August 31, 2010
13:45
This morning, the day of our planned departure to Maeva, the trade winds picked up early and came on strong. The plan was to beat the winds and have Brian assist us in our departure through the narrow coral channel before these winds arrived. But at 0800 it went from the calm of early morning to full 15 knot trades in only a few minutes. No gradient to warn us and allow us preparations, just full on trades. Hoping they would die back down, we waited. Noon rolled around and they had only strengthened. Still willing to try, at 1300, we gave it a test run. We strapped Brian and the station wagon alongside and gave it the goose to see if it would slack the anchor. The anchor slacked, but Leeway's bow caught the wind and veered off hard. At this point a judgment call was made: wait for a proper weather window. We knew if we were to attempt this, the wind would have the control, not us, and (as we've noticed) the wind's primary objective is to drive us onto the reef. A plan we don't hold in high esteem, so it was called off. Clara Katherine, ancy to get a move on it, departed to Maeva soon after.
And now we sit alone in our little corner of the lagoon. Full force, 20 knot trades whip the anchorage. Our French courtesy flag shivers at full attention and the palms on shore execute a wild, flailing dance. The normally flat waters of the lagoon are pushed up into short, white waves that spill over and spit up into the salty air. Leeway tugs firmly on her nylon rode, falling off and tacking through the wind in a gently yawing motion. The wind runs through her rigging with a soft sound not unlike blowing over an empty bottle. In the open ocean, the wind builds up larger swells that smash against the barrier reef frothing up the fringes of our shelter. And we hold our hook in the sand until these trades fall away.
Luckily trade winds are one of the most knowable natural occurrences on the planet. Unless interrupted by a storm system, they wake up with convection caused by the sun and lay to rest in the failing light. For hundreds of years, great explorers have sailed these zephyrs around the globe in purely-downwind, square-rigged ships. The winds dominate from an eastern direction, skewed by the Coriolis effect. We can count on them to die down tonight, giving us a quiet night's sleep, and then, before they rouse in the morning, we navigate the channel and get into the open ocean where they'll hopefully pick up again. We'll then round Faa'a Point and head for Maeva Beach, only a 12nm run from here. We plan to have spinach and pepper omelets with our hook in a new, quiet lagoon tomorrow.
17:00
While Tahiti does have more tropical greenery than the Marquesas (to be fair, they were suffering through an 8 month drought during our stay), I'm not sure I appreciate being, once again, in a heavily populated land.
A bit of culture shock befell me the first day I ventured toward shore. I was paddling up one of the many small rivers that run into the ocean when I was suddenly confronted with the blockade of a bridge zipping with commuter traffic, a much different sight from the dirt roads of the outer islands. I've since gotten used to the busy Terra, yet feel a longing for less inhabited shores. Not for the sake of privacy (one can attain much more privacy here than in a small town where the “coconut radio” blasts at full volume), but for the relationships. Here in the big city, no body knows each other and they don't really care to. This lack of social affiliation creates a breeding ground for poor societal dispositions. I'm now told by kind locals to keep an eye on my backpack instead of being reassured nothing will happen to it. I have to be careful about what streets I traverse past dusk. I met a yatista who was beaten and robbed walking back to his boat one night. I've also been the butt of a couple of attempts at shakedowns. My aggressors were less dedicated, though, so when I gave them some lip they backed off. In essence it's back to being in a large civilization and one has to be on guard.
Tahiti isn't all bad, though. Polynesian generosity does prevail over the evil of a dissonant community. The zipping traffic will stop for pedestrians on the side of the road, often gifting a smile and a wave along with their brake squeak. And giving is still done thoughtless of reciprocity. While I was sitting on the side of the road munching on one of French Polynesia's delicious baguettes (the only reasonably priced food item here at about 50 cents a loaf), a man strolled up to me and rattled off something in French ending with “chow mein”. Seeing as he was wielding a Chinese takeout box, I responded “Oui!” and soon became the proud owner of Chinese left overs. He then donned his helmet and rode off on his Vespa barely acknowledging my thanks. When the locals of one beach saw me practicing unsafe backpack owner procedure, they managed to convey to me that I should keep an eye on it. The population density also greatly supports my wifi mooching habits. Although I shouldn't declare my final verdict on Tahiti yet, I'll state my snap judgment: it's beautiful shores with a big city attitude; it's good to be able to get things done here such as repairs and much-needed communications; but I'm still looking forward to sailing to the more rural shores of paradise again.
Night will soon blanket Tahiti. The sun-breathed trade winds are finally beginning to fall away, but their effect can still be heard in the swell crashing against the outer reef. The sky has assumed its warm gradient once more: the deep blue of space shading into a lighter blue below and, as it nears the horizon, a light magenta takes over, which gives way to peach and finally, at the horizon, a dark, hazy orange. Hordes of needle pirogues surround us as they make their final sprint back home in their multi-colored vessels and the lagoon comes to quiet. Tonight we rest early and wake up at dawn to beat the trade winds to the channel. We'll wind our way back out the way we came in (this time downwind and without the precarious, close-quarters spins) before setting sail for Maeva Beach.
September 2, 2010
13:50
Leeway sits strong and proud in Maeva Beach. The story of how we got here is fairly mundane, but I'll spill it anyways. Yesterday we got up at the crack of dawn and made ourselves shipshape for the day sail ahead. With barely a stir in the flag, I upped the anchor through the mercury-like water. The windlass quickly gave out, but since it was so placid, we were able to hand over hand the 200ft of rode onto the foredeck with minimum sweat. The 4HP outboard was purring like a cat so we decided to put all our trust into it. She hummed us out the channel from whence we came and then out the pass into the soft, rolling swells of the Pacific. And about a quarter of a mile outside the pass, she sputtered out. I let go of my photographic documentation of dawn over Tahiti to hop on the back and make an attempt to revive it. Simultaneously, Dan was hoisting the sails that had already been prepared for such a situation. The outboard wouldn't even give me a sputter, but the sails were enough to maintain steerage in imperceptible breeze. It felt better anyways, we are sailors after all.
We rounded up once we cleared the reef and made for Faa'a Point. The wind strengthened to 10 knots as we crossed in front of Papeete Harbor, giving us plenty of maneuvering speed to dodge the gigantic ferries going to from Moorea. As we rounded Faa'a, we were met with 5 knot headwinds. We did a couple of upwind tacks before the wind shifted again. It was now giving us a beam reach straight for the pass. As we approached the pass, perfect slackwater was upon us. We were able to ghost through the pass at 1 knot (an act that took about half an hour) on a downwind run.
We slowly, but surely, came through the pass in the placid water. The reef sucked and slurped at the miniscule swells coming in and lined our route with foamy, white waters. After making it through, we rounded up and picked up speed to about 2.5 knots and screamed up the channel toward Maeva. To port a beautiful turquoise lagoon shined in the bright sun and to starboard, the green mountains of Tahiti. Brain joined us about a quarter of the way up the channel and tied on. We gently coasted up the channel bordered with anchored and moored yachts on either side before reaching our new anchorage. After sailing onto the anchor, I dropped 200 feet of rode into the dark blue water of the lagoon and Brian helped us set our anchor with the station wagon. We all hung out for a moment just admiring the beauty of our new anchorage. Coming into Maeva:
Filled with yachts, for a good reason, the wide lagoon slowly shallows to a barrier reef. Beyond the turquoise waters just inside the reef rises the slowly-crashing, deep blue. And within it, 5nm off, is the magnificent silhouette of Moorea. In the morning the warm, tropical sun rises over the contours of Tahiti to the east, lights up the expansive lagoon throughout the day, and then sets with fiery colors over the top of Moorea. Looking back toward shore, the dinghy landing is nearby and there are resources aplenty: a nearby mall and water just on the docks. Maeva Beach is a beautiful, quiet anchorage that we are happy to have our hook dug into.
September 9, 2010
11:04
Big surf now crashes on the outskirts of the lagoon, but our water is as smooth as can be. Melted jade spreads out to the white froth of the reef. Off the side of the boat, the sun's rays fall into the seemingly endless depths below; they shimmer and track around in beams down to the dark bottom. Out further, the undisturbed water turns into a misshapen mirror, amorphously reflecting back clouds and the other boats. Increasing in distance from Leeway (and closing in proximity to the wild Pacific), the water is drawn to the surface by the coral. From afar it appears to have a perfect turquoise hue, but upon closer inspection (by kayak of course), it is dotted with coral heads teeming with life. Beyond the creamy edge of the reef, the Pacific curls up translucent tubes that throw themselves upon the reef promising white sand motus in the geological future. And after, a 180 degree panoramic of the horizon dominated by the jagged landscape of Moorea, the honeymooner's island, which throws beautiful sunsets at us every evening.
It's a pleasant scene that we plan to see for many days ahead as we jump through the bureaucratic hoops of the French government. I've learned a few things about life at sea over the past 8 months. The first being the stages of adjustment needing to be met when entering into this life. Coming out of Long Beach, at the beginning of February, I was discontent. I suppose the responsibilities of the boat felt overbearing. I was used to a fairly responsibility-free life and having to share half of the complete responsibility for our lives and our boat made me distraught. But I slowly became more confident in myself. I began to do tasks without second guessing them (an act that can't be done in the occasional perils at sea), I could begin to tie a bowline without breaking into a cold sweat, trimming sails became second nature, and the once nerve-wracking approaches to shore turned into delightful respites from the days at sea.
I've learned to live a life at sea. Much different, and as a whole, more satisfying than one on shore. The human needs must still be met and one of those needs is entertainment. On a boat, it doesn't just fall into one's lap. One has to be much more proactive in this aspect to properly maintain sanity. When I seek to extract myself from this paradisaical life and toss myself into another world, I can no longer pick up a remote, press a button, and get drawn into the boob tube. I have to pick up a much heftier item, such as a book, or this notepad to lose myself. And when I yearn for social interaction, I can't just wait for my phone to vibrate, I have to grab my paddle and head ashore to find friends, new and old.
And even in the simple life of a sailor, there are two varieties of life: that at anchor and that in the blue. First of all, I must confess, there's a certain sloppiness that happens when the seas settle down into a quiet anchorage. Being bachelors at heart, we are naturally inclined to a certain lack of tidiness. At sea, the not-always-so-pacified Pacific perpetually tests one's tidiness. An never-sipped coffee mug, not carefully wedged into a proper place, quickly becomes a never-to-be-sipped coffee mug well distributed across the cabin sole, a knife not strategically placed in a drawer easily becomes a serrated projectile during an unlikely combination of wave trains, and the most fragile and expensive items on board rapidly turn into stepping stones if not stowed well. One quickly learns the necessity of proper stowage at sea, but as the seas fall down into the rippled slick of a coral lagoon, the ocean no longer tests the sailor in these ways. And, with the relaxed lifestyle of the islander in mind, we get a little lazy.
I now feel the contrast between life at sea and on anchor almost constantly. I've noticed a different level of emotional connection with myself from when I'm at sea to when I'm on the hook. I feel more content in the open, blue water. I believe it to be a combination of the isolation and the rooted connection I've attained with the ocean. It's not that I want to be alone, that it feels right to be isolated from the human populace. No, it's not that. It's the complete control I gain over myself out in the ocean yonder. Two of the prerequisites for contentedness: control, and even more so, a feeling that you're in the right place. Both things are now best attained by me at sea.
At sea, the knowledge of complete control over one's self becomes readily evident. The minute one casts out of coastal waters, he realizes that isolation and must either step up to the challenge or never enjoy the life of a blue water sailor. This season, tales were told of a cruising couple who had planned to make the jump from the Americas to the South Pacific. They had readied their yacht for years to make this voyage and the day finally came. They hoisted their anchor from the depths of Panama Bay and pointed their bow out into the nothingness of the Pacific Ocean. Just over a week out, they inexplicably turned back and reanchored off of Panama. After selling their boat, they moved to a landlocked state in the US, hoping never to see a sailboat again. This couple was completely overwhelmed by the immediate assumption of the responsibility for their own lives, the same issue I, too, wrestled with in my first days at sea.
Maritime law in the US has been crafted around this individualistic concept. The are no laws requiring offshore boats to be equipped with life rafts, no law requiring an EPIRB (emergency position-indicating radio beacon) to be aboard (no worries, mate, we have both of these). Just the minimum amount of safety equipment to satisfy the unsalted lawmakers: enough life jackets for every patron on board (not even required to be worn), 2 signal flares, and a fire extinguisher. They've kept a laissez-faire attitude towards non-commercial mariners. A fool hardy sailor could easily cast out into a winter gale off Los Angeles, fall overboard, and drown, never to be seen again. His boat may be found 5 days later in the dissipating storm and the first person to tow it in gets ownership claims (salvage rights). Thus the responsibility of one's self at sea is reaffirmed to the public, which, as a result, puts out less and less foolish sailors.
At anchor my decisions are no longer made just for the good of myself and the boat, they're warped and formed around the populace surrounding me. I can no longer urinate off the side of the boat whenever I please (a very important aspect of contentedness). The welfare of the boat is no longer in our hands alone. When the wind kicks up in a busy anchorage, we not only have to watch our anchor drag, but the drag of every boat upwind of us. Poor anchoring techniques (a common sight) can threaten all but the most isolated boats. And who's to say a drunken local (a bigger threat in Mexican waters, the abundance of coral heads seems to promote good navigational skills here) won't come blazing through the anchorage one night and smack into our hull sending our 36 foot long home to the depths.
When I'm at sea I feel closest to this blue-green orb we live on. I feel I'm in my right place. When out there, one has to be aligned in complete harmony with the ocean beneath. Every step, every movement must be executed in accordance with the swell rocking the boat. She wakes you up with a sudden jolt, and then lulls you back to sleep with her rocking. She pushes you so close to falling over the edge before she catches you and tosses you back to the safety of the deck. She's not malicious, but apathetic. The sailor goes out into her deep waters, hopefully informed about the power laying within, and she treats each and every one with whatever is in store for the day, be it mirror-still waters or horrendous 30 foot breakers. She chooses no favorites and rewards the sailor that can choose a good weather window. Becoming one with such a powerful entity puts a new lens over one's observations. If you didn't already realize it, she strangles you until you realize the big picture: you're just a tiny speck in the middle of nothing. But you are the only one who does anything that matters to you. A truly humbling statement that she makes you recognize.
But the fact is that one must find society and function within (or on the outskirts of) to survive these days. Sailing has made me resourceful in ways I never would have thought possible, but I'm still dependent on the functions of society. It has the resources I need. We live on the sea, but we still live off the land. We can pack the boat tight and be completely independent for months at a time, but inevitably, we must return to shore for water, rations, sanity, and the likes. Being at anchorage also allows us a break from each other. We no longer have to see each other's stinkin' faces every hour of every day. We can now run off in different directions and get more than 36 feet away from each other, an important therapeutic exercise for any relationship.
While I may be able to go back to a “normal” life ashore one day, one without the pure isolation of the sea, one surrounded by others influencing my whims, I'll always hold onto what the Pacific has taught me.
What I see on the daily kayaks around the lagoon:
13:45
This morning, the day of our planned departure to Maeva, the trade winds picked up early and came on strong. The plan was to beat the winds and have Brian assist us in our departure through the narrow coral channel before these winds arrived. But at 0800 it went from the calm of early morning to full 15 knot trades in only a few minutes. No gradient to warn us and allow us preparations, just full on trades. Hoping they would die back down, we waited. Noon rolled around and they had only strengthened. Still willing to try, at 1300, we gave it a test run. We strapped Brian and the station wagon alongside and gave it the goose to see if it would slack the anchor. The anchor slacked, but Leeway's bow caught the wind and veered off hard. At this point a judgment call was made: wait for a proper weather window. We knew if we were to attempt this, the wind would have the control, not us, and (as we've noticed) the wind's primary objective is to drive us onto the reef. A plan we don't hold in high esteem, so it was called off. Clara Katherine, ancy to get a move on it, departed to Maeva soon after.
And now we sit alone in our little corner of the lagoon. Full force, 20 knot trades whip the anchorage. Our French courtesy flag shivers at full attention and the palms on shore execute a wild, flailing dance. The normally flat waters of the lagoon are pushed up into short, white waves that spill over and spit up into the salty air. Leeway tugs firmly on her nylon rode, falling off and tacking through the wind in a gently yawing motion. The wind runs through her rigging with a soft sound not unlike blowing over an empty bottle. In the open ocean, the wind builds up larger swells that smash against the barrier reef frothing up the fringes of our shelter. And we hold our hook in the sand until these trades fall away.
Luckily trade winds are one of the most knowable natural occurrences on the planet. Unless interrupted by a storm system, they wake up with convection caused by the sun and lay to rest in the failing light. For hundreds of years, great explorers have sailed these zephyrs around the globe in purely-downwind, square-rigged ships. The winds dominate from an eastern direction, skewed by the Coriolis effect. We can count on them to die down tonight, giving us a quiet night's sleep, and then, before they rouse in the morning, we navigate the channel and get into the open ocean where they'll hopefully pick up again. We'll then round Faa'a Point and head for Maeva Beach, only a 12nm run from here. We plan to have spinach and pepper omelets with our hook in a new, quiet lagoon tomorrow.
17:00
While Tahiti does have more tropical greenery than the Marquesas (to be fair, they were suffering through an 8 month drought during our stay), I'm not sure I appreciate being, once again, in a heavily populated land.
A bit of culture shock befell me the first day I ventured toward shore. I was paddling up one of the many small rivers that run into the ocean when I was suddenly confronted with the blockade of a bridge zipping with commuter traffic, a much different sight from the dirt roads of the outer islands. I've since gotten used to the busy Terra, yet feel a longing for less inhabited shores. Not for the sake of privacy (one can attain much more privacy here than in a small town where the “coconut radio” blasts at full volume), but for the relationships. Here in the big city, no body knows each other and they don't really care to. This lack of social affiliation creates a breeding ground for poor societal dispositions. I'm now told by kind locals to keep an eye on my backpack instead of being reassured nothing will happen to it. I have to be careful about what streets I traverse past dusk. I met a yatista who was beaten and robbed walking back to his boat one night. I've also been the butt of a couple of attempts at shakedowns. My aggressors were less dedicated, though, so when I gave them some lip they backed off. In essence it's back to being in a large civilization and one has to be on guard.
Tahiti isn't all bad, though. Polynesian generosity does prevail over the evil of a dissonant community. The zipping traffic will stop for pedestrians on the side of the road, often gifting a smile and a wave along with their brake squeak. And giving is still done thoughtless of reciprocity. While I was sitting on the side of the road munching on one of French Polynesia's delicious baguettes (the only reasonably priced food item here at about 50 cents a loaf), a man strolled up to me and rattled off something in French ending with “chow mein”. Seeing as he was wielding a Chinese takeout box, I responded “Oui!” and soon became the proud owner of Chinese left overs. He then donned his helmet and rode off on his Vespa barely acknowledging my thanks. When the locals of one beach saw me practicing unsafe backpack owner procedure, they managed to convey to me that I should keep an eye on it. The population density also greatly supports my wifi mooching habits. Although I shouldn't declare my final verdict on Tahiti yet, I'll state my snap judgment: it's beautiful shores with a big city attitude; it's good to be able to get things done here such as repairs and much-needed communications; but I'm still looking forward to sailing to the more rural shores of paradise again.
Night will soon blanket Tahiti. The sun-breathed trade winds are finally beginning to fall away, but their effect can still be heard in the swell crashing against the outer reef. The sky has assumed its warm gradient once more: the deep blue of space shading into a lighter blue below and, as it nears the horizon, a light magenta takes over, which gives way to peach and finally, at the horizon, a dark, hazy orange. Hordes of needle pirogues surround us as they make their final sprint back home in their multi-colored vessels and the lagoon comes to quiet. Tonight we rest early and wake up at dawn to beat the trade winds to the channel. We'll wind our way back out the way we came in (this time downwind and without the precarious, close-quarters spins) before setting sail for Maeva Beach.
September 2, 2010
13:50
Leeway sits strong and proud in Maeva Beach. The story of how we got here is fairly mundane, but I'll spill it anyways. Yesterday we got up at the crack of dawn and made ourselves shipshape for the day sail ahead. With barely a stir in the flag, I upped the anchor through the mercury-like water. The windlass quickly gave out, but since it was so placid, we were able to hand over hand the 200ft of rode onto the foredeck with minimum sweat. The 4HP outboard was purring like a cat so we decided to put all our trust into it. She hummed us out the channel from whence we came and then out the pass into the soft, rolling swells of the Pacific. And about a quarter of a mile outside the pass, she sputtered out. I let go of my photographic documentation of dawn over Tahiti to hop on the back and make an attempt to revive it. Simultaneously, Dan was hoisting the sails that had already been prepared for such a situation. The outboard wouldn't even give me a sputter, but the sails were enough to maintain steerage in imperceptible breeze. It felt better anyways, we are sailors after all.
We rounded up once we cleared the reef and made for Faa'a Point. The wind strengthened to 10 knots as we crossed in front of Papeete Harbor, giving us plenty of maneuvering speed to dodge the gigantic ferries going to from Moorea. As we rounded Faa'a, we were met with 5 knot headwinds. We did a couple of upwind tacks before the wind shifted again. It was now giving us a beam reach straight for the pass. As we approached the pass, perfect slackwater was upon us. We were able to ghost through the pass at 1 knot (an act that took about half an hour) on a downwind run.
We slowly, but surely, came through the pass in the placid water. The reef sucked and slurped at the miniscule swells coming in and lined our route with foamy, white waters. After making it through, we rounded up and picked up speed to about 2.5 knots and screamed up the channel toward Maeva. To port a beautiful turquoise lagoon shined in the bright sun and to starboard, the green mountains of Tahiti. Brain joined us about a quarter of the way up the channel and tied on. We gently coasted up the channel bordered with anchored and moored yachts on either side before reaching our new anchorage. After sailing onto the anchor, I dropped 200 feet of rode into the dark blue water of the lagoon and Brian helped us set our anchor with the station wagon. We all hung out for a moment just admiring the beauty of our new anchorage. Coming into Maeva:
Filled with yachts, for a good reason, the wide lagoon slowly shallows to a barrier reef. Beyond the turquoise waters just inside the reef rises the slowly-crashing, deep blue. And within it, 5nm off, is the magnificent silhouette of Moorea. In the morning the warm, tropical sun rises over the contours of Tahiti to the east, lights up the expansive lagoon throughout the day, and then sets with fiery colors over the top of Moorea. Looking back toward shore, the dinghy landing is nearby and there are resources aplenty: a nearby mall and water just on the docks. Maeva Beach is a beautiful, quiet anchorage that we are happy to have our hook dug into.
September 9, 2010
11:04
Big surf now crashes on the outskirts of the lagoon, but our water is as smooth as can be. Melted jade spreads out to the white froth of the reef. Off the side of the boat, the sun's rays fall into the seemingly endless depths below; they shimmer and track around in beams down to the dark bottom. Out further, the undisturbed water turns into a misshapen mirror, amorphously reflecting back clouds and the other boats. Increasing in distance from Leeway (and closing in proximity to the wild Pacific), the water is drawn to the surface by the coral. From afar it appears to have a perfect turquoise hue, but upon closer inspection (by kayak of course), it is dotted with coral heads teeming with life. Beyond the creamy edge of the reef, the Pacific curls up translucent tubes that throw themselves upon the reef promising white sand motus in the geological future. And after, a 180 degree panoramic of the horizon dominated by the jagged landscape of Moorea, the honeymooner's island, which throws beautiful sunsets at us every evening.
It's a pleasant scene that we plan to see for many days ahead as we jump through the bureaucratic hoops of the French government. I've learned a few things about life at sea over the past 8 months. The first being the stages of adjustment needing to be met when entering into this life. Coming out of Long Beach, at the beginning of February, I was discontent. I suppose the responsibilities of the boat felt overbearing. I was used to a fairly responsibility-free life and having to share half of the complete responsibility for our lives and our boat made me distraught. But I slowly became more confident in myself. I began to do tasks without second guessing them (an act that can't be done in the occasional perils at sea), I could begin to tie a bowline without breaking into a cold sweat, trimming sails became second nature, and the once nerve-wracking approaches to shore turned into delightful respites from the days at sea.
I've learned to live a life at sea. Much different, and as a whole, more satisfying than one on shore. The human needs must still be met and one of those needs is entertainment. On a boat, it doesn't just fall into one's lap. One has to be much more proactive in this aspect to properly maintain sanity. When I seek to extract myself from this paradisaical life and toss myself into another world, I can no longer pick up a remote, press a button, and get drawn into the boob tube. I have to pick up a much heftier item, such as a book, or this notepad to lose myself. And when I yearn for social interaction, I can't just wait for my phone to vibrate, I have to grab my paddle and head ashore to find friends, new and old.
And even in the simple life of a sailor, there are two varieties of life: that at anchor and that in the blue. First of all, I must confess, there's a certain sloppiness that happens when the seas settle down into a quiet anchorage. Being bachelors at heart, we are naturally inclined to a certain lack of tidiness. At sea, the not-always-so-pacified Pacific perpetually tests one's tidiness. An never-sipped coffee mug, not carefully wedged into a proper place, quickly becomes a never-to-be-sipped coffee mug well distributed across the cabin sole, a knife not strategically placed in a drawer easily becomes a serrated projectile during an unlikely combination of wave trains, and the most fragile and expensive items on board rapidly turn into stepping stones if not stowed well. One quickly learns the necessity of proper stowage at sea, but as the seas fall down into the rippled slick of a coral lagoon, the ocean no longer tests the sailor in these ways. And, with the relaxed lifestyle of the islander in mind, we get a little lazy.
I now feel the contrast between life at sea and on anchor almost constantly. I've noticed a different level of emotional connection with myself from when I'm at sea to when I'm on the hook. I feel more content in the open, blue water. I believe it to be a combination of the isolation and the rooted connection I've attained with the ocean. It's not that I want to be alone, that it feels right to be isolated from the human populace. No, it's not that. It's the complete control I gain over myself out in the ocean yonder. Two of the prerequisites for contentedness: control, and even more so, a feeling that you're in the right place. Both things are now best attained by me at sea.
At sea, the knowledge of complete control over one's self becomes readily evident. The minute one casts out of coastal waters, he realizes that isolation and must either step up to the challenge or never enjoy the life of a blue water sailor. This season, tales were told of a cruising couple who had planned to make the jump from the Americas to the South Pacific. They had readied their yacht for years to make this voyage and the day finally came. They hoisted their anchor from the depths of Panama Bay and pointed their bow out into the nothingness of the Pacific Ocean. Just over a week out, they inexplicably turned back and reanchored off of Panama. After selling their boat, they moved to a landlocked state in the US, hoping never to see a sailboat again. This couple was completely overwhelmed by the immediate assumption of the responsibility for their own lives, the same issue I, too, wrestled with in my first days at sea.
Maritime law in the US has been crafted around this individualistic concept. The are no laws requiring offshore boats to be equipped with life rafts, no law requiring an EPIRB (emergency position-indicating radio beacon) to be aboard (no worries, mate, we have both of these). Just the minimum amount of safety equipment to satisfy the unsalted lawmakers: enough life jackets for every patron on board (not even required to be worn), 2 signal flares, and a fire extinguisher. They've kept a laissez-faire attitude towards non-commercial mariners. A fool hardy sailor could easily cast out into a winter gale off Los Angeles, fall overboard, and drown, never to be seen again. His boat may be found 5 days later in the dissipating storm and the first person to tow it in gets ownership claims (salvage rights). Thus the responsibility of one's self at sea is reaffirmed to the public, which, as a result, puts out less and less foolish sailors.
At anchor my decisions are no longer made just for the good of myself and the boat, they're warped and formed around the populace surrounding me. I can no longer urinate off the side of the boat whenever I please (a very important aspect of contentedness). The welfare of the boat is no longer in our hands alone. When the wind kicks up in a busy anchorage, we not only have to watch our anchor drag, but the drag of every boat upwind of us. Poor anchoring techniques (a common sight) can threaten all but the most isolated boats. And who's to say a drunken local (a bigger threat in Mexican waters, the abundance of coral heads seems to promote good navigational skills here) won't come blazing through the anchorage one night and smack into our hull sending our 36 foot long home to the depths.
When I'm at sea I feel closest to this blue-green orb we live on. I feel I'm in my right place. When out there, one has to be aligned in complete harmony with the ocean beneath. Every step, every movement must be executed in accordance with the swell rocking the boat. She wakes you up with a sudden jolt, and then lulls you back to sleep with her rocking. She pushes you so close to falling over the edge before she catches you and tosses you back to the safety of the deck. She's not malicious, but apathetic. The sailor goes out into her deep waters, hopefully informed about the power laying within, and she treats each and every one with whatever is in store for the day, be it mirror-still waters or horrendous 30 foot breakers. She chooses no favorites and rewards the sailor that can choose a good weather window. Becoming one with such a powerful entity puts a new lens over one's observations. If you didn't already realize it, she strangles you until you realize the big picture: you're just a tiny speck in the middle of nothing. But you are the only one who does anything that matters to you. A truly humbling statement that she makes you recognize.
But the fact is that one must find society and function within (or on the outskirts of) to survive these days. Sailing has made me resourceful in ways I never would have thought possible, but I'm still dependent on the functions of society. It has the resources I need. We live on the sea, but we still live off the land. We can pack the boat tight and be completely independent for months at a time, but inevitably, we must return to shore for water, rations, sanity, and the likes. Being at anchorage also allows us a break from each other. We no longer have to see each other's stinkin' faces every hour of every day. We can now run off in different directions and get more than 36 feet away from each other, an important therapeutic exercise for any relationship.
While I may be able to go back to a “normal” life ashore one day, one without the pure isolation of the sea, one surrounded by others influencing my whims, I'll always hold onto what the Pacific has taught me.
What I see on the daily kayaks around the lagoon:
"An never-sipped coffee mug, not carefully wedged into a proper place, quickly becomes a never-to-be-sipped coffee mug well distributed across the cabin sole, a knife not strategically placed in a drawer easily becomes a serrated projectile during an unlikely combination of wave trains, and the most fragile and expensive items on board rapidly turn into stepping stones if not stowed well."
ReplyDeleteI feel so much better now!! Things like that happen a lot to me! In the beginning, quite a lot. As I became more experienced, not so often. But like you said, sometimes you become complacent and shit goes flying.