There is an imperfect calm in all our souls. Author Lovett captures the restless wonderment of existence in this exhilarating six-month journey on, Renaissance, his 31-foot sailboat.

Framed as a novel, it reads like a cosmic existence. Lovett sails from San Francisco down the coast, through the Panma Canal, to Florida, all the while keeping a log-meditation-journal sort of record. And he sails into awe: "With closed eyes, my left palm embraces the right fist, my thumbs form a church steeple; my thoughts race to infinity in the waking dream of meditation." He sails alone, away from his wife, yearning for her, remembering other voices, different times. "In the dark I tension the rig with a flashlight in my mouth. I tension all the stays and snug up the rig without turning them into guitar strings." He sleeps, he arises and checks on the jib, fusses again when the wind drops. Insanity becomes a matter of survival: "I find this state to be a lot happier and enjoyable than the horrible self-crucifixion thing." He floats in a nothingness of space, time and ocean. "Here is no fishing bank, I sail not a rhumb line between any significant ports." There are murders he hears about, yacht clubs (some exclusive) he visits, friends who are hitchhikers and who work for the Canal Admeasurer's Office.

The Unbearable Lightness of Being becomes unbearable as he realizes stars do not always overcome "the relentless gravitational crunch." A journey, a crisis, a stab at solving loneliness and death. Lovett writes in a bearable lightness of being, touching coastlines and knots -- and Rebecca.

A captivating autobiographical novel, probing and witty, very unwilling to take anything at face value.

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