Around The World In 1,080 Days

Then there are the normal tasks of navigation and dealing with weather faxes, which print out as maps and require constant study. And unanticipated repairs. David says, "It's amazing how much time just living consumes." He adds, much to my relief, mat not every day is an idyll. "I know from our earlier trip that we will get tired of one another, and angry, and seasick. But mere are bad days ashore, too. The next day is usually fine."

I wonder if they will miss assisting other people, especially Judy, whose professional work consists of it. She says, "I'm worried about that. I hope we find ports where I can be of help in a hospital, and we all can do community work." That could prove difficult. They learned from the six-month trip that their social contact will consist largely of ships that pass in the night, brief and transitory friendships with other families on their own excursions. Ports are visited but not lived in.

"Last year the kids saw people with no shoes, nothing," says Judy. "It made them aware of their privileges and that they have a lot to give back. You see"—she looks to determine if I am finally getting it—"the point of all this, the whole trip, is to make one aware generally that life is intense and urgent and that it has a purpose."

"What is it like at night on a boat?" I ask.

"You're out alone," says Judy. "You are the only living things you see. The stars are so close you could touch them. Once in a while you see a shooting star. The boat cuts through the water. You stand there. You have time to think, and to be. The things that will occur to you come to mind only when they're ready. The great moments of your life come up when they feel like it. All you have to do is stay awake."

On Friday, March 24, David is at the boatyard making last-minute arrangements, and Judy is at home seeing to the packing. "It's been a long, tortuous preparation," she says. "There's a saying in medicine, among residents: The longer you stay, the longer you stay." Sarah has come to be much more enthusiastic about the voyage; she has used the waiting months to get quite good in gymnastics. Jasper tells me, "It's scary and exciting—a little of everything." His friends have given him their photographs to take along. Young David is all anticipation. "I want to become a better sailor," he says. "I want to learn celestial navigation. I want to see the world!"

On Saturday a large crowd of friends and onlookers has gathered at Robinson's Wharf, a commercial dock where the only craft in the water at this time of year are lobster boats. The wharf is on Southport Island, near Boothbay Harbor. David and Judy have already said goodbye to their families. David's mother, who is in her 80s and is showing early signs of Alzheimer's, told him, "By the time you get back, I may not know who you are." Like the children, David and Judy are feeling a mixture of exhilaration and the sadness of saying goodbyes, of leaving their community. David says, "I've asked myself the same questions over and over: Does this really make sense? Are we doing the right thing for the children? And the answers always come up yes."

At 12:45 p.m. they start Danza's motors, and the ties are released. The day is sunny and feels like spring. Freed, the boat proceeds a quarter of a mile out the gut, a slice of water between the mainland and the island. Then up go the sails, and they are out of the harbor.