A placid barefoot day drifting south with the ebb toward the Jamestown Bridge—what could be better?

Last week I read Elizabeth Berg’s “Dream When You’re Feeling Blue,” also fiction and also full of engaging characters. But 1940’s Chicago made me shiver, not sweat. And Berg’s characters asked tougher questions about war, women’s rights, sacrifice, and the strength of family ties. I couldn’t have possibly plowed through this book in one day; it needed several nights of digestive thought.

And that’s what I love about reading: we can choose our preferred climate, century, and depth of engagement. If we hit it right (as I did yesterday), stories enrich our solitude and take us outside our own lives. If we hit it wrong—well, we can always pick up something else. That’s why books on the nightstand are as valuable as money in the bank.

Two weeks ago I raced Snipes with a skipper who quietly stated that he wanted to rip out the heart of every other competitor on the race course. Of course on shore he loaned tools, boats, and brute strength even before he was asked, offering that unique mix of cooperative competitiveness I so love about small boat racing. Wanting to win should encourage us to help our competitors improve;  the better they are, the more they challenge us to sail our best.

Five days later, I found myself alone in the middle of Narragansett Bay, drifting south with the ebb tide. I spent the leisurely cruise consciously savoring the first-sail-of-the-season, the gleaming varnish, the early shimmer of seabreeze—and the rare sunshine. I felt lucky to be on the water, and quite content—even with a complete absence of competition.

In less than a week, I traveled from one end of the competitive spectrum to the other—all without setting foot in a boat with an engine. No matter what my psyche demands—solitude, heart-ripping competition, or something in between—I can find it on the water.

So here’s another place where books meet boats—they each provide a seemingly endless variety of experience. I can escape for a day or a week, to a harbor down under or a heartland city. Best of all, I can travel light—my imagination will be all the baggage I need.

For most people, the line between work and play used to be very well-defined in both time and space.  Work:  9 to 5, at office.  Play:  the rest of the time, in the rest of life’s spaces.

Nowadays, we can keep track of our work from anywhere, and it’s easy to interact with other time zones —  eliminating the distinction between “work time” and “play time.”   And since more and more people are now working at home, or telecommuting, the whole spacial delineation of “going to work” has also become, well… blurry.

Bottom line?  The Flintstones’ “yabba-dabba-doo” five o’clock whistle doesn’t mean much to anyone anymore.

Which makes me feel a whole lot less lonely.

For the past twenty years, the line between my work and my play has been a finger-painted colorful mess.  I don’t get paid to sail, but going to a regatta might lead to an exciting new client, blog post, article idea — or even all three.  Reading my favorite sailing magazine or browsing a regatta website can be justified career-wise just as much as (or some weeks, maybe more than) logging onto Redroom or Backspace.  Booksignings are fit in around regattas, conferences, or even that absolute rarity — a real vacation.

Wherever my work and play take me, the best is when they overlap.  I’m very lucky to have spliced together so many of my skills (writing, sailing, reading, editing, desktop publishing, photo editing, communication) into a multi-faceted career that actually pays the bills.  That spontaneous Tuesday afternoon adventure off-island might point me to the next story; so could the next well-planned regatta on the other side of the country.  Either could also produce nothing more than great memories.  But taking time for what I consider important keeps me fired up to work harder when I get back to my desk.

I received some sage advice from a friend when I first started out:  “It’s not a living — it’s a lifestyle.”  In other words, you may never get rich following your passion, but you’ll always be happy.  So far, she’s been right.  I’ve been racing sailboats around the world the last twenty years, and I’ve NEVER had to ask permission to take another week “off.”  My schedule is dictated (mostly) by me and the priorities I’ve established — not by someone else.

So welcome, newbies, to the challenging excitement of the blurred line between work and play!  May you enjoy taking responsibility for how your time is spent as much as I have, for the last two decades.

And now that I’m a published author, is it really okay to deduct all the novels I buy for pure pleasure?