the subject came up, but I’m pretty sure that it was because of the song we do called Zombie Jamboree which asks the question, “Can you imagine me with a zombie wife?”
Given my history of this, my friends in the audience like yell out “Hell Yes!”. I think some people are amazed that I can have such a good sense of humor about my search for happily ever after and where it has led me over the years.
Ordinarily, this is the part where I bare my entire soul. But some things are worth waiting for and perhaps one day I will share a tale that amazes even me. For the moment, however, I will focus on why couples seem to drift apart over the years and how it’s not entirely their fault.
Now, I’m not going to pretend to be a marriage counselor. I don’t think many would take my advice in that area if I were. I can only share my own RobZerrvations about relationships and how, to paraphrase a Great Big Sea song title which says it all, how we get from saying I love you to I’ll see you round someday.
I have long held that there are three entities in relationships, not two. In addition to the man and the woman (or any other gender mix you want to use here), there is also the relationship itself. It has a life of its own. It is part of each of you, but is at the same time neither of you.
During my pirate weekend, I inevitably created my own interpretation of this, using sailing parlance to explain it to others.
When my first wife and I were married, we had all the usual unbridled enthusiasm for the idea of happily ever after. We didn’t mind living at my parent’s home for a while while I was in college or the horrific shag carpeting and side saddle toilet that was in our first apartment in Renton. We believed, mistakenly, that getting married was all it took to sail off into the sunset together.
What we didn’t understand was that we were really on different boats all along. You can’t really sail on the same ship. You’re two different people, both with different needs, wants, desires, etc.
That’s not a bad thing. Initially you set off sailing together. Every time you tack, your mate does as well in a perfect lock step. You’re sailing the same course together. But even though you’re tied together by the spring line of matrimony, you’re still not on the same boat.
Again, this is fine, as long as you’re sailing the same course. I know my wife and I did, at least initially. We were high school sweethearts who like many high school sweethearts, married when we were young, too young. I was in college and living the student life and she went straight to the corporate world, living the working life.
Unknown to us, somewhere in this voyage, the spring line snapped. At first we still sailed closely to one another, but as I finished college, my boat began to turn slowly to the east. If I had been paying attention to my course, I could perhaps could have corrected it. But she also changed course ever so slightly, not even a half a degree on the compass.
The reason we weren’t paying attention was because we were enamored with all the work that had to be done aboard our respective ships. We had new friends who were willing to help us with everything that needed to be done to keep us in tip top shape. Unfortunately, the routine aboard the ship became the destination, not that point out on the horizon.
If you’ve ever sailed, you understand what I mean by this. A compass’ needle will shift constantly while under sail as the elements – the wind, waves and current – affect your course. The best way to stay on course is to look out on the horizon and pick a point out there. Don’t trust yourself to stay on course without it. You can’t.
This is what happened in my marriage, perhaps even a couple of them. We set off together but we never kept our eye on that point on the horizon. Little by little, imperceptibly at first, we changed our course. It doesn’t have to be a big course change; it usually isn’t. Instead, it’s that little decimal point of a degree you’re off. It’s easy to correct initially and get back on course, but if you continue to sail in that direction, eventually you’re heading on a course that is 90 degrees from what you intended. And if your partner is doing the same, before you know it you’re both looking off the fantail, wondering what happened. One is heading for the sunrise, the other for the sunset and the wind, waves and waters of life won’t let you turn about.
By then, neither of you are sure you want to anyway. You’ve already become different. You’ve have gained your sea legs. You like having the tiller in our hand, you like the way your boat is sailing and the course you are on. You like being the captain of your own ship.
It is sad, true, but perhaps it is just part of our own journey in life. For some reason, we get so busy with the mechanics of sailing that we never notice that the spring line that holds us together became taught along the way and snapped. We are busy watching the errant compass so we don’t keep our eye on that spot on the horizon. We’re too busy enjoying the thrill of the sail, losing sight of the destination.
I wished I had paid better attention to this sometimes. Or perhaps, been honest enough to admit that maybe we were on different courses to begin with. In my youth, I was often blinded by the sunlight of love, not knowing that we were never truly on the same course. I have since traded in the rose colored glasses for a pair of that’s polarized by experience. I try to keep one eye on that point on the horizon and the other on my sailing partner to see if they are headed the same way. If not, it’s time to make a course correction before I end up on another reef, salvaging what I can from the relationship before it goes under for the last time.
Out on the Treasure Coast, watching the waves crash upon the reef outside my window,
– Robb