I know that some people have succumbed to the trend of having bucket lists. It’s the older person’s equivalent of a Tik Tok challenge. Instead of consuming goods of indeterminate purity, jumping off railroad trestles, or other idiocies, older adults wisely create lists of books, places, and wines they wish to experience before being called to the great beyond.
I was recently asked if I had one. I flippantly stated that I had. But my wife wouldn’t allow me to date any of them. My wife gave me a severe “look,” and I hurried to explain that I was only kidding. I then explained that I had made most of my bucket list when I was younger and now wished for a more sedate life.
I wasn’t kidding. Aspects of my younger life had been wild enough that I look with pity on those only now as sexto and septuagenarians planning to live it up. Go dancing in the moonlight on tropical sands? Damn! Waking in the morning with a hangover and sand fleas is hardly worthwhile. Camping your way across the country while staying at luxurious campgrounds each night is called glamping. She-it! Try hitching with a bedroll, guitar, and a crazy gray cat.
I’ve been told by a few merchant mariner friends that the old Blue Anchor bar got closed—too many bar fights. Most of them prefer these days to settle into an Applebees. Like me, they view with dismay the idiotic trend of oldsters trying to relive a youth they never got around to misspending. Now a nice wind jammer cruise with someone else hauling the lines and picking up the mooring, no heavy weather, and a nice haddock filet afterward. That’s the ticket.
After the bucket list crowd leaves, we’ll talk about that night in the Bucket of Blood when we were twenty-two. We don’t want the late arrivals to feel too bad about what they missed, do we?