The catamaran cruises across this sea-highway. This coffee tastes like dirty water; the label on the bean hopper beautifully misspelled as "expresso". Airplane seats with stale upholstery, half-read sports previews, peripheral glimpses of children's dayglo sneakers to distract. Bill Fox's simplistic echoes in my ears as the waves hit and the ride begins. "This morning we are born again from the womb of a dark, dark night." His salvos soothe, a nursery-rhyme restored to consciousness. I have passed age 33 1/3, leaving only 45 and 78 as milestones to reach. "This morning I am free again to touch my own true love." I think I am the only person on this boat who is not blonde.