A few months ago I found myself wondering if I was at fault.
It’s not a question I would have asked in my seventies.
Like many people my age, I sometimes think about retirement, savings, and financial security. I look around and see friends who have spent decades building stable careers and preparing for the future. Some seem to have reached their destination.
At the same time, my life is getting harder to explain.
I spend more on opportunities that interest me than opportunities that promise safety. Looking back, I sometimes wonder if I should be more practical.
One morning after falling into another round of comparisons, I found myself thinking of a familiar idea:
Maybe I miss the boat.
The phrase stopped me.
Because one of the most important decisions of my life started while standing on the dock looking at a ship.
Many years ago I was hired to teach American history, English, reading, math, and academic skills to Navy and Marine Corps personnel who were continuing their college education while deployed overseas. My task was to take me on a ride on the USS Cleveland during the western Pacific deployment.
I remember standing on the dock before leaving.
The ship seems to be large.
Goods are being loaded through open ports. The crew quickly moved across the harbor, carrying equipment and supplies. The forklift disappeared into the metal interior of the ship. Everywhere I look there is movement, preparation and anticipation.
The USS Cleveland looks less like a floating city.
I stood looking up, feeling something I had not received in a long time.
Wow.
As a kid, I used to dream of visiting the sea.
I was fascinated by ships, maps, distant places, and the possibility that life could be bigger than the world I was already aware of. While other kids seem to dream of becoming something, I always dream of going somewhere.
Standing on the dock, I felt as if I had stumbled into a childhood dream. I do not know exactly where the experience will lead. I just knew I wanted to go up the stairs. So I did.
Life on the ship unfolded in its rhythm. The day is organized by classes, tasks, meals, conversations and stretches of the ocean. Outside is a foot of endless sky. Inside is a community of people living and working together in close quarters while gradually moving toward destinations scattered throughout the Pacific.
I taught my class.
The crew and the Marines joined their ranks.
But looking back, I know I was educated on my own.
I learned that teaching is less about providing information and more about paying attention. I have learned that failure can be as instructive as success. I have learned that people with heavy responsibilities can often be extremely patient.
Most importantly, I learned that the world is bigger than I ever imagined.
The ship crossed the ocean, but it also expanded my sense of what life could be.
Unconsciously, I began to follow a path that was more curious than real.
At that time there was a natural feeling. It wasn’t until years later that I started asking questions.
The older I get, the easier it is to compare my life with that of others.
Comparisons are persuasive because they usually come in the form of wisdom. It tells us that we are becoming a reality. Responsible. Obviously.
But comparisons rarely ask if we are using the right measuring stick.
The more I compare myself to people who have chosen a different path, the more dissatisfied I become. I focused on what I lacked rather than what I experienced. I measured my life by the values that guided the decisions of others rather than my own.
Then one day while thinking about the USS Cleveland, I asked myself a simple question.
If I could go back to that port knowing everything I know now, would I make another choice?
Will I tell myself not to ride? Should I advise him to choose a safer route? Predictable future? Life is safer?
The answer came immediately.
No
I will still step on it.
Not because it was the smartest financial decision. Not because it guarantees success. Not because it took me exactly where I expected it to be.
I will step down because it makes me feel alive.
And that perception shows me something I have overlooked for years.
The problem is, I never chose the wrong life. The problem is that I began to judge my life by values that were not really mine.
The young man standing on the dock is not trying to optimize or optimize his future. He did not ask how this experience would improve his retirement. He did not calculate long-term profits.
He answered with wonder. Somewhere along the way I forgot.
Like many, I have ingrained the belief that a life should be judged by what it creates, collects, or achieves. Those things are true. We all need stability and security.
But there is another measure of life. A quieter one.
It asks if we care. Whether we are still curious. Whether we say yes to an opportunity that expands our understanding of ourselves and the world. Whether we have fully demonstrated for the journey we are given. When I think of the USS Cleveland, I now no longer see it as just a ship.
I see it as a reminder.
A reminder that not all meaningful choices can be justified. Great reminders deserve a place in our decisions. A reminder that the life we envy may not be the life we want to live.
Sometimes I still worry about the boat I might miss.
But then I remember standing on the dock, staring at the huge ship with excitement, not knowing where it would take me.
And I know that if I were given another chance, I would still be on the wrong track. Not because I know where the trip is going. But because of something in me, I already knew I wanted to go.
About Tony Collins
Edward “Tony” Collins, EdD, MFA, is a documentary filmmaker, writer, educator and disability advocate who lives with progressive vision loss from cataracts. His work seeks the presence, care, endurance, and quiet energy of a small moment. He is currently completing a book on creative scholarships and collaborative documentaries and sharing personal articles on the meaning of hope and disability on Substack. Link: substack.com/@iefilm | iefilm.com
