Cruising Home

Maia diving in

Maia dove into the frigid BC waters for a swim. Okay—so not really frigid; the water was an incoming tide, sun-warmed, probably 21C, maybe more. It didn’t give my feet an ice cream headache until I waded in past my knees.

Maia wanted me to swim too, but I’m not ten. And I’ve been acclimatized to the warm, vibrant blue waters of more tropical places. It didn’t stop me from recalling the shock of the plunge though, and the near instant adjustment as the caress of the buoyant water takes over from its initial chilling grip.

Being back makes me savour all the little things that Maia only had faint memories of but that were staples of my childhood; wading through thorny brambles to pick blackberries, digging through sand for clams, munching on sea asparagus as we walk the beach, harvesting fruit from trees, eating smoked salmon as the sun dips behind the mountains, knowing to my very core that this is my home…

Living a nomadic life always has a push/pull hold on me. There is so much I love about encountering new people, places and ideas but there is so much I miss about being rooted to a place. I profoundly miss that deeper awareness that comes with simply knowing, without understanding how you know, the names of every plant and where to look for the juiciest berries. I miss the deep connection to a community that leaves you aware of your neighbours and noticing if they need you.

digging for clams

 Maia washed off the purple blackberry stains in the ocean and emerged with the faint blue lips I know signal the end of a swim. She started digging in the sand and came up with a clam, then a dozen more. She’s been fully immersed in more than just water this trip; she’s been rediscovering the rhythms of family as her grandparents take her by the hand and teach her about our life here.

Mini golf with Grandpa Donn and Linda--an island passion (there are dozens of courses)

 Her Grandpa Donn teaching her the lessons of love and perseverance as he passes along gifts from her late Grandma Ann and shares his new happiness. Her Grandma Marg teaching her reverence for the old things she received, showing her how to polish old silver and appreciate its beauty. Her Grandpa Frank teaching her stewardship as they head out to restore salmon streams and care for the gardens.

Salmon stream restoration with her grandpa

These are the things we can’t always find and feel by being nomadic. We move too quickly. We are too much on the edges of the lives we encounter. We are not immersed. For better and worse we are visitors. My fear was Maia would be a visitor here too. That by only coming back occasionally, by not following the seasons and watching the changes as they happen, she would never feel a deep connection to the island that’s been my family’s home for generations.

But as she pulled up the clams and marvelled at the fact that she knew they were there, without really knowing how, I decided that for now we’re okay.

 She dove in; fully and with her whole heart.

Make and Mend

 For the first time in two months, or so, none of us is sick. And the weather is gorgeous. So to celebrate we’re doing boat chores…

Sure we have plenty of big things to do: we still want to replace one rudder (one was replaced in French Polynesia); the new (Fiji) dagger board requires some finishing work; and we have a few wooden beam covers we want to replace in fibreglass. But this week’s chores were more about making our home, homey.

new pillow covers and wetlocker curtains with the lovely fabric Meri (Hotspur) gave me

 Back in the old British navy era make and mend days gave the sailors a chance to pull out their sewing kits and keep their uniforms from turning to rags. If you live on a boat full time—where your one living space is dining room table, family room, living room, workshop and home office—make and mend days fill the same role. It’s the day (week) where we replace cushion zippers, sew new pillow covers, hang up masks that have been hanging around since Fiji and find a way to mount (again) a Milagro that doesn’t involve screws.

Cruising boats are an interesting mix of adventure craft and home. For us (me) it’s a constant balance between wanting the things that make my home feel like a home and keeping it sparse and light enough that we can sail in rough weather and not have knick knacks turn to projectiles.

Our solution is to limit our collecting to things we can use (our super cool Tahitian Ukes for example), or to fabric that we can sew into cushions (turning the previous ones to rags), or to occasionally add to the mask collection we started 25 years ago.

We also discovered foam-backed photos a while ago. Light weight and easy to hang with double sided sticky tape we’ve chosen a few favourites from our trip to date to hang on the galley bulkhead.

TV antenna--for our first television in viewing in years. Some assembly required... Okay--it's not pretty--but we wanted to watch the Olympics.

 

 Soon enough we’ll get back to real chores (I need to tell Evan that the head pump seems to be leaking, and his list for while Maia and I are in North America is growing lengthy…) but for now there’s something kind of fun about simply making things look nice. Especially because boat chores usually have the opposite effect.

First Day

 Several years ago we were woken early by our marina neighbours who were taking their boat out for a sail on New Years day. When we asked them what exactly about the wet, blustery day made them want to go sailing they explained that the way you ring in the new year is an indication of how your year will go. And that you should try to do the things you love best, and experience the kind of moments you want filling your life, as the year gets off to a start. “It’s better than a resolution,” they told us “It’s a promise to yourself.”

Brisbane New Year--good friends, good food, laughter...

Since then we always try to put a little thought into the First Day. Rarely are we ambitious enough to head out for a sail or do anything requiring too much mental or physical acuity (and this year was no exception…) but we do try to hit a few high points.

Rona Street Parklands--one of our neighbourhood parks

 Family time—without exception, is important: just a few hours of being a wee family of three, of giggling, and being amazed by us as a team. And then we try to strikeout with good friends on an adventure.

 Adventures don’t need to be huge, or dangerous, or even involve oceans, and this year we simply headed off in search of a park we hadn’t visited yet and meandered down the sunny paths, admiring the gardens and chatting about nothing much while the kids skated circles around us.

 

 

 

It was a gentle start to a new year that I hope will be filled with dear friends, adventures, good health and happy moments together.The rest really is extra.

And you? That dream you’ve been holding onto? Make this year you make steps toward living it. Use these first days to make a promise to yourself to live richly and fully.

Make it an amazing year!

Play

the bus to Empalme

Evan has been head down in our bilge—turning the ex-water tank into storage, while I’ve been sending off stories and drumming up new work. Maia’s been content—working on writing a biography about an explorer who got lost and sorting through her toy cupboard for things to donate. But I can’t say that any of us have been having fun per se…

We treat the dock days in our cruising life as work days. If we’re going to spend money for the convenience of being in a marina we try to get as much done as we possibly can-which means that unless there are other kids on the dock, Maia doesn’t get much play time.

 But not only are we off the dock now, but a new boat with two little girls arrived. We had heard about Endurance from our friends on Savannah—and when we saw a new boat enter the anchorage on Thanksgiving morning, I think Maia may have decided her Thanksgiving dreams had come true.

Maia, Trinidad and Sammy perform Pippi Longstocking

 Three kids manage to find fun without any help from adults and after getting to know each other over a shared bottle of whipped cream at the potluck—they planned a week’s worth of activity. There would be a theatre production, a sleepover, a visit to the midway that has taken up residence on shore, some exploring and a whole lot of just plain play.

Those old metal slides get hot in the sun--but the old playgrounds still have plenty of merit

Giggles are contagious. 

And happily the three cheery little girls didn’t think three big playmates would spoil their adventurous fun. So for a few days we put down the tools, ignored the to-do lists, averted our eyes from any messes and played.

And played.

Doubly Thankful

 Boat ovens (especially our boat oven) aren’t very big. This became very apparent yesterday as Evan and I negotiated baking time and oven space allotments. If we both had our dishes prepared in advance and didn’t wait until the very last minute to make the pie pastry for example (and discover then that flour needed replacing because it was a little more organic looking than is acceptable …) it probably would have come together just fine. But as it happened—the time for the giant Thanksgiving potluck arrived and we were still cooking. So I began fretting.

 As Canadians, we celebrated our Thanksgiving over a month ago. It’s a holiday I really love: slowing down to savour a meal and the year—and just spend the day being grateful. What we missed in our little celebration six weeks ago were our family and close friends. For so many of our Thanksgivings we’ve been surrounded by the people who mean the most to us—our family by birth and choice.

I got to ponder this as our food cooked slowly and the 50 plus people I was to share several turkeys and hams with gathered on shore. For the most part we’ve only known these folks for a short time—a few weeks, and in some cases a few hours. I wondered if this would make the Thanksgiving ritual a little hollow (especially because as I mentioned before, only a handful of us are actually American…) And I worried I’d have no one to talk to and would simply eat too much, while thinking too much about the people I’d rather be with.

this is a special life for kids--especially because there is always someone there to help fill a plate with dessert

 But then we arrived and space was made for us in this circle of people. Names were learned and stories were shared. I discovered who was ending their cruise and who was just beginning; who were planning to travel great distances and who plans to stay in Mexico.

kids don't need any help in figuring out how to make the most of a new friendship

And I was reminded again of one of the magical elements of cruising—that despite our differences in age, nationality, beliefs and experiences we share a commonality that makes for a special camaraderie. Maybe some of the people we’ve met in our weeks here will be folded into the fabric of our lives rather than left behind and forgotten. And maybe not—but as I watched Maia and the other kids seize the moments of friendship offered and shared, I stopped holding back.

 Being grateful isn’t about perfectly prepared food or gathering just the right crowd—it’s about grabbing every moment with both hands and our entire heart.

So thanks to Phil Perkins on Mannasea and Sharon on Castaway who organized the event and all those who attended yesterday’s lovely meal.

And Happy Thanksgiving.

My Nana & Maia's Great Grandma

Maia did such a nice job of putting together this beautiful post in remembrance of my Nana--that I thought I would borrow it from her blog and use it as well.

May 24, 1920-November 12, 2010

 My Great Grandma was a war bride. She came to Vancouver Island on a ship and then on a train with her two baby daughters, Mary and Margaret, from Scotland in January 1944.

She didn’t know if her new husband would ever return from the terrible war that was tearing the world apart.

She settled on Vancouver Island and had two more children, John and Jim. Her children grew up playing and working on the beautiful Island and they had children of there own. Her family has grown amazingly—she has seven grandchildren and seven great grandchildren.

 My Great Grandma loved to knit, and bake (she made the best scones ever) and to garden. And she had some of the most delicious apples I’ve ever tasted—one year we picked so many we had to have apple pies for weeks. She loved jewellery and cats. But I think most of all she loved her family. And we love and will miss her.

Leave if You Can

Last night while our Thanksgiving dinner cooked in the oven I sat on deck and watched the sunset. Around us seabirds dove into the water catching the little schooling fish. A sea lion and dolphin came through the anchorage-their breath loud against the calm. The moon glowed against the red sky and as the light faded phosphorescence began to twinkle in the water beneath us.
We were anchored at Isla Salsipuedes-"Leave if You Can" Island. It's a rugged rocky island that tends to be off the beaten path. But after a day of magical whale encounters and lovely sailing its stark beauty seemed like the perfect place to say goodbye to the northern sea.
There is often a transition for me-an instant between the moment when I am leaving one place and the one where I head somewhere new. It's the time when I stop looking backward with wistfulness and prepare to look ahead with excitement. And as we set out from Salsipuedes today I stared hard at the island and the Baja--willing the shapes and textures into my memory; inhaling that unique aroma of desert spice mingled with ocean brine.
We unrolled our sails soon after and began a gentle upwind (both stupid forecasts called for downwind) beat to Isla Tiburon. Almost on schedule we passed through a school of big sharks. Soon after their blue tipped fins were out of sight we saw flying fish and boobie birds in the distance and then we caught two dorado, including a big bull which will show up for several meals this week.
By the time I finally looked aft again, Salsipuedes had grown hazy and indistinct.
We had left.
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Twenty Years

Twenty years ago I attended a wedding. The couple, who everyone thought was way too young to be getting married, also had a terribly unrealistic plan for their future. They were going to skip the whole house and mini-van routine, and buy a boat and head out to sea.
While it seemed pretty certain that the marriage was doomed, I had a pretty good time dancing at that wedding. And a really great time on the honeymoon. I also continued to enjoy the past twenty years (give or take a few sucky months here and there…). It turns out that despite being a bit young and inexperienced, I chose a wonderful partner: a man who's accompanied me on some really great adventures, and who's been a good friend through the roughs and the calms.
If I've learned anything about marriage during the past twenty years, it's that there's no magic formula for a good one. It's kind of like cruising boats-one person's dream boat is another person's fixer upper. The wonder of this though is there are no rules-and that there is all kinds of beautiful when it comes to both boats, and marriage. And, at the risk of abusing the analogy, there's no way of really knowing for sure which boat, or marriage, will go the distance. There are a lot of dangerous reefs and storms out there. And sometimes the crew just loses heart.
We spent our twentieth anniversary rolling in the seas that were churned up by Georgette. But beyond the swell, a bit of gusty wind and some receding clouds that was pretty much it for the storm up here. But we were prepared. And we were content to have it pass us by without a smack.
So tonight we'll celebrate twenty years of marriage, two boats, one child and a world filled with amazing friends and family with a Key Lime pie and some ice wine from home. And we'll congratulate that young couple from so long ago; the kids who were too inexperienced and naive to realize that the risks they took in getting married and going for their dreams were crazy ones.
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Setting Sun

We promised Maia that we'd take a few special photos to commemorate her 9th birthday in the Sea of Cortez. The setting sun decided to play a part in the moment. We wish for our sweet, adventurous girl a lifetime of beauty.

Far From Home

Maia and Ann, taken on our visit home last month shortly before we learned her cancer had returned.

 I stood on deck last night with the cell phone pressed to my ear. The sky was glowing pink and red in the sunset and the mobulas were leaping free of the sea, in near flight.

“She’s gone,” my sister told me.

The sky seemed to grow brighter through my tears and a flurry of thoughts went through my mind, not the smallest of which was, 'I shouldn’t be here.'

By being here, where ever ‘here’ is for cruisers and nomads, means we can’t always be there, where ever that might be. For me, right now, ‘there’ is where my father and sisters are. It’s where my stepmother Ann quickly faded to a cancer we thought she beat three years ago. It’s where hushed voices recall a vibrant woman, where tears spill freely and people hug with grief.

When I hung up the phone I thought about how it was that I wasn’t there. The reasons are all sensible and sound. Things happened very quickly with my stepmum and by the time I knew I should go, a potential hurricane was forming. By the time that threat was gone and we knew it would be okay for me to leave, she had faded away.

I wouldn’t have arrived until today.

Grief doesn’t understand sensible and sound though. My arms want to hug my dad, who’s lost his best friend and partner in adventure. My tears want to mix with my sisters’ as we tell each other stories about the woman who took on three unruly little girls, with truly no clue about what she’d gotten herself in to. I want to walk in the garden she loved, and pick a flower or two...

I’ve often talked about the mixed blessings of this life—the wonders and the difficulties. This is one of them. By taking ourselves to the remote places in the world and seeing the sights and having the experiences that few get to have—we have to give something up. It’s like a fairy tale: the old sorceress gives us a life of magic and wonder, but in exchange we get to hold the grief and guilt that comes from not being there when we should be.

Good-bye, Ann.

A Sort of Homecoming

We're home.

Yesterday our arrival back to the boat in Peurto Escondido just felt like a relief. After one ferry ride, two flights, two bus rides (totalling 20 hours) and several cab rides, we were just glad to be back home with the majority of our stuff (Evan had two screw driver bits seized at the airport).

Today though--as we adjust to the heat (was it really this hot when we left? why didn't we notice?), sort through the stuff we brought back (the boat needs to go back on a diet), clean up the mess the cat made while we were gone (uhh, thanks for all the dead stuff, Charlie), and clean up the wasp nest that materialized inside--being home kind of feels like a lot of work...

But it also feels like we're home. The boat may be dirty and chaotic. We may have no fresh food. The temperatures might be causing us to wilt. But there are soaring mountains behind us, blue water beneath us and friends anchored around us.
In a day, or so, I'm sure we'll all being saying how good it is to be back.

Sailors' Hiatus

You may have caught on to the fact we haven't updated for a bit--the reason is we're not on the boat right now. After a year of cruising it was time to head home for a few weeks--catch-up with friends and family (especially my Nana who just turned 90), and buy stuff.

The trip home was relatively painless, we arranged for someone to care for Charlie and the boat, and then got a lift to the bus and spent 18-hours navigating winding roads while watching shoot-em-up movies in Spanish. I'm pretty sure the Transformer movies don't actually have a plot, in either language. In San Diego we parted ways--Ev and Maia headed straight for Vancouver and I went to Quebec for a conference and a press trip.

Maia made good use of her time at home to enhance her unicycle riding skills

Now we're in Vancouver and our days schedule runs something like this: locate and buy sewing needles, engine parts and watermaker bits. Repair electronics, engine bits and computers. See friends, family and doctors. Send Maia to circus camp. Repeat. It's busy, but lovely to be home amongst so many loving people.

The rushed pace is making me miss the boat a bit though. And the cool weather is definitely making me miss Mexico. We know this will all pass too quickly though and in a matter of days we'll be back 'home' in Mexico. So we're savouring all of it.

345,600 minutes

 We’ve been at this cruising thing for eight months now. For the past 34 weeks it’s been me, Maia and Evan; sailing, exploring, and hanging out together. 240 days of just the three of us. 5,760 hours where time spent apart has been the exception, not the rule.

When you are together. All. The. Time. It’s the little things that start to grate: the little messes that seem to materialize where ever Maia is sitting; Evan’s half-finished projects that give our boat a semi-derelict feel; the fact the two of them try and talk to me while I’m working; and the way they seem to hover when I’d rather be alone…

The problem, when you’ve just spent 345,600 minutes together, is there is no unique perspective to give things a fresh energy. Maia and I can anticipate the joke Evan will tell before he tells it (although we still give a half-hearted laugh to keep his confidence up). Maia and Evan know what I’ll order in a restaurant before I do (seafood, always). Maia tends to surprise us still (especially when she waxes poetic about something like the beauty of a burro in, “the soft morning light”), but even she’s becoming staid and predictable.

I need that surprise in my relationships. I need to know that I can’t anticipate how Evan will react to a sunset (nonchalantly) or a potentially naked person, maybe a woman, way over there in the distance (with binoculars).

Which is why, last night, I hung out with the women in the marina’s sky bar, while Evan and the guys went to a fashion show.

A bikini fashion show.

In their defence they thought they were going to a bikini contest. But it turned out to be a private fashion show, complete with fancy snacks and an open bar. So they crashed the party and made due.

For 7500 seconds we were each on our own, telling our own stories (and not completing each other’s sentences). It made us all so happy we’re trying it again today. Maia is on one boat playing with the kids. Evan is at another, working on our sail. I’m home alone, getting work done and chatting with folks when they stop by.

I’m almost getting excited about seeing them to hear how their days went.

Just not yet.