1978

In 1978, after perusing the pages of The Whole Earth Catalog, I sent what little money I had to Monty Levinson in the fabled mountains of northern California. He in turn sent back a long slender scrap of corseted bamboo. It was, I should say is, for I still have it, a facsimile of a Japanese vertical flute called a shakuhachi. 

His catalog entry was familiar, like the Charles Atlas ad in the back of every comic. They promised, with a little bit of work, a magnificent buff body. The shakuhachi, steeped in Zen, offered enlightenment. It would be hard lonely work but it offered a path. 

 

As promised, it took sometime to get the first notes grudgingly out of it. The small but thorough instruction manual offered the basics along with a few pieces of music. In time I learned to read the unique tablature and began to practice just before bed. I was a diligent student, so just before bed was at 11 PM. I quietly played for 15 or 20 minutes then went to bed.

 

Later, after a chance encounter with my next door neighbor, and an apology by me for disturbing her sleep, she said she looked forward to the oddly soothing sounds. It helped her doze off. Time moved on and so did I. I bought another shakuhachi, this one a maple replica, and did not play for a decade.

 

Every so often I would revisit the flute. It would not last long: I was busy, I did not have the correct instrument, I did not want to disturb Charlotte’s and the neighbor’s peace. Always another excuse. As I inched towards sixty and after decades of watching, really envying, classical and jazz musicians I knew I had to act.

 

I took a lesson with Ronnie Nyogetsu Seldin, the YoYoMa of the shakuhachi world. He traveled around the east coast to his various dojos to teach. An email was sent and an appointment made for a session outside of Washington D.C. What can I say, it was humbling. Not because of him, he was gracious and encouraging. But because I realized how much time I had wasted.

 

After relating the above to a friend, an avid oboe player, who I had lunch with most days at the hospital, I promised to practice one hour each day. He said that is what is required, if I was serious. So, I have tried to stay true to that promise. 

 

At home when it is time to practice I retreat to the front of the house and close the doors behind me. This is not possible on Carrie Rose the only door being to the head. I still retreat to the bow where the bed resides. I prop the music up on a pillow or my flutes case, and begin by playing long notes and end by playing Choshi, literally “To tune”. It is an ancient piece that seeks inner repose.

 

I have no idea how the sound travels. Most harbors and anchorages in Maine are quiet. I think of this as I play and try not to annoy Charlotte, fellow cruisers or myself. The notes on the chart are a guide and I am thankful that I learned to read their magic in 1978, even if enlightenment has eluded me.

Brooklin, Maine

Blue Sky

The rain and wind stopped some time ago. Upon its cessation the fog did not creep in but descended from above. The hilltop clouds were kept in place by the wind and the upward force of falling rain. Once over, the dense cloud dropped. In a matter of seconds little of the harbor was visible. The temperature fell 5 degrees and we hunkered down. 

 

Hours went by with no change. We had lunch, read and eventually I lit the salon’s propane fireplace. After a few chores Charlotte napped while I sat below trying to stay interested in a book about lobstering which had begun to discuss lobster anatomy.

 

This type of writing by Melville or the less accomplished author of my book is doomed to failure. If I had not trained myself, over decades of intense study, to never pass over a paragraph without understanding it, I too would be napping. 

 

The wind shifted a bit from the South to the Southeast. The fog moved on, blue sky appeared, and a warm breeze filled in. I shaded my eyes from the sun. Opened the pilothouse doors. Then went outside to chamois off the boat.

 

Distant streaks of clouds headed Downeast. As the sunlight sparkles on the harbor’s blue water, we contemplated the shore. A walk to stretch our legs. The only impediment is to decide to put the dinghy in the water or to call channel 66 for the tender service to pick us up. It is only three in the afternoon, so there is no pressure to rush this decision. 

 

I may sit in the pilothouse, watch the various craft come and go, and let my mind wander until dinner time . . . Let’s see, what should I cook.

NE Habor, MDI, Maine