by Garrison Frost

As I type these words, someone I know could be dying a horrible death. Or he could already be dead.

His name is Frank Geurnsey, a Redondo Beach resident who made some headlines a few years back when he sailed from King Harbor around Cape Horn to Uruguay without ever touching land. Now, Geurnsey is trying up one-up himself. About 130 days ago he left King Harbor in what can only be described as a crappy little sailboat with the intention of taking it around the Horn again. Only this time, Geurnsey intends to shoot East for the Cape of Good Hope at the tip of Africa. If all goes well, he will end his journey in Capetown.

No one has spoken to Frank since he sailed out of King Harbor more than four months ago. He could still be out there, slowly making his way. Or he could have lost his mind. Or he could have died two months ago. Nobody knows, and nobody will know until he calls home from South Africa or a sufficiently long enough period of time passes with no word from him that we can assume he is dead. Every so often, when Iím sitting on the toilet or standing in line for a burrito or sitting in a meeting at work, I think of Frank and consider that at this particular moment, Frank could be battling high seas, or fighting pirates or slowly starving to death or whatever.

But this article isnít really about Frank, itís about me.

I like sitting by the window on airplanes. I like it for a lot of reasons, but there are two in particular stand out right now. First, I like to look at the wing. I like watching it flex and open for landings. And I like to watch it while weíre at cruising speed. It always looks fairly calm on the wing ñ you never think that air is rushing over it at hundreds of miles per hour, that you would die if you were strapped to it. It looks benign, normal, part of your world, but in reality whatís going on for the wing is totally different than whatís going on for you.

I also like to sit by the window so I can play a little game when we land. As we come in over a city, I always find myself watching for the first human being on the ground I can see as we descend. As you come down, first itís hard to see buildings, then itís hard to see cars, then finally, you see people in the crappy neighborhoods under the flight path. And thereís always that first person ñ getting out of a car, walking across a street, standing somewhere. Of course, I never learn anything about the person Iím eyeballing, and that person never has any idea of the significance he has played in my little air adventure. And thatís why I always do it, for the weird feeling of connection without connection.

Which is kind of how things are with Frank. Iíve spoken with the guy many, many times. Heís someone I know. And yet my reality and his are completely different, never more so than these days when Iím going about my routine and heís out in the open southern Atlantic trying to stay alive.

Iíll stop before I get too philosophical about all this, because this is not an obsession or a hobby. I donít lose any sleep pondering the vexatious relationships among people. But it is something I think about now and again, if only to give myself a little perspective.

(Feb. 15, 2003)

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