Raft-up: Feeling the fear and doing it anyway

 I thought for a while about how to write this post. My impulse was to do a top ten fears and how I cope kind of story. It would be easy to write that way—less raw and exposing. I could say I’m fearful of storms but we practice good storm management skills and have sorted out how best to ride out bad weather on this boat. Or I’m fearful of breakdowns but we have repair equipment on board and know how to use it.
But my fear doesn’t work like that. In the moment when sails are ripping, reefs are looming, engines aren’t starting or Maia is crying I am clear-headed and pragmatic, and even though my mouth may be dry and my hands might shake, fear is not a problem.
Then I thought I could write this by telling you the details of a particularly difficult experience (Nearly hitting the reef in Vanuatu? Losing the rudder off the Marquesas? The weather bomb off La Cruz? Maia fearing she will never have friends again?) But realized that without immediacy the feelings fade and it simply becomes a story.

Instead I will admit I would like to be a fearless person.

I would love to embrace high winds and towering seas with gusto and awe rather than with shaking knees and white knuckles on the helm. I would love to look at a chart with a long course plotted out for somewhere marvelously foreign and feel nothing but wonder, rather than the more familiar wonder tinged (heavily) with anxiety. I would love to watch Maia as she takes on this world we’re sailing her through and know wholeheartedly that we’re doing the right thing, rather than having the brokenhearted moments of wondering just what she’s losing in this transaction.

Fear is one of the toughest things about cruising for me. I'm fearful of big seas, high winds and crowded seaways. I'm fearful of docking in adverse wind and anchoring in crowded bays. I'm afraid of stuff breaking and equipment failing. I’m afraid of slipping on deck in rough conditions, or of one of us being hurt, or lost overboard. I am afraid that when all is said and done we will regret our choice to cruise. And I worry I am the only sailor who lives this close to the edge of my comfort zone.

Some nights when I wake at 12 midnight and again at 6 am to take over watches I need to go through my mantra, “The night is dark, but I'm not in danger in this moment. The sounds are loud, but nothing is breaking in this moment. The wind is strong, but right now it's propelling us safely.” Some nights when I wake at 3 am worrying that Maia has no permanent base, and that, for children especially, bonding with new people just gets more difficult the more often you say goodbye I need to remind myself that this life is the best gift I know to give my daughter.  

This is a magical life. But there are trade offs. It’s not secure. Not for us. We gave up good jobs in a loving community for the hope we’d find work when we needed it and that we would create a floating village around us. We are aware that our safety is not guaranteed--not on shore, not at sea. We think but don’t know that Maia will blossom better out here.

I read book called Mimff: the story of a boy who was not afraid over and over when I was a child. It was based on an old fairytale about a boy who ran away from his home and family to find fear. I was intrigued, even then, by the idea of being fearless. Mimff traveled the world in search of ‘the fear’ but it wasn’t until he returned home, defeated, and discovered his mother had become very ill while he was gone that he felt afraid.

To me the moral of the story was that you really need to love and value something, or someone, to feel fearful for its security. So I hold that. And when I feel so very afraid, I know it’s because I love this life so very much.

Read more raft-up:
1 Dana svnorthfork.blogspot.com
2 Behan sv-totem.blogspot.com
3 Steph www.sailblogs.com/member/nornabiron
4 Stacey sv-bellavita.blogspot.com
5 Tammy ploddingINparadise.blogspot.com
6 Ean  morejoyeverywhere.com
7 Lynn sailcelebration.blogspot.com
8 Diane www.maiaaboard.blogspot.com
10 Jaye  lifeafloatarchives.blogspot.com
11 Verena pacificsailors.com
12 Toast blog.toastfloats.com

Scaring the Bejesus Out of Myself

I’ve begun daydreaming about the South Pacific. It isn’t that I’m not utterly enjoying where we are; I am. But as I read the letters and blogs from all the friends and the people we know who are cruising through the storied isles of Oceania, that particular adventure seems less like a someday-fantasy and more like an oh-yeah-that’s-where-we’ll-be-next-year scenario. The Tuamotos, Fiji and Tonga seem less like mystical fairy lands and more like our next destination.

I think this is the time where I should be researching. You know, actually pulling out a chart and a few guidebooks, and thinking about where we want to go and what we want to do in the six short months we’ll have in the region.

But I seem to be having a different reaction.

I’m fixated on the disaster stories.

I can tell you how many cruising boats sank in the South Pacific this year: three. How many went up on reefs: four. How many capsized: one cat (their blog), two monohulls. How many lost masts: one.

I don’t think this is healthy. It’s not as though I’m afraid to go to the South Pacific. Okay, I am. But I’m always a bit afraid.

It’s more that I’m kind of morbid.

I was always the kid who would wander through graveyards, and read the grave stones, “The Lord Give and Take But this Time the Lord Taketh too Much” and develop elaborate stories for myself about how the people died. When I was pregnant with Maia, I obsessively read horrible outcome birth stories and convinced myself she wouldn’t see her first birthday. So it almost makes sense that rather than imagining Ceilydh anchored inside a pristine coral reef I tend to imagine her sitting, in pieces, on top of one.

The thing is, anticipation is half the fun in life. And if my anticipation of getting to those magical islands is tinged with so much anxiety I develop an ulcer, I’m really selling the experience short. So from now on I’m skipping the disaster stories. Going cold turkey. If a headline says “Cruising Boat Catastrophe in Ceva-i-Ra” I’m deleting it and moving on to the happy stories.

 Yup, that's what I'm going to do.

Fix, Pray, Sail

Leaving seems to happen in slow stages. There’s the getting ready, the goodbyes and then the sinking in.
The getting ready and the goodbyes were almost the easy parts. Getting ready took focus and dogged determination, but then it was done. And the goodbyes, because we’ve done it before, we know those are temporary.

No, the hard part is the sinking in: The slow realization that we’ve arrived in our life, that this isn’t a one or two year voyage with a predictable conclusion, but a capricious journey that could take us anywhere. I’ve been slow to get to the acceptance part. The trip down the coast pretty much sucked, in many respects. We set off with that smug feeling of knowing exactly what we were getting into and were proved wrong.

It’s hard to be terrified.
It’s hard to have stuff break and wonder if we did something wrong or simply had bad luck.
It’s hard to wonder if we made a huge mistake giving up our home.
It’s hard to hear Maia say she’s lonely.
It’s hard to know there really is no easy way to turn back.

But then there are always those next moments. The quiet contemplative ones that make up everyone’s cruising fantasy--watching the moonrise over a calm anchorage, exploring the beach, sailing in perfect conditions and spending time with good friends, old or new, in beautiful places.

Sarah has been sailing with us twice. When she arrived in Newport Beach before Christmas we had spent almost three weeks just hanging out fixing stuff--happy to stay put. But then the three of us were tentatively ready to go sailing again and she was there to help us along.

We’re not religious but, as I’ve mentioned before, when it comes to setting out on a big ocean in a small boat I’ll take all the help I can get. So Sarah, who’s recently back from Israel, brought help. With a small prayer, she affixed a Mezuzah to the door (we figured it would be okay to put it on the inside seems how the outside would be kind of exposed.) Then for good measure she brought a Hamsa, which is supposed ward off the evil eye and bring us good luck, as well as a very special t-shirt for Maia.

And luck seems to be with us – or at least the evil eye has gone elsewhere for a while. San Diego has been good to us, fellow cruisers (but total strangers), Rick and Sue from Panacea responded to Evan’s online plea for technical help with our Pactor modem and drove out to our marina to trouble shoot the modem, then spent the afternoon driving us around so we could stock up on things for Mexico (we’re filling the lockers with specialty items--appetizer foods, favourite treats, wines, hard cheeses rather than staples). Maia is meeting new friends and is loving her home-based pen pals. I am managing to find some balance in the working while traveling lifestyle. The sun is shining. The boat is in good shape. We’re almost ready to head south again.

We’re out here doing it.

Not a Beginner’s Coastline

"It's not a beginner's coastline." This is what our dock neighbour said to us, shortly after we watched a Seattle boat get towed into Coos Bay by the Coast Guard.

Ollie left Neah Bay a day or so after us and decided to go with convention and headed way offshore. This was an especially safe choice for a single hander. Those who go down the coast closer to shore have to thread their way through fish boats by the fleet and dodge fast moving freighters. There’s no time for catnapping when you’re on a boat that often doesn’t show up on radar.

But the problem with the offshore route is that storms can come up quickly and unexpectedly. And after a couple of days of sailing south, Ollie was hit by storm and then a rudder-breaking wave. It took him almost three days to navigate his way closer to shore – and he only made it by using a bit of awe-inspiring seamanship and ingenuity (he steered using a windvane). Close to shore he radioed the Coast Guard, who cheerfully went out to fetch him and bring him across the bar. Then he called his mum, to let her know he was safe.

In every port we hear these stories and I start to wonder if too many of us are out here with not enough skills? Or, if it really is that hard…

We had an easy enough passage from Coos Bay to Crescent City, but easy enough didn’t make it fun. As folks we met on another boat (who were escorted by the Coast Guard over yet another bar) said – the fun to sucks scale doesn’t start to tip until after San Francisco.

 the Eureka Bar on a bad day

We set off across the Coos Bay bar in an easy swell. This coast doesn’t have many traditional harbours, instead, where the ocean and a river meet there is a dredged channel leading into a harbour. So, as the ocean water gets shallow, the waves steepen and pile up closer together (think waves breaking on a beach). Then when you hit the section of the channel where river silt is deposited (the bar) they can get really quite steep. You need to cross the bar when the tide is flooding, otherwise the whole thing is a big lumpy chaotic mess. But this means bar crossings can only happen at specific times and those times are often not when you’d like them to be.

But anyway, we crossed when we were supposed to and set off on the 125-mile overnight passage to Crescent City. The wind was still light, but it was light and in our face, which made conditions lumpy, which made Charlie the Cat throw-up.

Then the fog set in. A thick, dense fog that at times obscured our bows.

This isn’t a beginner’s coast – but we’ve learned how to read radar well enough. I can pick up just about any boat in the big swell, even if it just flashes for a second here and a second there.
You call on the radio when that happens – to ask who’s out there, what direction they’re heading and if you’re in danger of colliding. I always want to ask what the hell they’re thinking, motoring around in the fog, at night, but then I’d have to answer the same question. 
And despite the fact we can't see the stars or lights on the distant coast, we know where we're going by following our GPS track. We trust it implicitly when it says to steer 180 degrees and then program the auto pilot to make that course.
Then we plow on blindly through the dank night, trusting our electronics, cosy inside the cacoon of our dark saloon.

The fog stayed with us to Crescent City. We missed seeing the classic St. Georges Reef Lighthouse in the darkness. We saw the rock strewn entry and the bouys marking a safe path in on radar - long before we saw them with our eyes. We heard the fog horns and just caught the glow of the light from the Battery Point Lighthouse as we motored into the flat calm of a harbour of refuge.

Battery Point Lighthouse

As we dropped our anchor, I thought of the ships that plied this coast for the 150-years before radar, GPS and radio.

I imagined their foolish bravery.

I’m humbled.

Sulking and working, working and sulking

We were up early enough this morning to see the sunrise.

Despite the rosy glow, I sulked. I wished it were rising somewhere else, somewhere further south, somewhere where my breath didn’t linger in the morning air. And I wished we were magically transported there – now.

Even though we’re in a lovely place and the weather is pretty decent (despite the stupidly cold mornings) I’m not so fond of this part of boating life. We’re in the stage called limbo. We still have stuff that needs to be done before we can head south but while we work to get the stuff done our weather window is beginning to slide shut: 

Which causes me anxiety and makes me grumpy.

I’m the first to admit that I worry far more than I should. I often wake in the middle of the night concerned about totally random stuff – last night it was chocolate chips (should we buy them now? Or later?)

Evan rarely seems to worry, which annoys me. But he when does show stress, I know things are bad and I get even more worried.

Which leads me back to right now, Ev is beginning to show signs of stress. He’s done the bulk of the physical work that got the boat ready. Yes, I played a supporting role but because one of us needed to hang out with the kid, only Evan got to deal with sharp tools and toxic chemicals (those aren’t good for kids to play with…) So, despite the fact I’ve always been a cocaptain on our boats – this time we went with tradition and divided into pink and blue roles.

And I liked it.

I like not getting dirty. I like not worrying if a screw-up on my part could cause us to sink. I like being oblivious to how this was installed or that was designed. I've become the type of female boater I never respected: the kind that doesn’t really like to drive my dingy (it has a twitchy throttle) and would really prefer not to touch yucky chemical stuff while hanging upsidedown in a cramped locker.

But I’m discovering a problem with this. I haven’t got much idea about how anything works on the boat. I never know which switch to flick or where the technical stuff is kept. I know all about housekeeping, but I’m pretty useless when it comes to getting the boat ready. And here we are, running out of time.

This is the point where I could claim to have an epiphany – I’d realize I’m sabotaging my sailing life by not jumping in and draining the transmission oil out of the engine. But honestly – I think epiphanies are an over-used literary device that writers employ when they want a good ending to a story. I don’t think they really happen. I don’t think it’s likely that I’ll suddenly wake up, all raring to climb the mast or disassemble something greasy.

So, while I’ll probably not suddenly decide it’s my calling to work on the boat rather than cook dinner, I do know where I want to be: south, where the morning air is light and warm. And I know there’s only one way to get there – by actually working on the boat and not sulking. 

But I also think I’ll buy the chocolate chips on this shopping trip and make cookies to feed us when we stop working.

This whole moving aboard thing is taking its toll on me.
I'm not sleeping very well.
I wake up in the middle of the night with disturbing thoughts like, "Why is the boat's engine cutting out when it idles? Do we need a mechanic? What happens if we're going for fuel at a crowded fuel dock and a fisheries opening is called and the engine cuts out and I don't hear it because huge fishing boats are motoring past at high speed, rushing to get to the fishing ground because if they're late they'll lose out and won't be able to make their house payments? Could our boat be damaged?"


That was last night's worry.

The night before it was, 'What happens if someone calls for our Craig's List sofa and they come alone and are really little and need my help to carry the sofa down our 3 flights of stairs? Could I re-injure the torn ligaments in my knee from the strain? And if I do how will I get in and out of the dingy?"



The good news is Evan's incessant googling on the idling problem led him to discover that our engine's governor needed adjusting. He just called to say it's fixed! And the couch was taken by friends last night. So hopefully I'll sleep well tonight.

Although I am concerned that the floor above the port water tank has been creaking and in rough seas a seam could pop and then the whole thing might rupture and then we'd be sloshing around trying to fix it while a freighter, which we may have missed on the radar, bears down on us...