The reason I write this is because I just received a bill from the yard where I keep my boat. In the south of France. I wouldn’t wish it on the Kagans. Or perhaps I would.

Owning a boat, especially a sailing yacht, is like having a beautiful mistress with your wife’s approval. This is the good news. The bad is that a boat is even more expensive than a high class courtesan. Boats have always been considered feminine. Sailors refer to them as “she,”  and for good reasons. They’re capricious, unpredictable, trouble, and offer momentary, exquisite pleasure which nevertheless make strong men regret the day they fell in love with them.

There is nothing to compare the rush—except for sex—when one’s surrounded by good friends and beautiful women, when the “old girl’ lifts her headsails, the bowsprit swings over, she leans to starboard, close to the wind, and ploughs steadily through the waves. She’s like a thoroughbred, kicking in with a lively tug. Playfully wavelets jump over her. It beats sitting in a neo-con foundation, eating lots of hamburgers, cashing in, and cheerleading for more young people to die.