To honor the memory of one Maxwell P. Moondragon

I awoke this morning at a perfectly decent hour for a Saturday morning. Having no plans whatsoever and being in no hurry to be anywhere I decided to spend a few hours in a cafe and await what may come. Scarcely had a stepped inside the doorway, having waited outside for five minutes already, than I was affronted with some most intriguing information.

I could not resist eavesdropping on the conversation taking place just ahead of me between a tall lanky bearded fellow and an attractive young woman of apparent Hispanic descent. This particular establishment, though modestly adorned, serves extremely popular and highly acclaimed siphon filter coffee. So popular, in fact, that it is unusual to order without first waiting in line for a good twenty minutes. This particular morning I was thankful for the wait, for it made my eavesdropping much more discreet and convenient.

The young man explained that he was visiting his grandmother’s grave, I did not recognize the name of the cemetery and have since, unfortunately, forgotten it. He had not visited the site for some years and soon realized, abashed, that he was not at all certain where it was. As he wandered flustered and aimless, trying to pick up on some unlikely clue, he noticed a modest gravestone with a humble poem inscribed upon it. He pulled out a small notebook, and I did the same and read from it, while I transcribed.

If deep has no meaning without shallow and small
has no meaning without large
and wet has no meaning without dry
then perfection has no meaning at all.

He said the name of the deceased was one Maxwell P. Moondragon, b. May 16 1923, d. May 1963. Likely Moondragon was the author of the little poem as well, but it is not certain. He did not find his grandmother’s grave and after some moral deliberation decided to rest the flowers on Mr. Moondragon’s. Then he laughed. After this the conversation turned towards more mundane things and I did not care to continue spying.

Having little else to do, I decided to walk with my coffee over to the public library and see if there was any record of this Maxwell Moondragon. I was delighted to find several entries, including a short editorial for the San Francisco Chronicle which I was free to read in full and which I have taken the liberty to transcribe here.

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It is right to pursue your own end with your own means and to fail. It is right to sail your boat out to the farthest sea and to capsize; for no one knows the limits of your vessel, though they may proclaim otherwise, until it sinks. Yet, even then it has not reached its limit. Only the captain may ever know. Should he persist even to his very end to seek the edge of the horizon on a vessel built for much tamer waters, we may call him fool, but secretly will we not all envy and admire his foolishness? For we all harbor in our souls those shameful moments when we turned our rudder back towards land, though we knew our treasure lay beyond. And we satisfied ourselves with the bittersweet victuals of rational remorse that sustain our bodies, while devouring our souls.

Everyone’s treasure does not lie at the horizon’s end. It is not unwise for a captain to remain in shallow water if his vessel is unworthy. It is right for him to find beauty there. It is right for him to love his vessel even if it will never take him to the lands beyond. This course is right for him, if it is in his heart. But may he never surrender his vessel to another, or sign on to the crew of another sturdier ship for shame of his own. Though he may reach paradise aboard it, paradise will not satisfy him, for it is not his.

Paradise is not a land that we can travel to, but a land that we must find within.

* * *

I also found his obituary. I did not copy it down, but shall try to paraphrase as best as I can.

* * *

Maxwell Moondragon, a decorated World War II veteran and experienced sailor from the Bay Area, disappeared on Thursday. He had made it his goal to sail alone across the Pacific before he turned forty and on the eve of his fortieth birthday, he set sail. He was never heard from again. A search party failed to find any sign of either him or his boat. It is presumed that his boat sank in a gale and he was drowned some three or four hundred miles from shore. He is survived by his wife, Gina; daughter, Saline; and brother Murray.