As of late, Stefan and I have been wending our way through a passel of impressive yachts, all here for the America's Cup.
The other day we rowed past one of the behemoths and there, on the third story of the yacht (yes, you read that right – a three-story yacht), was a gentleman sipping his coffee, his silhouette outlined in the window as we rowed by.
I wondered about his reality – what it must be like to own so much, to be there high above the bay, on the water but so far removed from it. It was just a passing moment, two ships in the night so to speak.
We rowed on, the wakes of passing fishing boats washing over the gunnels and baptizing me with a splash of cold water on my back. The smell of salt water, the seaside song of gulls, our sleek, two-person yacht gliding over the bay, one simple, human-powered stroke after another.