The man struck his hand out toward me and looked me straight in the eye as he shook mine.
“Hi, I’m Simon,” he said using the English pronunciation, but his Quebecois tongue whispered, sotto voce, that at home he goes by a different sounding name.
He had booked this private charter four and a half months earlier, in the dead of winter. I was glad that something which had been anticipated for this long wasn’t falling prey to bad weather.
We exchanged pleasantries and then I said that if he was ready, he and his group could board.
He turned around and shouted toward the grassy knoll. I couldn’t make out to whom he was calling.
“Enfants!” he yelled in Quebecois.
Ah, a family, I deduced and headed down to the ship to exchange verbal and implicit communication with my first mate, Mr. Wing, that we were ready for the sunset cruise.
I looked up and saw them coming down the dock. All eight of them, in a line. Eight men. All of the same age. (Mid to late 30s? I'm so bad at guessing ages.) All of them, the same look though not the look of blood relation. I went down the line shaking hands.
Once everyone was settled, I asked what occasion had brought them together for a sail on Lake Champlain.
“We are all having our 40th birthdays,” said Simon.
Right after the sails were set, Mr. Wing retrieved their picnic coolers from down below. They began laying out the most delicious spread. There was wine, beer, sliced salmon, cheeses, two or three different kinds of sausages, and slices of baguette of course.
“I love the Quebecois!” I said. “Such style! Bravo!”
They swung back and forth between wanting to be entertained by local lore in English and and chatting amongst themselves in their mother tongue.
I could feel something fluid among them. Something that I can only describe as your favorite old sweatshirt. Known.
Eventually, I had to ask.
“Explain again to me how it is that you all know each other?”
“We are all friends,” Simon said. “We get together every year since school. We have been friends all this time. This year, we are all 40.”
“Every year? Still? All of you?”
“Yes, this time, it is too bad, but three cannot be here. But yes, all of us friends for that long. And every year.”
Being on the verge of leaving to spend time with my family who does the same, after all these years, I was interested.
“All that time? Tell me more about that.”
“Well, this year, 24 years of getting together every year after finishing school.”
“It is not always easy,” another chimed in. “But we make a commitment to each other. It’s not always easy to commit to getting together with no wives, no children. Just us.”
“Yes,” piped up another, pointing to his neighbor. “His son? Yesterday? Birthday! But he is here with us instead of his family.”
“It’s not easy, but this commitment has a benefit. We can talk about things that are deeper. We know each other for so long, we can talk about things that are real. Not just sports and those kinds of things. We know each other. We can talk about what matters in our lives.”
“But it takes compromise.” Was it Simon, or someone else who brought that up? Every one agreed and added their own example.
“Who organizes? What do we do? Sometimes, we solve it by playing a game. Yesterday, we could not agree: Do we go out to eat or cook for ourselves at the cabin we rented? We were split, 50/50. So we played a game and the winners of the game got their way.”
They went back to bantering in Quebecois. I settled into a recline on the aft deck while Mr. Wing was at the helm sailing us back toward Burlington after we had rounded Juniper Island.
I kept ruminating about the components of longterm relationships, whether they be friendships, family or marriages: Commitment. Depth. Compromise; sometimes through humor.
Simon and his “enfants” will be friends for the rest of their lives. It's rare, what they have.
Tomorrow, I fly to Europe to be with my family for a week. I look forward to being back together with my siblings and the partners, and all of our children. It's rare what we have.
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(This is also posted at my Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/whistling.man.schooner/)