The drama of daily life - Glad we're home!

This is not a post about suburbia. It’s not about months of overeating and staring at CNN, frying brain cells while waiting the inevitable weeks and months for a back injury to heal.  

It’s not about visits with family, everything-you-could-ever-want availability shopping, barbeques in the backyard or long hot showers and in-house laundry…

How quickly it all falls back into place. The sweating. The water conservation, the mold. The rain in the hatches, the portable generator grunting and chugging away, the forests that have grown under the boat, making it more an ecosystem than a moving vessel...

What our propellers looked like on our arrival

We’ve only been back onboard a few days but the usual routine proves itself to have stood the test of time.

Sundowners every second night with new friends that last until way past ‘cruisers midnight’ have proved the social side of our lifestyle hasn’t waned either (as is discernible from the evidence, I mean photos below). We’ve been invited over to yet another boat tonight to meet some more cruising friends and try a new island rum…

A rum squall evening, full swing

However just when you think life on a boat is all about predictability, your dinghy about throws you and your crew overboard.

Well not exactly.

As the laundry pile did not disappear during our absence, we had to face the monster a couple days in. We headed to shore in the dinghy, weighted down with garbage bags and an overflowing laundry bag, in between the rain squalls.

DJW, our new ‘captain in training’, JW’s son, was at the ‘helm’. As soon as we got started, the wind and waves decided to give us a seawater shower and we were getting soaked. JW suggested that DJW move to the other side of the dingy, so as ‘not to get so wet’. Ha!

He also suggested DJW let go of the throttle, which resulted in the dinghy swinging us wildly in circles in the choppy waters. The balance was gone; water came flooding in from the front of the boat where I was perched, holding on for dear life. Ah, to have had an aerial view. It would have been quite a sight. Me with bulging eyes, crouched in disbelief, DJW flailing from side to side, barely balancing, and our captain laughing so hard he was red in the face.

The dinghy wanted us all overboard, spinning in increasingly tighter and wobblier circles, but DJW jumped back into place and managed to get us under control again. We resumed our forward motion, the boat steadied, the water stopped flowing by the bucketful. However, our laundry bag was now a 100lb salt water weight, sloshing around between our feet. 

Our captain in training was sopping head to toe, and had to change into some of his dirty but less soaking clothes right there at the dinghy dock by the laundry. I heaved the sopping back to the Laundromat, leaving my salt water trail. I ignored the disapproving look from the proprietress as she chomped a pile of fried rice, watching our laundry bag leak water all over the floor, and simply dumped that problem onto them. 

Lighter yet still salty and wet, we started the dinghy again and headed to the garbage drop off area, and to do some shopping. But the dinghy spluttered and farted and then the motor just died. That’s when JW lifted the fuel tank and exclaimed,

“There’s no fuel in here!”.

Well what do you know. We’d run out of gas. We started paddling. Luckily we were not far from the fuel dock. We made it but then had to buy 2 stroke oil right there and mix it into the tank directly. It was a bit messy, adding blue grease to the salt water we were covered in. But then the dinghy worked! And so it was that we survived that harrowing adventure to do laundry and dump garbage. But just barely.

Since then things have gone quite smoothly, except yesterday morning when our dinghy refused to budge as we tried to lower her into the water. The ropes on the pulley system were twisted and completely jammed.

I ended up balanced precariously out on the hanging dinghy while my men used a block and tackle set up, hanging from the boom to maneuver me. And we did get it all sorted out.

Predictable? Well you can count on the sea to be blue but beyond that, as soon as you think things are too routine, too comfortable, the cruising life throws you a dinghy drama or something far worse. It’s nothing like the suburbs here, but we call it home! 

Holli's random number of signs you've been away from your boat for too long:

Those telltale signs you’ve been away too long:

1.   1. You’re pale

2.     Your feet are actually getting used to close-toed shoes

3.     You plan your trips around road traffic instead of wind patterns

4.     You are starting to take running water for granted - hot water for dishes, tap running during teeth brushing, longer and longer showers – shame!

5.     You start thinking it’s normal to blow dry your hair

6.     You find yourself shopping and thinking of buying plug-in appliances!

7.     You’re actually noticing fashion trends – that don’t involve Crocs.

8.     You’re actually getting used to TV – with commercials!

9.     You haven’t seen a hand tool in months

10. You forget what it feels like to sweat

11. You’ve migrated from rum punch to red wine as your drink of choice

12. The regal sunset, hidden behind the highrises of the city, has faded away and no longer plays a role in happy hour, or indeed your lives. 

13. Sundowners? What?

13.5 You (I) really miss that connection with the sunset…. sigh

Un docteur s'il vous plait?

Like a mini sweat parade, donning the signature 'yachtie uniform' of flip flops and backpacks, , I lead my captain through the bustling slightly urine scented streets of Fort de France from doctor’s office to doctor’s office. 

Each time, we find a small inconspicuous door, painted black with a small sign. We open and climb sets and sets of stairs – dusty, dirty stairwells in ancient buildings. Each time we arrive to another disappointment. The office is closed or there are 30 sick people squished into the inadequate seats, the afternoon sun throwing dust over the coughing lot. We leave and trudge back  down into the bright city streets.

The day began like many others of late, with my ailing captain on his daily dose of Voltaren, waiting for the drug to activate so he can get up and move.

He really needs a cortisone injection or weeks of physio for his aggravated sciatic nerve, or both, but as vagabonds on the sea, moving from port to port, he will likely receive neither.

Life on a boat is hard. Well it’s hard work at times – which is what caused the captain’s injury, but it’s also hard when it comes to the things we all take for granted on land. These are the days when living without a home, a community, a structured society as a catchment are more difficult than others.

We were out of water when the carnival was over the other day, so as the regular Martiniquans headed back to work and school and general café lounging, we had to get our tanks refilled or face not bathing… again.

And then there is the issue of finding medical treatment when you need it. We are actually in quite a modern, civilized port. Probably the most likely chance here of finding a rheumatologist or efficient medical care in general. Or so you’d think. But considering our limited time in each place, and the bogged down French medical system here, not to mention our language barrier…  it has proved to be an insurmountable task.

So, drenched in sweat, hungry, grumpy and completely disheartened with the medical community in Martinique, we found ourselves once again in the cool fried world of McDonalds. Free wifi. Familiarity. Food (sort of).

Happy New Year - to following your dreams!

As the final hours of 2012 tick by, my captain is bouncing in the turquoise swell at Shiloh's edge, squinting into the beating sun with a hose contraption connecting him in the dinghy to the mothership. He is surrounded by blue plastic jerry cans containing the ever precious commodity: water. He is transferring the life giving liquid to our empty and parched tanks. He will speed across the bay a few more times, from the dock and back to bring our tank levels back up. Then we might head over to the vibrant, fish abundant reef. And such is a day in the life.

A year ago today we had no clue. Having just slipped out of corporate life in 'the land of the expat', we had gone from a catered existence to an extended holiday. We were perpetually visitors to friends and family, chatting endlessly about our 'plan' to move onto our boat and start our 'cruising life'.

Our complex back in Ghana - the expat life

Before: visiting with friends in Canada

Day one on Shiloh - moving in

Since then we have been moulded by a year of experiences. Our hair, now bleached flaxen and much much longer, has not seen a stylist in as many months. Our skin, leatherish, baked, tells the story of sunshine and salt air. Our muscles stronger, our joints always aching but far more alive than before.

The non-glamorous side of life onboard - chores!

Our livers must have seen less active years than this. I believe we have discarded too many empty rum bottles to count.
This has been our first year of living on a moving vessel.  Wherein manually pumping out the toilet has become normal, and where a drag means not a boring time but something far more interesting! Where storms are to be respected and feared and where we are constantly reminded of our relative insignificance in the face of mother ocean.

I have learned more in these months than in several years before combined. I can now talk on a VHF radio with the ‘rogers’ and ‘overs’ in the right places. I can drop an anchor in the sandy patch and squabble with my captain about the process for an amazing length of time. I’ve learned that anchoring is an art, whereas picking up a mooring ball is more of a comical dance – provided you don’t try to hold the 20 ton boat by refusing to admit you’ve lost it and pulling the lines (ropes). Ahhh, the lessons in patience, tolerance and our own inadequacies. It’s humbling but so rewarding to get through each drama or potential disaster.

I have gotten used to our tiny living space, that becomes a workshop often, and can be turned upside down to access the awkward storage spaces in a split second!

All the inconveniences though, are made so worth while by breathtaking sunsets, the unfathomable number of blues around us, the wildlife, and the awesome friends we have made.

The sunsets

The colours! Tobago Cays

The wildlife

Oh, the friends!  Too many pics to add...

I have explored my creative side this year too - learning the art of making 'beach shoes ' and now I'm hooked! Not sure I can grow a business though - I want to keep most pairs I make!

Yes, it’s been a full year. And we have only begun. Shiloh has traveled a millimeter in the scale of the ocean’s offerings. We could fill a lifetime with what is yet to be experienced.

It's been more than a year since we faced the letting go of our youngest boy into the world, and the letting go of the security of jobs and society and stability. It has meant following our dream, and I don’t take that for granted even one second.

Saying goodbye to our youngest

Shiloh - truly our new home

I am grateful for this life, for the chances and the choices we’ve made. And I am looking forward to the next year with a bursting heart.

Happy New Year everyone!!!!!

Merry Christmas from Shiloh

Merry Christmas. It’s pouring, the dark skies are dumping big time, and the wind is whistling. We awoke to a leak in the hatch above our heads. Drip, drip, drip.

At 4:30am the Holy Church of Blasting Music set up their deafening speakers somewhere on the beach to enlighten us out in the bay through distorted gospel tracks and pastor/DJ on a power trip. Welcome to Christmas morning, Carriacou style! The good thing about the rain was that it drowned out the sound system. Hopefully that was literally!

If I sound a bit bah-humbug, it’s not intentional. I am on a boat in the tropics after all. It just doesn’t seem like Christmas to a Canadian.

There was a time when a storm outside at Christmas meant cuddling up in bed, with the fireplace crackling and the sounds and smells of the season wafting through the house. Baking, cinnamon, dry warmth, the smell of new plastic toys…. Here it means jumping up and peering through the pocked Perspex windows, watching our position in the bay, with a keen eye on our proximity to the others – have we dragged? Is anyone else dragging? Are any hatches open or leaking? Do we have the rain catchers out? 

Shiloh all dolled up for Christmas

There is no commercialism here. No shopping - it's difficult to find carrots! No traffic, no hectic rushing around. Nothing to stress about (except the weather!). But also no family.

This is the first Christmas without any of our children. They have grown and have made other choices, spending time with other families, other friends, other countries. It’s a good feeling to know they are happily living their lives, as are we. But I still have those small pangs – wishing I could see their sleepy faces on Christmas morning, gifts under a tree… playing silly games, their youthful banter.

I must say though, that sailing friends are special. We’re all in the same boat, so to speak. Each of us with stories, families, lives far away that we’ve left behind in this nautical pursuit of freedom and fun and adventure. We connect. We gel. We bond instantly. And we learn how to say farewell as easily.

We definitely know how to have fun. So Carriacou it is for this holiday. It could be any island really, it's the people who make it shine. Along with a lot of rum!

The gang - pre-Xmas party at Miss Lucky's

But last night, as Shiloh lapped calmly in the bay, Christmas lights aglow, and we mulled amongst the party goers on shore, another Shiloh called me. All the happy voices muted, the festive faces blurred. An angel of Christmas past touched me lightly and settled into my heart.

A time before boats and bays, when my little one would wake on Christmas morning excited for the day. When his gaze, so deep would meet mine and melt me. The boy I could never hold tight enough. Couldn’t keep him here for the many more Christmas mornings he should have seen.

 He visited with a grin though, a deep wide grin and I held him there, oblivious to the chatter and cheer around me. That was my Christmas present this year. 

I am headed to a party of 20 on a boat. Good friends and good cheer. My boys are in my heart and they give me the happiness at the end of every day, that makes the season truly joyous. Merry Christmas Quinci and Merry Christmas Shiloh. Love you forever.

The last few weeks of hurricane season - biding time in style

The hurricane season is coming to an end, which means that boats are on the move. Creeping out from Grenada’s safe bays, as if from hibernation, winches grind, anchor chains creak into motion, up up up against the sludgy layers of sea growth and months of stasis. And they’re off. Trinidad to haul out before heading to distant shores, or westward to Bonaire. Some are heading north.

But the season isn’t quite over, and that means some will be caught in the last tropical storms that ravage the region before quieting for another six months.

We lived in a state of limbo this week – all eyes and ears on the weather as a huge tropical storm developed out in the Atlantic ocean. Grenada  is wonderful but we have been feeling that urge to stretch our legs in new surroundings and the movement around us is infectious. So we planned to head north, to Carriacou for a start. But each day the wind and wave forecasts have delayed our departure. 

Hard to believe such rough weather was heading our way with this view from Secret Harbour marina!

 But as it is, cruiser life continues unabated as the days and hours and angry clouds move along.

I busied myself with beading and sudokus, after cabin cleaning and the continuous removal of mold. I combed the crumbling heat soaked streets of St. Georges with a friend, in search of a rubber spatula and shoes for her little girl. In and out of stores, each piled high with Chinese wares, junk junk junk. I spotted with glee, punk rock Halloween wigs and Hello Kitty sneakers.

Back on Shiloh there were chores to be done. While JW dug into the task of replacing a broken hatch, I learned that black silicone paste on a white boat is a nightmare. And once the messy, hot and dirty job was complete, I happened to spot from inside, that I could see the sun through the edge of the newly installed hatch.

 I’d wished that I hadn’t mentioned it when I found us pulling out the gloopy screws and reapplying thick layers of the black-paste-from-hell. As a result, JW has the signature hands of a working man, with black rimmed fingernails, mechanic-esque lines, worn deep in the grooves. But the hatch is watertight and this is apparently how we must view the project’s success.

 We spent some time on the Internet at our ‘secret’ high speed marina, Secret Harbour, and on jumping back in the dinghy to head back to the boat with 4 heavy jerry cans full of water, the starter motor handle came right off in JW’s hand. We stared at it dumbfounded for a moment but then my handyman ‘made a plan’ and took off the motor cover, reset the remaining part of the severed rope and it worked once more. 

 We ate a lot this week as well – delicious suppers on our friend’s yacht Khaya Moya, barbeques on the beach and even a roast pork feast at Taffy’s Welsh bar in Clarke’s Court Bay.

 So it’s a rough life, this living in limbo. The storm swung north and though we braced ourselves for whipping winds and torrential downpours last night, we were treated with a cool breeze for sleeping and a light rain that provided some water for dishwashing this morning.

And tomorrow we’ll head off, like many others, in search of new bays, new trails to hike, shops, beaches, wifi hot spots.

And some friends ask us if we get bored out here?!

I'm not scared anymore...

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Weeks and months have passed. I spent them in the bubble.

Today I sit once again in the lap of paradise, palm trees swaying, this is Grenada; serenaded by cool jazz as the sweat pours down between my shoulder blades, tickling it’s path down to my waist.

It’s Monday. I proclaimed it laundry day and headed solo in the dinghy, over to Whisper Cove Marina to blog and wash. And so it is.

I am slowly finding my sea legs again and easing into the sore muscles, random bruises and blisters from rope pulling.

I am back home.

But the bubble consumed me for quite a while, lulling me with it’s ease and comforts. Long hot showers, air-conditioned rental car, restaurants of every description and a glut of shopping venues. But for the first time I was more excited in Home Depot and Canadian Tire than clothes stores. Solar lights caught my eye, instead of cute shoes. My boating self did come with me to the bubble.

It is tempting to feel at home, with family and old friends near by, barbecues by the pool, and everything so accessible. We took the opportunities around us, on road trips, ferries out to Toronto Island, the vibrancy of the city is wonderful...

Yet I found myself getting lazy, hazy minded. I lost the will to write, nothing happened that scared me or amazed me or kicked my creative butt. I craved the return to the boat, to take on new challenges, to conquer more fears.

But something strange happened on our arrival.

Despite the downright aggravations of the first 48 hours – flooded, flat dinghy, rolling dock, musty, moldy boat interior, mountains of unpacking, tools, laundry, dead batteries, sweat, sweat and more sweating, there was a paradigm shift within me.

I am not scared anymore.

Anchoring, pulling the boat up alongside a dock, heading out of a bay into the unknown sea; I’ve experienced all of these in the last 3 days and I took them all in stride. This is what I’ve been wanting for so long. No changes in my breathing, no squeezing my palms and shaking and fearing the worst. Dare I say I am now a cruiser?

Up to now, my fear has kept me from feeling genuine. Like a fraud, I’ve been chatting on the beach with real sailors, wondering what it was that made them who they were, and why I couldn’t be like them.

It is a life lesson. We are who we want to be. Act it, do it, and be it. Time is a wonderful teacher, healer, friend.

I’ve come back from my first long break, ready to visit new places, sail, feel the sea and the wind.

I don’t need the bubble. I know it’s there but I am ready to push the envelope. I’m looking forward to a nightsail. A solo watch, just the moon, the waves and me.

I’m going to try making some jewellery. I am going to buzz around in the dinghy alone. I’m going to write more. Write for the sake of it, to flex the muscles of the mind alongside my arms and legs.

I’m alive! 

Home and Away - the road trip and the tropical storm

I’m sitting in a trailer in Northern Ontario. Wood paneling on the walls, aluminum siding surrounds us. Beyond that, countless miles of pine trees and small lakes and rivers are broken only by ATV trails and the one highway that connects the massive province of Ontario. It’s a sunny morning in the wilderness.

It's beautiful and the air smells so fresh I can't breathe enough in. Here it's so removed from the hustle bustle of the city and the cookie-cutter developments of suburbia. This is the Canada everyone should experience.

We’re ready to make the last leg of our 1800km road trip from Toronto to Fort Frances, a paper mill town where my mother was raised.

But as we look forward to the welcoming scent of sulphur, and meeting extended unknown family members and many who’ve changed immensely since I last saw them at 12 years old, we have something much more daunting on our minds.

Back at ‘home’, in a little bay, at 12 degrees north, Grenada, Shiloh laps up and down on the waves, awaiting the potential for a hurricane, that is slowly developing out at sea, about a 1000km away.

I’m sure the cruisers are abuzz with the news of the weather formation out in the Atlantic. This is hurricane season, but no one really believes such a calamitous storm will hit, until the threat is this real.

And though some friends and fellow cruisers are headed ‘into the mangroves’ to tie up against the battering of the brutal wind and rain, we all still will wait and hope and count on the weather system breaking up and dissipating and/or moving north, missing Grenada and it’s cruising community of vessels completely.

 It’s amazing, sitting here, so very far removed, that it’s only been 4 months since we ‘set sail’ on the boat life adventure. Amazing that it feels like we’ve just begun, but how at home we feel aboard.

It is surreal now to be sitting here, on land, deep inland, where lightning storms are just a pretty display in the sky and don’t illicit fear and panic; where showers are long and hot and wasteful and decadent; and laundry can be done at your leisure, in your house, with the luxury of separating out the whites from the colours, the towels from the clothes… it’s strange and foreign. And where we feel at home is on a tiny rocking island, that is at the mercy of mother nature and her tropical storms.

As we head further north, our internet checks will be to the weather sites, the hurricane watches, and our hearts will be south and afloat with our boat and our anchored friends down in Hog island.

The slime that moves us

To the landlubber, cleaning your vehicle usually consists of a trip through an automated car wash or on a hot summer day, a bucket and sponge in the driveway.

For cruisers it’s a different story. The environment under a boat (big and small), especially standing relatively still at anchor is the perfect recipe for growth. Ugly growth. 

We do avoid the task for months when possible, but there comes a time in the life of every cruiser when they have to tip their transport over, and scrub the bottom. This is no small feat. It involves facing the growing swamp green beard of slime and  the finger-slicing sharp barnacles with an artillery of scrapers and eye watering vile cleaning fluids. Strong scrub brushes and sand are the second phase.

It’s not pretty, it’s not sexy and it’s not fun. But it has to be done.

So, while others sat in their cubicles this Wednesday afternoon, gazing out their windows if they are lucky enough to have one, awaiting a lunch break to wake them up, we stood on the beach, paradise surrounding us, and we faced our demons.

We disconnected the fuel tank and removed all the junk in the little ‘trunk’ including our fake ‘Crocs’, emergency flashlight, rain ponchos and anchor with it’s rusty chain. We brought out the strongest cleaning implements we had and we threw her over.

And there it was. A gooey, live, smelly mess.

The radio active toxic shade of dinghy bottom slime

Up close with the slime

Luckily for us there was a shallow sandy beach pool close by for frequent dips to cool off. The whole task took about two hours, but by the end, we had her shining.

It felt great to have her all clean. It is just one of the tiny daily accomplishments that keep your heart beating and a spring in your step. These are the things that were so missing in my past life. Expat existence means everything is done for you, and then you complain about how poorly it was done. But there is no motivation to do things for yourself. The house and the car belong to the company and there is a surplus of cheap labour. We lazed around or sat idle and decaying at our desks.

Only here, on our little boat, with it’s daily demands for attention, and constant chores, do I feel alive. Every sinew, muscle, synapse. It’s buzzing.

And we take the rewards for a day’s work as enthusiastically! After our hours sweating over the dinghy, we were treated to a potjie stew, complete with cold beers and warm crusty bread, on the beach with a group of cruisers. Thanks to the organizer Stewart, a South African who also makes boerwors and biltong (a nice treat for JW).

A few cruisers digesting with wine and beers of course!

Our view from the communal lunch table

 We motored back to the boat in our glowing dinghy, tipsy from the beer, full of homemade food and rested our sore arms with a sigh of pure satisfaction.