Lately I have spent considerable time searching for a new path.
During this transition through sobriety and age, I spend hours, days, weeks, and months rocking in my hammock, wandering through my memory castle, drifting back to the 1960s and 70s, trying to piece together the man that more than six decades have forged into whatever I am today.
Who is this old guy, and where do I go from here? My compass is broken, I no longer care for the GPS, and I’m looking for something else to guide me forward.
My journey reminds me of an old Greek riddle.
What walks on four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three at night?
Stop here for a moment and think about it before continuing.
What walks on four legs in the morning, two in the afternoon, and three at night?
It is the cycle of a man’s life.
When he is born (morning), he learns to move about on all fours before walking upright on two (afternoon). And at night, when he is old, a cane becomes his third leg.
The riddle comes from the Greek story of Oedipus and the Sphinx. I suppose I’m entering the evening of my own life, although I’m not quite ready for that third leg.
It is 4:10 a.m., a normal time for me to greet the new day and await the sunrise.
I set my coffee down on Eleanor’s foredeck hatch and lie back in my hammock. Nacho jumps into my lap and quickly falls asleep. The coffee is still too hot to sip.
It is a clear night, and the stars are visible. I look toward Venus, bright in the sky.
An early morning lancha passes, and I hope they are just fishermen. I don’t wish to hear of another dinghy theft in the anchorage when the fleet wakes up in a few hours. That’s when all the noise begins, with opinions, accusations, fears, and ill tempers.
This is my favorite time of day, when I search for inspiration, reflect on my life, and dream with open eyes.
I drift back to 1972, to a small apartment in New York City on West 58th Street, just a stone’s throw from Central Park, which was my backyard and playground. My parents were struggling actors, and my mother was obsessed with Greek mythology and philosophy. She loved the stage, and the theater coursed through her veins with every beat of her heart. All the great Greek playwrights were gods to her.
Later in life, she would earn a PhD in ancient Greek literature and comparative mythology, graduating summa cum laude, the highest level of Latin academic honors. She was a genius in every sense of the word and later became a professor.
Ancient Greece, its gods, and its philosophies found their way into every nook and cranny of my childhood. My mother used to refer to me as her little Diogenes, after the most famous of the ancient Greek Cynics. I was born a cynic, and if you know me personally, well, let’s just say the shoe fits ;)
Today, cynicism carries negative connotations, but ancient Cynicism was something quite different. It wasn’t about negativity or distrusting everyone. It was a philosophy of freedom, self-sufficiency, honesty, and the rejection of artificial social values. Cynicism also influenced Stoicism, a philosophy that seems to carry a bit more respect in modern culture. Personally, I identify as a Cynic and will do so until my last breath.
Ancient Greek mythology was, in many ways, a reflection of human nature and society. The gods were not perfect beings but were plagued by the same flaws as the mortals who worshipped them. They were jealous, arrogant, greedy, vain, and often consumed by their own desires. Through mythology, the Greeks explored human behavior, morality, power, and the consequences of our actions.
More than two thousand years later, these stories remain remarkably relevant. Civilizations have evolved, technology has advanced, and societies have changed, but human nature remains much the same. The ancient Greeks simply gave our flaws names, faces, and stories.
Today, with social media, algorithms, and artificial intelligence shaping our perceptions, I think we need to bring ancient Cynicism back to the front row of the theater. We need more skepticism, more critical thinking, and more people willing to question what society tells them is normal.
Because this ridiculous reenactment of Idiocracy, which I’ve come to think of as The Republic of Fools, desperately needs an intellectually engaged audience capable of deciding whether the production deserves another season’s run.
Suddenly, I’m no longer in that little apartment on West 58th Street in the winter of 1972. Instead, it’s a few hours later, sixteen blocks away, at a Sunday afternoon matinee.
I’m a seven year old boy sitting beside my mother in a small, dingy theater just off Broadway. The play we’re watching is entitled The Republic of Fools.
The house lights dim, and the chatter quiets.
It’s a small theater with a limited budget. There’s no orchestra, just a string trio.
The cello casts a somber tone as the curtain rises.
Donald Trump plays Narcissus, and his makeup is already running under the hot stage lights. Narcissus is kneeling beside a pond, forever gazing into his own reflection. Vanity and self-obsession hold him prisoner, and he is unable to turn his eyes away from himself.
His performance is convincing, but I worry that he’ll never be able to leave the pond long enough to nourish himself. I feel for this old man. What will become of him, I wonder? But wait, someone might be coming to help.
The viola begins to play, introducing another character. J.D. Vance plays Proteus, the one who changes shape. Proteus approaches the pond and sees poor Narcissus, hopelessly captivated by his reflection. Rather than attempting to free him from his obsession, Proteus quietly reaches beneath his robe for a dagger. He hesitates as another character enters the scene.
All three instruments now play a screechy, uneasy tune.
Ares, the character of war and aggression, enters, played by Pete Hegseth. Unlike Athena, who represented disciplined military strategy and wisdom in warfare, Ares embodied the violence, fury, and destructive passions of war.
I am captivated by his entrance, but as a young boy, I am frightened by it as well.
There is another character in the background, Diogenes. Just an old man wandering about in broad daylight, holding a lit lantern before him, apparently searching for something.
All the characters, with the exception of Narcissus, have noticed him. Yet none pays much attention to the old fool wandering around with a lantern in the middle of the day.
Proteus slowly removes his hand from the dagger, fearful that Ares might strike him down for no greater offense than simply being there.
After a moment, Diogenes walks straight up to Ares and raises his lantern, shining its light directly into the warrior’s face.”What is it you are looking for, old fool?” Ares demands. Diogenes pauses. He studies Ares carefully, looking deep into his eyes without fear. After a long moment of inspection, the old philosopher replies, “I am merely searching for an honest man, might you know where I could find one?”
I clutch my mother’s arm, terrified that Ares will slay the old man for his insolence. But when I turn toward her, something strange catches my attention.
The audience.
Nobody is watching the play. Instead, they are staring into strange little boxes held in their hands, each emitting a pale, unnatural light. Every face is illuminated, every pair of eyes fixed upon a tiny screen. Each audience member is captivated by a reflection of their own world, oblivious to the tragedy unfolding onstage.
I look back at Narcissus, still kneeling beside his pond, and suddenly, I understand. I have seen this play before.
I wake up in my hammock. It was a dream, or perhaps a nightmare. I had fallen asleep again.
My coffee is now cool enough to sip, and the sun is beginning to rise. I look around at my beautiful anchorage and feel strangely out of place.
Do I belong here, or should I leave the only home I know, something isn’t right here?
Nacho is sleeping between my legs as we gently rock back and forth on Eleanor’s foredeck. I look at the little honest, bearded man that he is. I pick up my phone and research something for this blog that I had forgotten.
The Greek word kynikos means “dog-like.” The ancient Cynics embraced the comparison because dogs lived naturally, without concern for wealth, status, or social embarrassment.
Perhaps that is why my mother called me her “little Diogenes”. I was not only a little cynic but also inseparable from my dog. And perhaps after more than six decades of wandering this world, I’m finally beginning to understand what she meant.
This little dog has taught me so much, and I’m grateful for it. He is also old, and I know I don’t have much more time with my trusted companion. I gently stroke his fur.
A drop of rain, i can see it about 100 yards away, perhaps I have enough time to finish my coffee before it arrives?
Clint Eastwood’s advice to men getting older was, “Never let the old man in. Once he’s in, he’s in.” I have to disagree. During this chapter of my life, I will contemplate my navel, become an old fool like Diogenes, and do my best to cast some light into a dark corner.
When I write, I do so without guardrails. I’m not just going to focus on sailing, although I do feel that the younger version of myself was something of an Odysseus.
Following the Trojan War, Odysseus spent ten years trying to sail home to Ithaca, where his wife Penelope and son Telemachus awaited him.
I have no wife or son awaiting my return, but I do feel as though I’m somewhere in that ten year stretch at sea, still searching, for what I do not know.
“Not all those who wander are lost” is a quote from J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Fellowship of the Ring (1954).
It’s a quote I’ve referenced many times in previous blogs, believing that I was not lost in my travels. But the truth is, I am lost, and have been for quite some time now. I’m okay with that. I accept it. But it isn’t just me who is lost, now is it?
How is it that we’ve allowed this terrible play to unfold and become part of our everyday lives? Are these actors the fools tearing down our society, or is it the people buying the tickets and keeping the show in production?
Perhaps we need to leave the theater and support a system that better serves us.
I look back toward the horizon to check the rain.
A little celestial knowledge.
Venus is known as both the Morning Star and the Evening Star, appearing near dawn or dusk depending on where she is in her orbit. I can still see her, but she is slowly disappearing into the morning light.
My compass may be broken, and I may not know where I’m going, but I still recognize Venus. And that is enough for me this morning.
The rain is here and time for me to go inside.
Peace, Love, and Coconuts.
Alex