The greatest sacrifice
I suffered by leaving life on land was giving up my leafy children. My garden was filled with fair weather friends, but the
house plants were family. I’d potted them, trained them up from saplings, and their health and happiness depended a
great deal on my diligent care. Unfortunately, it would be impractical to take them to sea where water would be rationed,
salt would be caustic, and roots are rarely establish.
I was stunned when I arrived to Florida and saw cousins of my little potted pets, growing like giants outside in the wild.
I wished I could have brought mine with me and set them free to spread their roots and grow to their full potential. My longing
for lush green surroundings was temporarily quenched by a tour of the Sunken Gardens. Surrounded by this botanical Eden, we
were able to commune with the greener life that covers this otherwise blue planet. In this garden, the philodendrons were
massive, the fern flourished, vine stalks the size of tree trunks hung like garland from the towering canopy of palms. To
borrow a phrase from a friend “Sometimes in life we come across some humbling foliage”.
I still muse over how I might establish an herb garden on deck, perhaps some cilantro and parsley hanging from the mast pulpit.
But every day I rise and look out my galley window at what I consider to be the best view on the planet – miles of blue
water sparkling in the sunrise, its surface shivering under the caress of the morning breeze. I am reminded that in everything
worth while there is a sacrifice, and I willingly let go the roots to pursue this fluid life.