Back in the days when I read a daily newspaper that was actually printed on paper, I started collecting obituaries. These weren’t the lengthy tomes penned by top-tier scribes celebrating the lives of vaunted celebrities, politicians and titans of business. These were personal reflections, typically written by grieving, stressed-out family members of ordinary folks who lived their lives without pomp or pretense. They lived good lives out of the limelight, raising families, dealing with challenges and just trying to have whatever fun they could in the process. I kept them because the lives they celebrated or the words the writers used to recall their relatives struck a note with me.

As a professional editor, it’s not always easy to read past the clichés and typos common in the writings of people who likely had never had their work published in anything but the church bulletin. But now and again, one would stand out, usually in a humorous way. Terms of endearment are common: “Pa” and “Ma,” “Yogi,” “Pookie,” “Boots.” The word “died” is rarely employed, in favor of the tortured euphemism “passed away.” Religious references such as “earned her wings” often appear, but I have some favorites: “he merged with the infinite” and “she received her address change.” One cited a husband who hailed from Beaver Lick, Kentucky. (It’s real. I’ve been there.) Another guy, who wrote his own obit, said he wasted two years away at college “majoring in whiskey and marijuana” before moving back home, eventually getting a law degree and becoming a successful attorney.

This past October, I read an obit in the local paper about a woman who died in Boston at 96. According to the obituary, she lived a rich and active life as a librarian, a teacher and, earlier, a flight attendant. While raising four children, she paid her way through college and earned a master’s degree. She was a volunteer and worked in the travel industry into her 80s. She had a long and impressive life, but one sentence in her obituary stopped me: “More importantly, she traveled often and extensively, considering the ocean her resort and the globe her playground.”

If you’re reading this, you surely can relate to that sentiment. The sea is where we go for pleasure, escape, solace, restoration, adventure. I had a boss once who believed that anyone who buys a boat of any size harbors the dream of sailing it around the world. That’s a bit of an overreach, of course, but I get it. A few lucky ones among us actually accomplish that ambition. I’m envious. Adventure and discovery reside in any landfall and every nautical mile you cover getting there, whether that’s crossing the bay or transiting an ocean.

Apologies if you’re heard this from me before, but I once met a guy who had the teak deck of his classic sailing yacht replaced before he set off on a transatlantic race. The yard asked him what he wanted to do with the old decking. He was of a certain vintage, and he thought he might like to have a folding coffin he could carry on board the yacht, just in case he didn’t make it across. The yard asked him whether he might like them to build it with a couple of glass ports. He declined.

It was clear to me, when he told the story with a laugh, that he was a kindred spirit. Were I writing his obituary, I certainly would have included that anecdote. Like the lovely lady who was born in New York and died in Boston and who had many adventures in between, he surely believed the ocean was his resort and the globe his playground.

I have the famous John Masefield poem, Sea-Fever, taped to my office wall. It opens with, “I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by.” Its closing lines are fit for any sailor’s obituary: “And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, and quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick’s over.”

When my expiration date arrives, I think I might like a proper
Viking exit: Wrap me in a canvas sail, drop me in a wooden boat (not a classic, please), splash some diesel on me, toss a match in and cast me off the dock on an outgoing tide. I can then enjoy the ocean as my resort and the globe my playground for the duration. 

Kenny Wooton
Editor-in-Chief
[email protected]

Spring 2025