Commentary : A Great Lady, She Stole My Mate’s Heart
My husband is having an affair with a remarkable lady. She actually has my admiration for coaxing him into a renewed zest for life. I never thought I would give my stamp of approval, but as I think back, an affair of this sort was inevitable.
The sameness that offered me comfort caused an underlying current of restless boredom in my husband. Our marriage had settled into a predictable pattern of highs and lows. I was nearing the end of raising our four children and was actively involved in volunteer activities. Always, though, I was eager to return to the cozy familiarity of home.
If a weekend passed with no social function, that was fine with me. I enjoy some solitude; I enjoy the comings and goings of our children; and I enjoy an evening by the fire in mellow marital companionship. I have no greater expectations from life. In contrast, there seemed to be a void in my husband’s life that I was unable to fill. His long career as a nuclear physician had settled into a routine; he was restless and wanted something new and exciting. (I lumped it into the catch-all guise of “mid-life crisis.”)
And then he discovered this great lady and fell in love again. She had been there all the time, but her beauty was a distant thing, admired in passing. In 1986, they were brought into an intimate relationship. His weekly jaunts to see her became a passion I hadn’t seen since the days of our courtship.
His steps became lighter, and it was good to hear him whistling his favorite Kingston Trio songs, and even some sea chanteys, again. He passed his weeks in the contented knowledge that on Sunday he would be in the company of her gracious beauty and sleek curves.
Throughout the year, he formed new friendships, all in the fraternity of this new love. The affair climaxed in the marriage of souls and sea on Memorial Day, 1986, and again on Memorial weekend, 1989.
The great lady was the Star of India, and she had captured hearts and souls of men for more than 125 years.
This time, with a willing wind, she rounded Point Loma, staying close to the San Diego shores for her fans to see. As the oldest sailing square-rigger, she had been lovingly groomed and carefully outfitted for her encore on the sea. The selected crew, including my husband, had been rehearsing every Sunday for many months. Both men and women, from 18 to 80, lived out their fantasies, climbing the rigging and furling the sails. They courted the Star, learned seamanship and conquered their fear of heights in a camaraderie of mixed ages and backgrounds.
It was in that love affair that my husband found his nirvana. He tried to include me in the social functions of this seafaring fraternity. I was an outsider, though, and could only admire his devotion and ride on the coattails of his happiness.
The day of the sailing, I stood on the shore amid the throngs of spectators, waving at my love as he sailed away on his. I could see him wave back from the deck, and for a brief moment, I was back in time, connected to the women of the 1880s, long skirts billowing in the wind and feeling very separate from their husbands.
At the end of the day, his journey was over, the fantasy complete. The celebration of this “mission of love” lasted past midnight. Then I watched as, one by one, the crew sadly departed down the gangplank into 20th-Century San Diego.
