it’s late morning when i finally leave the Sparrow parking lot. I pick up a fresh water bottle and note pad, park the truck at [tag]Barley Neck[/tag], and hike around the edge of the [tag]marsh[/tag]. when i was married my wife and i would come here, throw down a blanket in the tall grass, a bottle of wine … today, it’s warm, the dry grass crunches under my feet, and i’m alone.

the sun’s intense. after an hour i can feel the beginnings of a burn. i duck into the shade of the trees and climb the side of a small hill. a scrape on my leg oozes red. horseflies buzz past as if they’ve picked up my scent. occasionally one stops for a bite. before long three horseflies are twitching at my feet.

i sit on the husk of a fallen tree, and through an opening in the canopy watch an old man rig a [tag]19′ west wight potter [/tag]. i know it’s a potter even before i see the insignia on the mainsail. ten years ago i almost bought one. this one has high sides, a big wooden rudder, and sits up on the water like a cork. potters are perfect for an area like this; shallow draft, good in light air, stiff and salty enough to handle sudden winds. these sloops have crossed the atlantic. but they’re perfect for gunkholing marshes.

the houses on the hill above me sell for several million dollars each. but i can hike around any [tag]cape cod[/tag] marsh cheap. the price of admission, an oozing gash, a painful bite, poison ivy, the occasional tic.

next to a gnarled pine, and several stunned horseflies, the dried exoskeleton of a horseshoe crab flutters in the breeze. death and life swirl all around me. this is a very different world i’ve stepped into. but one with similar roots. the histories of Panama and cape cod both feature european invaders, displaced natives, pirates, hardship, religion, drug smuggling, canals, great natural beauty, the ocean, and now, retirees and tourism. both Panama and cape cod have their working poor servicing the wealthy elite. only on cape cod the working poor get $20 an hour and drink mocha java at the Sparrow. in panama many people live on nothing, not even hope.

here, there is always hope. the old man gets his red-stripped mainsail up. the blue boat cocks to the wind. the main flutters. so quietly, i only hear the crow’s warning in the tree above. he releases the mooring line, raises the solid red jib, slowly walks back to the cockpit, and grabs the sheets.

the jib fills with air. the sloop creeps out of the harbor. the old man steers straight for the narrow channel opening. i figure either he doesn’t know, or he’s too stubborn to bend with the wind. he comes up too tight on it, the mainsail flutters, and spills its air. the boat stalls. it drifts sideways towards the chartreuse eel grass along the side of the marsh.

a lone gull jeers in the distance. i want to yell “come about.” but i just watch. the old man retrieves an oar from the cabin, and pushes his struggling sloop through the tall grass. a final, angry push, and he’s through the opening. he’s gone.

on the walk home, i think, in life you need to know when to tack, and when to look for a paddle. and i wonder, which one should i be doing now.

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