CHAPTER 5: TAKING A LEAP

I wondered: Was there a twelve-step program for boat addicts, a place where people sat around in a circle and tried to talk through their sickness? I could just imagine the conversation:

“Hi, my name is Tom and I’m a junkie.”

“Cool! I always wanted a Chinese yacht.”

“How big is she?”

“How does she handle?”

At this point the therapist would surely intervene: “Wait a minute, guys, I think Tom means he’s addicted.”

If such a program did exist, I certainly would have qualified for admission. I even had enablers to egg me on: Ellen and our son, Jesse. They wanted me to be happy, bless their hearts. Instead of trying to bring me to my senses, they encouraged my lunatic craving.

“Do it,” said Jess, and his was a powerful endorsement. What father does not wish to dare bold deeds and so become a hero in his son’s eyes? Only later did it occur to me that the lad might have had ulterior motives: Given my example, who knew what foolishness he might feel free to pursue?

The big surprise was Ellen’s reaction when she learned of my near indiscretion with MARGOT. My passion for that pert little boat had been cooled as effectively as a cold shower by my phone conversation with the woman at Petersen’s. Her recitation of the various costs I would incur had left me no choice. There was simply no way I could afford to make the leap. I would just have to wait a little longer.

Nobly I had turned my back on MARGOT that afternoon. But I was grieved by the loss, and when I came home that evening Ellen took one look and knew something was wrong.

“What happened?” she asked. “Don’t tell me. You got fired.”

“No.”

“Laid off?”

“No, no. Nothing like that.”

“What then? Something must have happened. You look awful.”

“Really, it’s okay. Everything’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It’s just . . . Aw, hell.”

I confessed everything then. About falling in love. About feeling oh-so-tempted. About nearly giving in to temptation, but then turning away because I remembered where my true loyalties lay: with my family, whose love I cherished and whose well-being was my first priority.

It was a shabby performance, rank with false nobility. What I secretly hoped was that she would be so impressed with my candor and self-sacrifice that she’d urge me to reconsider: “Oh, honey, if it means so much to you, why not just call the bank and take out a loan? I’m sure we could manage the payments. I can always get another job. And no, don’t worry about Jesse and college. He’d be just as happy bagging groceries for the rest of his life. The leaky roof? Don’t worry about it. It’s not raining today anyway.”

But of course she said no such thing. Her effort at bucking up my spirits consisted of agreeing with my decision to forego MARGOT’s expensive charms.

“It’s still too soon,” she said.

My spirits sank even lower.

But then a remarkable thing happened. As I sat crestfallen at the kitchen table, my pathetic confession lying between us like something our aging and incontinent dog had left on the rug, my beloved wife reached out a sympathetic hand. “It will happen,” she told me. “You’ll know when it’s right.”

Could it be? By doing the responsible thing, by keeping my passion in check, I had inadvertently restored her faith in me. Ellen now could see that her addle-brained husband was not about to go running off with the first pretty thing that came along.

This was good. Although I had failed to gain an immediate, “sure, go ahead, dear,” I apparently had won points in the confidence department, and that would certainly be useful in the future, when the real thing came along.

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