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< Jan-Feb 2008
	Letter from the Editor
Stealing Time Mike Kord

Except for a tugboat a mile or so to the west, I had Elliot Bay

—usually flush with commuter ferries and container ships—all to myself this late Monday afternoon in November. The wind was still blowing the gloomy, saturated clouds to the east. For the most part, the choppy water was the same slate gray as the sky. Good maritime weather. It was like having first tracks on a powder day or being the lone climber on a summit. Only this experience—one that I almost didn’t have—was an eight-minute drive from my house in the pulp of a major city.

Earlier in the day, a rain and windstorm began blasting Western Washington. Winds near Bellingham were clocked at 97 MPH, and the trees outside the Paddler office started to sway. I began anguishing over past storm-caused, multi-hour commutes home when only the good fortune of finding an empty Nalgene bottle rolling around on the car floor prevented my bladder from exploding. One time my mind shifted into $10,000 Pyramid mode: “Fly to Albuquerque. Run 20 miles. Grow a beard...” “Things you could do in the time it takes you to get home!” Ding!

The grid that generates Paddler’s electricity is about as sturdy as an egg carton, and high winds almost always knock out the power. I figured it was a good reason to leave early and work the rest of the day from home.

A few hours later, I reached a breaking point at my home office, (It’s not really a home office, but a small desk covered with unopened mail and old magazines next to the computer. There’s almost enough room to use the mouse.), and I had the choice of continuing to work until my family came home, or, if I moved quickly, I’d have just enough time to go paddling before it got completely dark. I started thinking about how much time we have, and how we should spend it.

I recently asked some co-workers what they’d rather have—60 awesome years or 80 good ones. Twenty years ago, I might have said “60.” Now, I’m at that betwixt age where I’m still young enough that my demise seems impossibly far away, but old enough to realize that it’s late summer in my life cycle. And that’s what puts these existential thoughts in my mind.

I was itching for a quick, close-to-home adventure fueled by the inclement weather, so I decided to pack up and get on the water. I suppose it didn’t hurt that I’d finally accepted that our easy summer weather was long gone, and I would be waiting another six months if I wanted to be picky.

About 70,000 people were filing into a stadium two miles behind me to watch a couple of struggling NFL teams. Another quarter million or so were where I would have been—stuck on a freeway, scanning the radio for a traffic report.

But I was focused on something else. From the water, I took my eyes off the whitecaps and watched the sun, making an unlikely cameo, set over the Olympics. A streak of its red reflection filled in the clear sky where the wind had torn apart the clouds. The jagged coastal range wore a shawl of fresh snow and had the appearance of massive icebergs floating above the horizon.

If someone traveled six hours to get this view, they’d have said it was worth it. And that’s why I left home in the first place. I’ve already forgotten what I had been working on that day, but I’ll long remember having stolen this moment, and drawing this conclusion: I would choose 80 good ones.

It takes awhile to reclaim the time you’ve already lost.