To me, freedom is so fundamental that it’s hard to define. I was raised in comfortable surroundings, and never went wanting (except, at times, for the opportunity to intermingle with people of various backgrounds). Freedom didn’t seem like a privilege or an entitlement; it was a fact of life. It took some work to understand that it didn’t come automatically to everyone.
I live by the values I learned early on, and I believe in the intent of the liberal education I received, though it rarely encouraged me to think independently. I could have ridden along safely in a life made easier by an old-boy network that took care of its own. With a little luck and a sense that it wasn’t for me, I followed my own star, confounding some of those I’d been close to.
Still, the expectations that have haunted me at times run deep. They’re part of me. I’m happiest when I can acknowledge them and let them be, which somehow helps me disarm them.
When I was asked to write about freedom, it was as a member of the older generation. At 82, you’d think I’d be used to being identified with that cohort, but it still feels odd to me. Wait a second: I’m old?
Yup. And I’m broken down mechanically, and carrying around three diseases, any one of which could eventually polish me off. I’m unable to do things that have nourished me over the years, and I know the sands of time won’t slow down.
Rather than chafe against the limitations of old age, though, I’ve accepted them, which has freed me from the sea of choices I’ve wallowed in at times. If a terminal illness doesn’t sharpen your focus, what will? Now I devote my energy to what truly matters to me. So much for fools and bullshit.
Meanwhile, the world around me has gone crazy. Encouraged to take sides, our tolerance for others has shrunk. Freedom of thought is imperiled, as are basic human rights. When I let these thoughts get a head of steam, they can leave me feeling helpless, even lost.
One sure antidote is to imagine myself out in nature, a large part of why I chose to live here. Since I was a little squirt, this has meant being on the water. Here’s how it looks: In my 20-foot center console boat, Vai Via, I idle out through the Menemsha jetties, and I feel released. One hundred yards on, heading northwest, I push the throttle forward. The engine responds with an industrial roar, lifting the bow as the boat accelerates. When she levels off at cruising speed, I let out a joyful roar. I’m free.
Ten minutes later, we skirt Southwest Rocks, a shoal that extends from the southern corner of Gay Head, and we’re in the Atlantic Ocean, one of the Seven Seas that span our planet.
Despite being a visitor in an environment that can turn deadly in minutes, I feel calm, even as my senses are on high alert.
Here, I am free to imagine what lies over the horizon, to dream of far-off lands the way I did when I was a boy.
Free indeed.
Whit Griswold is a longtime Martha’s Vineyard writer whose essays and reporting have thoughtfully documented the Island’s history, culture, and literary life for generations.
No single voice can define freedom. VOICES of Freedom, curated by creator of VOICES bySharisse Sharisse Scott-Rawlins, is a special series commemorating the 250th anniversary of American Independence by inviting Islanders from across our diverse community to share what freedom means to them and the communities they call home. Together, these reflections become part of Martha’s Vineyard’s living history. The Times published six of these essays in a special pullout at the beginning of July, and will continue to do so throughout the summer.