This office where I write overlooks a canal lined on both sides with pleasure boats. Just outside the window is a 22-footer that has attracted my attention because every day around lunchtime a man comes and sits on it. He parks his SUV in the driveway of a nearby house and then boards his boat. He sits in a chair on the stern, in shirt and tie, shaded by a navy blue canopy.
I have no interest in sailing - here in America's yachting capital - but I always thought that one plus to having a boat would be to sit on it in the canal, drink cocktails, invite friends, host a little floating salon. So the man's presence doesn't puzzle me; what puzzles me is his inactivity. He doesn't read, or stroke a laptop, or gab on a cellphone, or send out tweets. ("I'm here sitting on my boat.") I wonder what he's thinking about. Has his goal been achieved, to sit in a canal in Fort Lauderdale? Or does he dream of faraway ports? St. Tropez? Hvar? Zanzibar?
