I just turned 60, said to be the new 40. I’m not sure what that means. Probably something about how the next phase is going be different, and it may as well as be as fantastic as possible. That’s my plan for it. At the very least, the fact that it’s a ten-year birthday means as a column writer I will allow myself to go down whatever path the writing takes me. I’m afraid the normally stellar journalistic standards of “architalk” shall be allowed to slip a little for today.
I don’t get upset like some people do by the arrival of 10-year birthdays. Never have. Never will. Instead of trying to be young, I’ve decided to try to be the best version of 60 years I can.    The now perceivable diminishment in physical capacity popping up here and there makes me aware of the value of the remaining time. If only there had been a way to truly understand that sort of thing earlier. There isn’t.
Just a week ago, Melody and I came home from a four day raft trip with about a dozen people down the Green River Canyon in Utah. It was professionally guided, complete with excellent meals and padded cots and sleeping bags that we set up as we pleased under the stars.    The rapids were medium sized and quite satisfactory, but the main takeaway from the trip for me was how easy life was in camp every afternoon. Always on a sand beach under cottonwood trees with shade that’s just right for napping and with leaves that quiver slightly in the canyon breeze. There were side hikes to view 800 year old petroglyph artwork on canyon walls. One evening, in the half-light of the canyon, there was a music session that spontaneously broke out when a slim travel-sized guitar was passed around a circle with each participant strumming the best sing-along song they could still remember how to play. Mine was “A Horse with No Name.”
Two days later, I was back at work and not suffering too much for the shift back to the world of responsibility. Being self-employed means I can overwork myself as much as I want, but can also take time off to do stuff. A mixed bag, I suppose.
I sometimes question my commitment to not ever retire. Cohorts speak highly of their retirement lifestyles. Very highly, as a matter of fact. But I dig my job. At least most parts of it, most of the time.
When I was in my twenties, I read “Passages,” a classic 1970s self-help book that suggested that there is a spectrum of lifestyles, from beach-bum to corporate-executive-guy, and you need to be aware of this big picture in making the right choice for you at certain times of your life. Perhaps that isn’t the essence of the book, but it’s what I got out of it
It’s what helped inspire me to take a year off in 1988 with my young wife Melody to travel all around the U.S. and Canada, living very cheaply from the camper shell on our small pickup truck and then fly to Mexico for six months to build a house I designed for my parents on a beach up the coast from Puerto Vallarta. It was a year of being footloose spirits doing cool stuff – before settling down into home ownership followed by raising kids. It was one of the best things we ever did.
Of all the memories that have stayed with me from our time in Mexico, a favorite is the day we spent on the water in a 14’ outboard motorboat with my buddy Paul and his girlfriend who were visiting for a week. We made a day of it, scuba diving and whale-watching all from our boat. On our way back home along the coastline, motion sickness was beginning to be an issue for one of the women, so it was decided that we would drop the two of them off at a beach called Punta Mita to wade ashore. Paul and I would continue home and return by car to pick them up.*    It was already an unforgettable day, complete with humpback whales breeching not far from our boat and then scuba diving offshore of a deserted isle, but my favorite moment came during the drop off.
We brought the boat in about 60 yards offshore, safely outside the surf line where medium sized waves were breaking and the water wasn’t too deep. Melody and Marilyn slipped into the water and, holding a daypack over their heads, proceeded to wade away from us towards shore. We knew our women were savvy enough to go with the flow through the breakers and arrive at the other side with dry clothes held high. I recall the water was so clear that the boat seemed to magically hover above its shadow on the sand four feet below. If I have that part wrong, I’m quite sure that it should have been that way, and always will be that way in my memory.
There was an adventure quotient to this moment that felt authentic, not like paying to go on a zipline somewhere. We actually needed to drop people off to make their way ashore onto that tropical beach. Thus, this small bit of adventure was real, and I count my life as better off for it.
The rest of the day went as planned. Paul and I got the car and drove back up the coast to find our gals at the beach of Punta Mita, resting in the shade of a palapa canopy, watching the surf break. (Melody remembers this part differently and probably more accurately. But I like the feel of my memory better, so here it is.)    That night we grilled fresh caught huachinango fillets (for real) and gave thanks for all the gifts we’d received from the sea.
Not a bad day. In fact, a really good one. I wouldn’t mind another one a lot like it.

Steve McKee is a Benicia architect.
He can be reached on the web at www.smckee.com  or at (707) 746-6788
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