The silence

Life can change in an instant. Flip like a dinghy. Take for instance a 200lb dinghy, dragged ashore single handedly by your captain, and flipped for washing. Your less than ‘totally fit’ (but still a 10!) captain gets a shooting pain in his back during this maneuver and he spends the next few weeks ignoring an increasing pain down his left leg.

Life can seem normal still - one moment you can be sailing along, turquoise seas cradling your boat, en route to beautiful Antigua, looking forward to more of the same - 10 months into your open ended dream life.

But then in trying to remove a reef in the mainsail, your captain pulls at the lines and twists his injured back…

And the next morning he can’t walk. At all.

Fast forward a few days and some awkward dinghy trips to shore, and you find yourself in a third world hospital waiting room, paying cash for a $2.5k MRI, your captain still unable to walk. The tests reveal herniated discs. Those spongy bits between one’s spinal vertebrae, pushed out of place, just far enough to ruin our lives…

And weeks later still, you find yourself behind the drizzly windshield wipers, stuck in traffic in the dreary rain soaked streets of suburban Canada. It starts to dawn on you that your dream life is over, your captain possibly a year or more away from walking normally, let alone sailing. The possibilities that lie ahead no longer include rum punches on new beaches. Surgery, bills, a ‘safe land-locked-life’ are coming into view. You start wondering which country to look for jobs. The vision of Shiloh our boat, anchored far away in dreamy Antigua, fading further and further into oblivion.

The thought of blogging about all this brought only tears, dripping into the keypad, the bleak white empty word document staring back. So, silence.

Silence in the blogosphere as we fought with the uncaring, overloaded, inept Canadian medical system. Silence, through one prescribed narcotic drug after another for my captain, broken and bed ridden.

Silent uninspired, our days filled with painful and discouraging physiotherapy and chiropractor sessions followed by bedrest and discussions about the gloomy prospects that lie ahead. And the overwhelming frustration of not being able to make it all go away, make it better, go backward in time. On March 31^st we spent our 1 year 'boat-life' anniversary in zero degree weather, fully grounded in suburbia.

But fast forward now, two months of tests and trials and healing time. And life has thrown us a chance. It can change in an instant. The headlines:

Surgeon says no surgery needed. Pain begins to subside, physio starts working! Grown son becomes available to assist on the boat for a few months.

The captain - feeling much better, but still not strutting!

This is where I do cartwheels across the screen and jump for joy – my pale, drawn face lit from within, smile from ear to ear. Shiloh, we’re coming home baby!!!!!!

 

This experience has taught us a few good lessons, and a few we’d rather not have learned. But if I hadn’t appreciated the life we’d found before, I can say with resounding confidence now, that I will never take it for granted. 

We have made some friends out on the sea who will be forever in our hearts. Exceptional people. Since we've been away, our dear amazing friends on Khaya Moya have stayed put, boatsitting Shiloh instead of sailing on, as we all yearn to do. Who could take friends like these for granted. I am reserving some special hugs for our return!

Life aboard isn’t always easy. It is not glamorous, despite what vacation brochures insist, but it is a freedom that I will forever cherish. For us it is not A life, but THE life. And we’re going to soak it up for every salt encrusted moment and gorgeous sunset it brings.

No zzz's at sea

I roll the name over and over on my tongue until it sounds absurd,

“Guadeloupe, Guadeloupe, Guadeloupe”

as the dark knobbly form of the island blurs in the distance.  Smoke billows from the volcanic peak of the grey, dusty remains of Monserrat off to our left. In the distance ahead, the promise of new adventures in Antigua. In between, just hours of blue ocean.

Today was supposed to be a short sail, just ‘around the corner’ from Deshaies where we’ve been ‘stranded’ for more days than planned, due to high winds and huge swells. But as sailors plans are apt to change with the wind, we discovered an hour out, that conditions were not going to allow us to safely enter the shallow channel, peppered with pesky coral heads. The waves were just too big still, so an instant decision was made, to soldier on to Antigua. A 2 hour journey just became a 9 hour journey.

After sails were set and the swell and wind settled a bit, there wasn’t much to do, and both the captain and I, after a night of little sleep, decided to take turns ‘napping’ en route.

I retired first. Headed down to our bed, and cozied into the undulating berth. But it raised and fell, there were squeaks and creaks and groans and bangs. The normal sounds of sailing. Only as I tried to free up my brain and relax into at least a semblance of sleep, my nerves and overactive imagination got the better of me. I lay there, imagining all the worst scenarios.

‘What if my captain gets knocked overboard and I come up later to a ghost boat?’

‘What was THAT noise? Not normal! Did something snap, crack?’

and on and on and on… and sleep eluded me completely. I made my way back up the galley steps looking defeated. Everything was of course fine. JW jumped at the opportunity to take his turn.

The captain in a hazy blue slumber en route...

 And there I found myself, wave watching, counting the peaks on the surrounding islands, singing aloud to my tunes, recalling names over and over in my head til they sounded silly. The wind was low, the waves moderate. No emergencies, perfect conditions for a nap.

My lack of ‘long passage’ experience will now become evident if it hasn’t before. I have just never been able to sleep while sailing. I wonder what will happen to me on a journey longer than 24 hours, when our night watches are doled out in 4 hour intervals and I lie there overthinking, anticipating when my time will be up and just how tired I’ll be and on and on…

Cruising friends say they love the long passages, weeks at a time at sea. They say you develop a routine, make meals, take turns on watches. Still can’t quite get my green little mind around it. Firstly, unless the sea is VERY smooth, you have to hold on just to walk from one area of the boat to the other. Cooking?! I suppose you get hungry enough and sick of quick snacks scoffed down while holding a railing or table edge with one hand… After all, there is a gimbled stove/oven (that swivels and compensates for the motion of the sea) on board for a reason!

But it’s the sleeping that worries me most. I’m liable to be a zombie a few days in.

I haven’t even begun to ask myself whether I’d go stir crazy out at sea for days and weeks.

My first two or three ‘dayer’ is coming up in a month or so. I’m looking forward to the new experience. Maybe before then I’ll learn a meditation technique or get used to chamomile tea or warm milk… whatever works.

We’ve arrived in Antigua! Yawn…

For Quinci

Baguette crumbs surround me. Today, Deshaies, Guadeloupe is my home. My table gently rocks with the considerable swell in the bay. I am a cruiser, sailing, living on a boat. But first, always, I am a mother.

Today, thousands of kilometres from my marine home, my son wakes on this, his twentieth birthday. He might shave, might eat something (remotely healthy?) for breakfast. He will stuff school work into his backpack and head out the door. Turn out his lights, lock his own door. He will cross town and walk the halls of a small university and greet friends. He will make calls and check all the birthday messages on his facebook. In the evening he will meet up with his girlfriend and they will head out for a romantic supper. He will celebrate like the adult that he is.

He won’t remember the black silk mane on his heavy precious head, and warm breath he brought into my life, the tiny living body that I held in my trembling arms just minutes after he was born. He won’t remember his saucer eyes, squeezed shut to the harsh new world, popping open to a tearful young girl, who had just had the mother label shoved into her clueless lap. No, he could not imagine now, a mother’s instant heartwrenching, the stomach churning, overwhelming bond that spread between us through the cold hospital room, just as we were separated physically. The love I felt. The love I feel today, so far away.

Quinci. Never was what I expected. Always was himself. The truest, surest, genuine person grew up within that adorable little frame. With a settled soul he watched me grow and learn motherhood my own way.

I wore steel-toed police boots with vintage mini skirts when he was two years old. We strolled for hours, mother with nose ring and punk short hair, baby Quinci, ‘King of Queen Street’, even then he gazed through my phases. Sat all knowing, greeting all from his stroller throne.

I have never cooked a Christmas supper – no turkey, no ham, no stuffing. No cranberries, no tradition to cling to. I took him across the world, barely a toddler, on my own adventures, seeking myself. 

But there he was, always himself. He tolerated my discoveries and floated through the instability of our lives. One year in the stifling heat of a dilapidated Ghanaian village, I presented him with his Christmas gift as he awoke, covered in mosquito bites. None of us had slept a wink. It was beyond miserable. He hugged me so tightly I thought my mother’s heart would burst. A lump beat my throat and my eyes burned knowing this was a special soul, this my boy. My faith in the human race was restored. For years. 

 And for years he lived uprooted, waiting patiently to find his own place, his own harmony, while I worked through the mess of my own life. Hours of patient melodies he plucked from his little harmonica, and then his guitars. An artist’s soul, soothed by the beauty of music and an appreciation so beyond his years.

At times I was the parent, at times it made more sense for him to be. Linked, hands clasped together we made it through lifetimes of adventures and heartaches. More heartache than any boy should have to endure.

Quinci, my pillar of strength. My sensitive, sensible one. I ache with connection, I feel that gut twisting bond, the tears welling, the throat attacked by the familiar lump… I love you from across a continent, as I did under the harsh lights of the operating room twenty years ago today.

Thank you for sharing yourself, for enriching my life, for being ‘Mompati’ my companion.

Thank you from a mother’s heart, for everything and for just being you.

And on this day my hope is that you will follow all the paths your heart takes you down. May you love, and be loved. May you enjoy this crazy life and never wait to do what you want to do.

Here I am, out on the sea with my soul mate. Following a crazy dream, an unconventional life once again.

And far away you are starting a life of a million possibilities. Never close a door that opens. Never doubt yourself. Most of all, never doubt that I will love you forever.

Blue Eyes

There is something exciting and intriguing about meeting a young rebellious couple with adventure in their eyes and a definite wild side, who are sailing on a tiny hobie cat vessel, made from other people’s trash… hopping from place to place, without a care in the world like the Dick Brano duo.

There is something entirely different about meeting a couple close to the standard retirement age, who have quit their jobs, taken a few sailing courses, bought a sailing boat not much bigger than a dingy, and have sailed it 5 times across the ocean.

Little Blue Eyes is the tiniest sailboat out on the right side

 We were invited for ‘sundowners’ on a miniscule German boat called ‘Blue Eyes’ last night. All day, as we moved along the promenade of St Pierre, from laundromat to town square, to the mini market and back, I peered over at it, anchored in the bay.

We’d met the friendly couple who are both quite tall and didn’t seem extremists in any way, and I just couldn’t imagine how they lived on such a tiny vessel. At the time I didn’t even know about the 5 ocean crossings, but I was already confused and amazed. I couldn’t wait to get onboard for a ’tour’, or more like a lesson in how to stuff two live, moving bodies into a large coffin with sails. Not to mention where they could host 4 of us, making it cocktails for 6!

We arrived in one of the many small rain squalls to mark the evening. Dinghys tied on, we climbed into the cockpit. With 6 of us it was a tight squeeze, all knees touching, appetizers held in laps. Our host sat on his upturned liferaft while his wife sat on the entrance to the inner cabin. Rain whipped the tiny white tarp around us and trickled down our backs. But we laughed and sipped T-punch (straight rum, brown sugar and fresh lime).

We were offered the ‘house tour’ which consisted of peering inside, which held a tapering berth, and about 2 feet of floor room surrounded by small storage compartments, and lots of things which couldn’t find a place to go. I didn’t see a sink or a stove, so the conversation began, about how the basics of living were handled.

‘Blue Eyes’ has no sink, no shower, no toilet, no oven apart from a portable camping stove and drinking water is manually pumped at about 1 litre per 350 pumps. There is no fridge either. Yet it has been across the ocean many times.

Amazing.

We inquired about what foods made it across on the 30 to 45 day journeys they’ve done, and discovered that plain yogurt, butter and cheese all survive perfectly. Apparently a few tomatoes made it over 20 days as well! Canned tuna and veggies were of course staples, but through the whole lesson I just kept imagining trying to piece a meal together of any description in that space, or rather lack of it.

They mentioned that they didn’t eat much of their rations this time, as their last crossing was rough. Every day little Blue Eyes was thrown about, hour after hour.

There is no space to walk, no room to turn around or stretch or have ‘alone time’. No privacy as the toilet set up is a simple ‘bucket and chuck it’. Not glamorous. For me, not quite fathomable.

A week before we had visited another boat, this time a 44 ft  Lagoon catamaran, like ours, but that crucial few feet longer, which creates masses more living space. We came home to Shiloh with boat envy.

After our visit on Blue Eyes I laughed. With them for the sheer tenacity.  At us, for being silly the week before. Everything is relative. Shiloh is a mansion on the sea.

My captain onboard Blue Eyes, marvelling at the tiny circumference of the mast

What it really comes down to is what you are looking for. What you are trying to prove or escape, or what you really value. Living on a vessel that small proves that we don't need a 100th of what we think we do, not really. Happiness is not in belongings. 

And fears? Well if a boat this small can conquer the ocean many times, then most of us harbour silly fears.

If your boat gets you where you want to go, and if it is a home to you along the way, then it is good. Then you are on the right track. Happiness is in the journey. If your journey lacks a toilet and you are happy with that, then I say not only follow that dream, LIVE IT. 

What an inspiration!

The crew of Blue Eyes with us on a hike (on the left) - awesome, happy people.

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).

Blow up dolls and diapered men - a carnaval of note!

Was it the 6 foot evil penis pistol with coco’nuts’ on top of the graffiti’ed car, or the man in a diaper dancing in the middle of the street? Could it have been the drag queen brides in killer stilettos, or rather the blow up girl with functional mouth proudly carried through the crowd. In fact if might have been pregnant male mannequin floating above the sea of revelers, all clad in black and red and devil horns and feather boas. Was it the tattoed lady in her 70's with the full petticoat and tequila sunglasses?!

Whatever that sensory explosion was that signified the Martinique four day carnival, it has blown my mind. Eclipsed all other experiences to date.

Were we in a peaceful bay, snorkeling by day and identifying the stars in the still dark night, just days ago?

How is it that in the meantime my captain has joined hundreds of men, stuffed into dresses of taffeta and sequins, adorned with bright shiny jewelery. That I have now two sets of blingy deeleyboppers and wore them through the town, blending in to the crowds - didn't turn a single head?

We had no idea what we were ‘in for’ when we sailed across the huge bay into Fort de France for their annual carnival. I expected a parade with elaborate costumes and lots of glitter. Who'd have know that the crowds would be as interesting and exciting as the official parade?! Who'd have guessed that every Martiniquan and visitor would join the spirit of the events and don the colours of the day? What a feeling to experience such an all encompassing vibe! Who'd have known that the parade itself would barely scrape the surface of what assaulted our ears, eyes, stomachs.

I’ve eaten chichis and bokits, seen more painted flesh of all ages and colours, and witnessed hairstyles that defy gravity and all sensibility. I’ve tasted Lorraine, the local beer in huge cans, and soaked up music and backfiring cars. I’ve danced and laughed and walked until my soles ground through the pavement.

And it has been a blast. An amazing experience. A cornucopia of sensory stimuli. Caribana could take a few lessons from these guys. No violence, no trouble, just fun fun fun and alot of exhibitionists!

The cruiser partiers!!!

Today is the final day, where everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, wears black and white and they burn an effigy of the king.

All of this is supposedly related to the Christian Lent, but with all the penises and diapers and cross dressing, I’m really not sure how it all relates. Either way, these people know how to shut down a city completely and just give it all up to the party. For four full days. During the week. Supermarkets - closed. Restaurants - closed. Thank god for McDonalds and the free wifi.

Though my feet and eyes and ears are tired, I can’t wait to witness this unbelievable spectacle for just one more day.

And then the next day we’ll go to a real mall! And then, yes then we’ll sail away to find a peaceful bay, and snorkel by day….