A Case Study In Foolishness

Apprehending wisdom through via negativa

While I typically write about the elevated values of wisdom, the inner workings of psychology and reflect on virtue, as of late my writing has skewed overly theoretical. 

Though elusive to define, wisdom must be practical. Rather than propositional elegance, I offer instead an account of practical foolishness from my own personal history as a counterpoint in the style of via negativa – this is a fine example of what wisdom is not. Despite my hubris, I learned so much from the experience and escaped unscathed to tell the tale. As the poet William Blake observes:

“If the fool would persist in his folly, he would be wise.”

“The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.”

What follows is an account that arguably measures up.

About a decade ago during summer 2013 I was visiting the Greek island of Corfu while working as a showband musician aboard the MS Nieuw Amsterdam. I had some free time during the hot sunny day and set out to explore the old city with more than half a mind to find a beach to go swimming. While walking from the port towards the city, an islet opposite the port served as a backdrop that seemed somewhere between “too-far-away-and-maybe-close-enough-to swim-to”. After wandering around ashore with not much to do, I found my way to a paltry rocky outcropping of a beach that hardly deserves the name except out of technicality.  I doubt it even has a name, though a Google Maps search reveals the most likely candidate to be Faliraki. It was there I encountered some crew mates and something approximating the following quickfire inquiry happened and escalated.

It started with a wondering question that went something like, “How far do you think it would be to cross the water?” I gave a few estimates: 20 minutes? 40 minutes? 60 minutes? It all happened so suddenly and fast. My resolve gathered rather suddenly, surprising even myself. I guess I’ll find out, I said to myself. 

On a whim, I dropped my things and emptied my pockets, preparing to swim across in a fit of near-instantaneous decisiveness. Whether it was bold or rash, I did not entertain anything other than the desire to cross the channel. 

Without a doubt, it is one of the stupidest things I have ever done. Perhaps it was the pure whim of it, the spontaneity, or merely the physicality, I entered the water and set out to answer my query experientially. Though I doubt I was thinking of it at the time, upon reflection, Greek history is replete with mythical heroes and tales of daring courage and the stuff of lore and legend. 

I settled into a gradual sustainable rhythmic front crawl, somewhat inspired by Tim Ferriss and his endorsement of Total Immersion swimming (I confess the extent of my secondhand expertise is merely reading his 4-Hour Body book and attempting to internalize the swimming method’s philosophy). It emphasizes form and effortlessness as the hallmark of the technique, maximizing the length of each stroke. A while into my swim as the near shore began to grow distant, my foolishness dawned upon me: on my right, I noticed a speeding boat change its course because of my presence in the water. I was not alone. Thankfully, the helmsman saw me, though something I learned firsthand was the relative motion of ships. Prior to this experience, I didn’t fully appreciate how fast ships move. It isn’t until you’re in water moving at the speed of a gentle front crawl that one understands a) how slow humans swim and b) the mechanical force of modern nautical technology. It’s a blended feeling of humility and vulnerability. At this point, thoroughly paranoid of ships hitting me or not seeing me, I checked obsessively every few strokes here and there from side to side while continuing onwards. I became afraid. At this point it was too late to turn back though I suppose I could have. I was committed to staying the course. Both shores looked equally far away, like something in the distant horizon.

Around that time in my life, I was almost certainly reading or listening to some New Age books on the moderate to deep end of woo, eerily similar to the moderate to deep water I found myself in. The teaching at the time that came to mind in that moment was the claim that gratitude was an antidote to fear, and that one could not simultaneously be grateful and afraid. I had no idea if that was true but I figured I had nothing to lose in trying. While certainly not as dire as getting shot at or bombarded with artillery, the military saying “there are no atheists in foxholes” seems applicable to my situation: caught in open water with active maritime traffic without really knowing how much further I had to go. 

I began a mantra of “thank you, thank you, thank you…”, a non-stop thought stream of gratitude to crowd out doubts and fears while I continued my way towards the far shore. I maintained my pace – a few strokes forward, then treading water while looking to the left and right for ships. Something I had going for me is the confidence I had in my fitness and endurance. Though the adrenaline-fueled sense of danger was top of mind, fatigue didn’t factor among my main concerns. Gradually I continued on.

It came then as quite the surprise when the islet destination finally started to come into reach – as it grew in view, so too did my morale and impending relief. Shockingly, I then heard a deafening ship’s horn, jolting me in a full-body startle response. “Scared shitless” is the technical term, though one small saving grace is that I was in the water and my bowels were empty.  The one direction I was not constantly surveying was behind me. As I swam out of the way of an incoming vessel, a ferry from Corfu, I vaguely recall the disapproving looks of people aboard. Frankly, I was too exhausted and committed to care too much, despite a twinge of visceral shame from violating social norms (“civilized people use ferries and do not swim across open water”). The fullness of that concern fell by the wayside a long time ago at the undertaking of this silly quest. 

I pulled up and got out of the water to find out whatever island this was and shortly discovered it was Vidos island after taking a brief break to find my bearings on a tourist map, check the time, and go to the washroom though I did not linger too long. Besides, I had no money for the ferry back. As the 18th-century playwright Addison observed, “he who hesitates is lost.”

Where it all went down.

After about a ten minute break, I settled back into the water and headed back whence I came. I made my way back doing my best to orient myself in a straighter course as I noticed I had drifted significantly during my first leg. Things were going rather smoothly though about some distance on my way back, I was filled with a newfound sense of urgency.  I beheld a cruise ship (not mine, thankfully) beginning to cast off and make its way from the pier. With renewed vigor, I figured it best to be out of the water and not risk drawing any further attention to myself by dawdling. My mind conjured nightmarish fantasies of getting caught in the suction of its engines if I happened to be caught up in the middle of its path. Or what would happen if I got caught underneath the keel of the ship. Not a great way to go out and leave this earthly plane. Gratefully, I was making good progress on my return course aided by the fact cruise ships take some time to maneuver. All the same, a great wave of relief surged within me as the shore I departed from grew into ever wider view. 

As I triumphantly set foot back on the beach I began, I was similarly relieved to find my belongings where I left them along with the timer I had left running, an iPod Touch I had tucked away in my shoe. If I recall, the whole adventure was about two hours: about an hour there, ten minutes on Vidos island, and about 48 minutes on the way back. I have no idea how accurate those numbers are though they seem to live on in my memory. I figured I must have done some math at the time. Since I was already pumped up, I kept my personal endurance event going and ended up running back to the ship for another 23 minutes. Despite what began as spontaneous whimsy, I felt a twinge of pride at this personal feat of physical prowess, of testing the limits of my body and mind. However, I was also circumspect about whom I told since my exploit probably violated several maritime laws and regulations I didn’t know about (or care to for that matter) and didn’t really want to draw any undue attention. In fact, I was prepared to keep the whole thing to myself but other crew members brought it up in the officer’s bar that very evening as the original crew member I spoke with had witnessed my departure. Word got around. All in all, it was an adventure of a lifetime I have no desire to repeat. What started with a surge of bold spontaneity transformed into lessons of courage, gratitude, calmness, patience, surrender, and a raw test of endurance and physical prowess. A powerful set of unexpected lessons indeed. As the Roman proverb goes, “Fortune favors the bold.”