The view from the other side

The other side of the water, that is. Yesterday I spent a good portion of the day in and around Vancouver's Stanley Park and English Bay. I biked across the bridge from West Vancouver and did 2 circuits of the park and then back across the bridge towards home. While I was there, I met a friend from my creative writing program, saw my home from across the water, and took lots of pictures of it and the park scenery in the brilliance of the Vancouver sun. It was a day to be thankful for living in such a beautiful place.

Then, later on that day, after a last minute cancellation of a meeting with a friend in Vancouver's West End, I picked up an ice cream cone and wandered on foot, among the hundreds of tourists and sun worshipers, along the seawall near English Bay and back into the edges of the park.

I visited the place where my grandmother's memory lies warm in the ebbing surf, took off my shoes and wandered, barefoot across the wet sand, letting the ocean lap at my toes and push my footprints down into the beach. I saw small children laughing and building fortresses in the sand, their imaginations creating impenetrable sanctuaries full of adventurers, villians, and heroes where my eyes saw only piles of sand and bits of driftwood and rock. And I marveled, as always, at the human imagination. It is so free and natural in children. And sometimes, when the creativity is flowing, and 'life' isn't rudely imposing itself on me, I catch glimpses of that childlike imagination within myself. If I am lucky, it will stay with me long enough for me to write my story, that passage of dialogue, that description that will have you seeing, hearing, tasting, smelling, feeling the same things as my characters do. And then you, too, will experience the joy of an unleashed imagination, however fleeting it is for us 'grownups'.

I met some lovely, interesting people. Peter, an artist who draws in pencil, the thin etched lines building and building to create a picture, perhaps a local scene from Vancouver, so clear and life-like it resembles a photograph. Or, with the eye of a true 'wet coast' city dweller, he draws the scene complete with the slick distortion of the rain, washing down the city as it often does, especially in spring and fall.

While I was admiring the artist's work, an older gentleman struck up a conversation with me, asking me where I was from and, eventually, if I had a husband. When I replied in the negative, he invited me to go over to the bar across the street and have a drink with him so we could get to know one another. I looked at him, smiling mutely, unable at first to believe this man, who was easily at least 20 years older than me, was actually asking me out. And I wondered, for one insecure moment, what this said about me. Then I realized that what was more important was what it said about him. His charming confidence was endearing and it made me realize something about the way I go through my own life. If you don't ask, you never know. And what harm was there done? No, I didn't go with him. But I smiled and thanked him politely, impressed despite myself.

How many opportunities have I missed by not asking, not just in romance but in life in general? How many doors needed me just to nudge them so that they could fling themselves open and reveal the possibilities that lay behind? I'll probably never know but I do know that, in future, it doesn't hurt to ask for what you want. The already myriad possibilities I saw for my life before yesterday just expanded even further and now have become almost limitless. If I ask for what I want, I might get a polite, or even less than polite, no. But.... What if I get a yes? What if you do? What can it hurt to dream, to reach, to strive for your dreams? Surely it will be much less hurt than to let the potential for those dreams fade away, never pursued but only ardently wished for.

They never talk about the nausea

Hello all. In talking to friends about my trip, I've had to take some criticism. How, they ask, can sailing be all sunshine, swimming, snorkeling, and smiles? Surely, there's a downside. Actually, they've pretty much demanded the downside, threatening me with responsibility for their financial and social ruin when they decide to spend huge amounts of money and time sailing, based on the glowing reports and the beautiful pictures in previous posts. So, here goes.... Note: If you'd rather maintain your untarnished view of cruising the Caribbean, read this post at your own risk. ;o)

So, the downside...

There are days, beautiful warm sunny days, where the wind blows fiercely, stirring the sea up into whitecaps, peaks as stiff and white and frothy as well-beaten egg whites. The water tosses the boat and you around, crashing over the bow and sometimes over you, depending how fast you're going and from which direction the wave strikes. Water crests in all directions, waves sometimes hitting you from the front, the back, and the side all at the same time. Big waves sometimes, ones that have you holding on, averting your face from the soaking you know is coming. You can't go below, for fear of the nausea taking hold as it tends to do when you can no longer see the horizon. You can't walk around, because the boat is heeled over sideways and bouncing back and forth. And so, you hang on. Sometimes for hours, while the sun beats down on you.

Of course, the sun is beating down on you, but you have sunscreen, clothes, a hat, and sunglasses to keep you safe. And the waves sparkle more than ever, because of the movement and the many surfaces off which the sun glints, reminding you of diamonds, stars, and flashes of insight you've had along the way. And, when a wave does hit you, it's relatively warm but cool enough to be refreshing. And you find yourself laughing and enjoying the wild adrenaline ride anyway. Staying upright becomes a challenge, like riding a wild horse, and you know you can do it and the wind blows through your hair as you hang on and grin your defiance and you feel so alive....

Oh, the downside. Right.

Well I know I told you, in a previous post, about being drug-groggy and there were times - the first after 5 hours or so of riding a wild sea - that I had to resort to pharmaceuticals in order not to share more with my sailing companions than they could have appreciated. One of my companions did share this way but I was, mercifully, already drowsing on the other side of the cockpit and missed most of the action. When it happens, you feel alright at first. Sure, it's a bit of a bumpy ride, but you've had bumpy before. So, you decide to 'just say no' and not do the anti-nausea tablet that you've stowed nearby, just in case. You sip your water, gaze out at the horizon, marvel at the color of the sea - is it really such a clear, bright blue? Can you really see so far down? But slowly,it creeps up on you. Ignoring it doesn't make it go away. It nudges you, deep inside your belly, gently at first. A small fluttering, a certain lightness of head. And you shift your position, have some more water, lose track of the conversation around you. You can feel your eyes becoming a bit glazed, your mouth getting drier. Your companions notice these changes,and the silence beginning to come from your corner of the boat. They ask you if you're feeling quite alright. And you say, yes, you're fine. But then the creature inside you becomes impatient, tired of being ignored. It elbows you, hard, in the gut. You cringe. At this point, you make a decision. And you put it in your mouth - the quick dissolve orange flavored tablet. It melts quickly and your mouth suddenly tastes much better than it did a moment ago. You settle in, waiting, hoping you took it in time and now it's a race between the drug and the nausea. Waiting to see who will be stronger, you hunker down, bracing yourself, hooking your arm around something to keep you stable. Eventually, you feel yourself getting drowsy and you know the drug won - this time.

And you lie there, half asleep, with the suddenly benevolent waves rocking you, like you are a child in your mother's arms. And you hear the others talking around you and it reminds you, again, of childhood. When you were older this time, lying on the grass outside while the adults drank their coffee on the porch and visited, your eyes shut but you're not quite asleep, lulled by the voices around you, the laughter and the warm comfort of the sun. And when you wake, on the boat again, stirring slowly and sitting up, the ocean is still blue, the sky is still brilliant with sun, and the nasty creature, nausea, has crawled back into its dark cave. You are free!

Writing this, I wonder if I have deterred any of you from wanting to sail, here or in the Caribbean. I know I can't wait to get out again. Perhaps I could talk about being on a 45 foot boat with 4 other people for 2 weeks, how you get in each others' way, on each others' nerves sometimes. How I accidentally, to my horror, elbowed a shipmate in the face when pulling in a sheet or was stepped on, hard, by someone stumbling by as the waves tossed the boat. But then I could also tell you about the times when, anchored in some secluded bay, we all watched a beautiful sunset with glasses of good red wine in our hands, toasting each other, laughing, telling stories, and settling down to enjoy another amazing meal, prepared with ingenuity and strokes of brilliance. Our appetites honed to a fine edge with the wind and work of getting there. Exchanging stories, we learned a bit about each others' lives, celebrated a birthday, a retirement, an anniversary. And we learned to be happy together.

No, I can't do it! If you want someone to tell you that it's not worth it, that you should save your money and stay home with your family and friends forever, you'll have to find someone else. Because I loved it. And I'm going out again, just as soon as I am able. Somehow, being adrift for all that time grounded me, made me remember what was important. And that, to use a cliche, is priceless!

Home, Sweet Home

Well, I'm writing this entry from the comfort of my bed in Vancouver, having gotten home just after 3 a.m. this morning. I looked outside first thing when I woke up about about 8 and was greeted by a different view than the last couple weeks, but still by the sun on the water and a feeling of how fortunate I am to be in the place I am. It is good to be home. And, as I poured water into my kettle in my nice, comfy apartment, I realized again just how fortunate I am, period. So much we take for granted here, not necessarily because we don't appreciate it, but just because that is our life (for the fortunate ones) here in this part of the world.

So many people in the Caribbean have so little and their lifestyle is very basic. But the thing that struck me most about these people is that they are proud, hard working, generous, and open. Their tiny little homes, which would definitely not suit our western sensibilities, are always tidy and well-kept. They sweep their yards with brooms made of leaves from the trees. They keep themselves presentable, despite any lack. They are smiling and open and willing to share what they have. Our tour guide for the rain forest in Dominica said, "Just because you're poor, doesn't mean you have to be nasty." Everywhere, people were generally happy and grateful for the "food that is everywhere" - the mangoes, papayas, breadfruit, bananas, dasheen, etc. that grow.

Of course, I did meet people who wanted to leave for a better life but I really didn't meet people who were ungrateful for the little they had or who openly resented what others have. We had the privilege of talking to some of the people and finding out what their lives were like and they seemed very open with us. Always, they dealt with things with good humor and a positive outlook. Everywhere there are smiles and laughter, not just for the tourist's sake. They greet each other constantly as they drive down the road, honking and waving and calling out. Maybe that is part of the island lifestyle, as it is on our gulf islands to a certain extent, but it felt like more than that - kind of a 'we're all in it together, and we might as well enjoy it' feeling. I have the utmost respect for the people I met - they are enterprising, optimistic, and hardworking.

And maybe, following their example, I'll be just a little more grateful than I already was, for the blessings I have and the abundance I enjoy in my everyday life. There is nothing like traveling to put your own existence into perspective and that is a great gift. Have a wonderful day, everyone!

Deep Bay

Yesterday we sailed around the corner to Deep Bay. We anchored there and snorkled the wreck of a ship that lies just below the surface. (Thanks again, Dave, for the loan of your gear!)

The story is that the boat was loaded with a cargo of pitch, which ignited with the friction of the journey, smoldering. They weren't allowed to go into the big port of St John's because of their dangerous cargo, so they anchored in nearby Deep Bay. As soon as they opened the hatches to deal with the problem, the oxygen ignited the flames and the crew had to abandon ship and watch it burn and sink.

You can see the ribs of the ship, the crows nest, etc. Coral and all kinds of fish make it their home. The top of the mast stump sticks up above the surface of the water. It was amazing!

Today we're relaxing, packing, shopping, and tomorrow we head home. I'm looking forward to my own bed and, no matter how awesome my shipmates, a bit of privacy, but I have the feeling I'll be back here again someday. This has been an experience of a lifetime!

Boat details

Hi Brian, and everyone else, the boat we're on is a 45.2 Jeanneau. It heels right over, dipping the rail in the water, flies pretty well and is a lot of fun. It's got 2 separate cabins in the back (which house Dan and then Yvon and Carolyn together) and Hayley and I are in the v-berth cabin, with a divider wall down the middle. 2 bathrooms, pretty comfortable. And I can lie on my bed and see the stars through the overhead vent. What more can you ask for? Will have lots of pictures later but it takes forever to load them here so that'll have to wait!

Update

Hi folks. It's been a while since I told you where we were and since then, we've sailed the Isles des Saintes and Dominica.

At Bourg de Saintes, we anchored out and went for dinner and shopping (food, etc.) The next day we had fresh croissant and baguette from the boulangerie in town for breakfast and then rented 3 scooters. Yvon, Hayley, and Dan drove, while Carolyn rode with Yvon and I changed back and forth between the other 2. We went up the very steep hill to tour Fort Napolean and the cactus garden there and then drove along the small island, touring all the beautiful beaches. We walked and swam in the crashing surf and picked up shells and broken bits of coral to study.

As the stores were closing (1/2 an hour earlier than posted - island time, apparently), we had a 'military' shopping mission, spreading out through the stores, finding our assigned items with an impressive focus and barely getting out as the sliding door at the front went down. Later, back at the boat, we watched the seabirds swoop down, scooping fish up from the water in their feet and beaks. After another beautiful sunset, I lay on back on the bench in the cockpit, staring up at a sky full of stars, being very happy and relaxed.

After the Saintes, we sailed to Dominica, my favorite place so far. We were met 2 miles out from port by a tour guide in a small wooden boat who said, "Welcome to paradise!" And he was right. That afternoon, we went on a river tour and two of them paddled us upriver while pointing out the plants and animals and birds and telling us all about what it is like to live there, to grow up in the rain forest environment. We learned about 'mountain chickens' (big frogs), and river crabs and mountain crabs (actual crabs), and stopped in the middle of the rain forest where the river narrowed too much to go forward. There was a small, outdoor bar with a thatched roof, where they served rum punch of every description - the coconut was especially delicious. There was dancing and beautiful flowers, and hummingbirds and lots of smiles. On the way out, Hayley tried her hand at rowing - a bit back and forth, but not such a bad job!


The next day, the same tour guide arranged for us to have a driving tour to the other (east) side of the island and the true rainforest. It was so beautiful and lush and green and you could feel the clean air fill your lungs. It was one of the most moving places I've ever been and I never wanted to leave. There were flowers and birds and plants everywhere, the air is thick with birdsong. We stopped at 2 different pools and swam under waterfalls - it was magical!



On the way there, we stopped at a local roadside stand and bought some authentic Carib (native)handicrafts and fruit, which the woman's son went and picked fresh for us - baby bananas, a papaya and a bunch of mangos. We stopped at a restaurant for an amazing fresh lunch of fish (or chicken, but I think we all had fish) and local vegetables and fruits. It was the best meal any of us have had here and we told the chef and waitress that and they gave us a list of everything we'd eaten, plus 2 of the ingredients - 2 dasheen roots (kind of like potato, though it looks more like a scratchy turnip), and 4 plantains. They were so happy and friendly and generous.

That night, there was a BBQ and dancing on the beach and we all attended. Lots of other 'yachties' from around the world were there, as well as the locals and we had a wonderful time. At the end of the evening, they made an announcement about Yvon's 65th birthday and Yvon and Caroline's anniversary and the two had a special dance. It was lovely! We've since sailed back to Jolly Harbour at Antigua, seeing lots of flying fish, a turtle, and even a couple whales very close to our boat, spouting and diving, and waving their tales at us. I'll fill in the blanks later, but for now, want to get back outside for another amazing caribbean sunset. Tomorrow, we go north on Antigua, to snorkel the wreck of a boat at Deep Bay. I love this!!! And love to all of you at home!

It's in the details

Sailors are always aware of the details. Every small thing counts - where a line lies across the deck, especially in relation to other lines, the shrouds, etc. They are aware of the depth of the water they travel over, and of the currents, and the details of the bottoms they float above. They watch the wind, the slapping of the tell-tales along the sail, the weather, and the roughening of the water ahead of them that signifies wind, puffs that last an instant, but move them forward or to the side. They seek out tiny details and markers on the distant shores they parallel or head towards.

When heading out for the day, they are careful to close every vent, every drain, to put things in their place in the cupboards. To lock cupboard doors and close up cabins. Things move of their own accord when you're sailing. They topple off shelves and countertops if they're not put away and go clattering across the floor.

If water can find its way in, whether sea or rain, it will. If you leave clothes on the lifelines to dry outside overnight, or even during a lull in the day, Nature may turn jokester and pour the rain down, making them even wetter than before. (This isn't always a bad thing if it washes the salt spray off.)

Sailing, you become aware of every inch of exposed skin. Miss a centimeter of flesh when you put on the sunscreen and that centimeter will redden and burn. Keep your fingers around a rope seconds too long when releasing a sail and that same rope carves blisters into the surface of your hand. When one of your boatmates walks past you in the cockpit when you're underway and the boat is well-heeled (tilted), you watch where your toes are, lifting them from the deck so you don't get stepped on.

And as the boat tips to accommodate and use the wind, you keep yourself upright, using the always mobile horizon and the surface of the sea as your guides. Your body works in subtle and not so subtle ways, adjusting its position, flexing through your core and riding the swells like a well-seasoned cowboy on his favorite horse.

You learn to brace yourself against things - a rail, a lifeline, the bottom of the table, rather than always holding on. Your toes become appendages almost as useful as your fingers for keeping you upright, splayed out against the surface gravity is pushing you towards. You quickly know which surfaces are solid and safe and which are not. Eventually, you even learn to sleep sitting up, propped against something, staying upright, the inside of your elbow hooked around something to keep you where you are.

And then, at some point, it happens. For an instant, a few minutes, or longer if the winds and seas and your boatmates permit it, you forget everything but the very instant you are in.


You feel the wind against your body, the deck rising and falling predictably beneath your feet, the sun on your face. You find yourself smiling. There is only you and the skies, and the oceans, and you become one with them and the boat. There is no effort, no concern, only the pure, exhilarating joy of being in that moment, in that place. You exist within Nature and she lifts you up, her favored child, for just that brief, shining second. This is what brings you back, again and again. This is what makes you smile. This is sailing!