In October ’07, my son Todd and his friend Joe Hayes left the safe harbor in South Haven, Michigan to begin a round-the-world sailing adventure on a 42-foot sailboat named Crisis Mode. When Todd asked me if I would like to join the adventure for a couple of week to do some island hopping in the South Pacific, I thought for two seconds before jumping up and down and screaming, “Yes! Yes! Yes!” The simple fact that my (then) 28-year-old son would invite me into such an important part of his life was enough to make me jump for joy. Beyond that, I’d grown up on sailboats and had always wondered what it would be like to sail the open seas. It was an extraordinary trip: fun, challenging, and filled with self-discovery and spiritual insights. Because I wanted to remember every detail of the trip and share it with my family and friends along the way, I sent period email updates; hence, this lengthy trip journal. I delayed posting it until I could insert photos into the text. I finally decided to post it without the photos, though I still intend to post them eventually. In the meantime, you can check out Todd’s extraordinary trip photos on his website. www.crisismode.org, click Photos
Update 1
Perhaps it’s premature for me to say this, but I think I could get used to this kind of life.
My trip began on April 17, when Todd and I met in LA. A week earlier Todd had left the boat (and Joe, his sailing companion) in Tahiti so Todd could attend a wedding in Puerto Rico. He was returning from the wedding and I was arriving from Chicago when we joined forces at LAX. Together we boarded a plane for Tahiti and began our trip on a profound note: watching The Bee Movie. I was planning to read a book until Todd started laughing out loud. I decided laughing was a good note on which to start an adventure.
We landed in Papeete, Tahiti, in French Polynesia at 10pm. We had a little trouble getting through customs because without a return flight (since he was leaving by boat) Todd had trouble proving he would, in fact, leave the country. (Apparently islands known for their beauty and agreeable lifestyle have a bit of a problem with people plopping down beneath the legal radar and never leaving.) We finally got to the boat around 11pm, and unpacked a few of the 100 pounds of stuff I delivered to the boys—including computer, ocean charts, clothes, 25 books, and about 20 pounds of Cliff Bars. I think I’d been up for about 24 hours by that time, so it felt good to celebrate Joe’s engagement to Emily with a glass of wine from a box, turn on the fan in the aft cabin, and settle into my new “nest.” (For those of you who don’t know, Joe’s girlfriend, Emily, had visited him in Tahiti, where they got engaged in the middle of a beautiful bay under a South Seas sunset!)
Papeete is like Road Towne in Tortolla—crowded, busy, noisy, not a place you want to stay. The Tahiti of vacation brochures is somewhere else on the island—Joe and Emily managed to find it, so he can report on that elsewhere, but we were ready to head for less inhabited spaces. While Todd took the dinghy around to the immigration office and checked us out, Joe and I walked to the grocery store for some ridiculously expensive produce; I think we may have spent $200 on some cabbage, a few bananas, oranges, apples, a teeny pineapple, celery and carrots, but since we paid in French francs I really don’t know.
At noon we set sail and headed for Moorea. Okay, we didn’t actually set sail; there was no wind so we motored for two and a half hours. But I was still in bliss. I sat on the deck of the bow, pondering the two weeks to come. The night before, when Joe and Todd had asked about my goal for the trip, I said I had no particular expectations and that my only goal was to be fully open to however the trip might unfold. I wanted to be present to everything: every sight, sound, person, conversation, and change of plans. I’m wondering if that might be a metaphor for the next era of my life—I’ll continue to consider that.
We cruised a couple of harbors on Moorea, then chose a spot so lovely it can’t possibly be captured in a photo. With a huge reef surrounding the island, it’s possible to anchor anywhere along the coastline in complete safety. In the afternoon we went snorkeling and saw sea creatures we’d never seen before. There were extraordinary cobalt blue and yellow and purple fish of all shapes and sizes, and a wide variety of what looked like angel fish, feathery and elegant. But there were also scary sea creatures—big, strange, bumpy critters inching along on the white sand. I made the mistake of watching an Imax video on deep-sea predators with Henry the day before I left Barrington. Suddenly, I’m seeing creepy predators everywhere!
It is extremely hot here. If you don’t apply sunscreen by 7am, forget it—it slides right off your skin along with the sweat. And the heat never lets up. Though it gets dark by 6pm, it remains hot all night.
Last evening we settled into the cabin and watched The Cinderella Man DVD. I hate boxing movies, except this one. I didn’t know then that watching an evening movie would become a delightful ritual of the trip. We were in bed by 10:30, exhausted.
It’s now 9am. Todd is waiting patiently for me to finish this email so he can send his little stash of communiqués. Joe fixed us fabulous pancake sandwiches for breakfast—two pancakes stuffed with peanut butter and jelly—and we ate our juicy little pineapple. Shortly, we’ll head off in the dinghy to explore the coastline. There is a resort with little huts built out over the water; we have to see if it looks as charming up close as it does from a distance.
Really, it’s not very much fun here, so don’t bother getting jealous. Really, I’m quite bored. Really, I’d rather be in a blizzard in Chicago.
Really…well, you get the idea.
Update 2
We pulled up anchor in Moorea at 4:30 pm on Sunday and began our 17-hour passage to Raiatrea. The sky was a dramatic tapestry of light and dark: a spectacular sunset in front of us, a full moon rising behind us, and the dark clouds of scattered squalls on the horizon in every direction. There wasn’t a puff of wind, so we motored all night, adjusting our course to dodge the squalls. On a long passage the boys take turns at the helm, switching every three hours. I had no responsibilities at all, except to try to sleep in my bunk directly next to the growling, vibrating engine. It was much more peaceful sitting in the cockpit, watching the waves roll by. Because of the full moon it stayed fairly light all night. It rained off and on, but remained warm. I was stunned by the beauty of the night—and that is a massive understatement.
We arrived in Raiatrea at 9am and anchored near a reef where the boys surfed—the best surfing of their trip so far, they said. I thoroughly enjoyed some quiet time to read and write.
In the evening we had dinner on a “neighboring” catamaran named Gabriella. Todd and Joe had met the family on this boat earlier, in the Marquesas Islands. The next morning (yesterday) the boys surfed again before we pulled up anchor for the short cruise to the island of Taha’a.
Update 3
Okay, so the ants crawling out of our Hibiscus Cocktails weren’t exactly the high point of the day, but Fredo, the Polynesian islander
who served us the drinks, was worth every ant we had to fish out of the bottoms of our tall glasses. Fredo was so charming, in fact, that despite the ants we decided to return to the Hibiscus Restaurant for dinner. Fredo also suggested that we move the boat from the anchorage we’d selected earlier in the afternoon to a free (and better) mooring at the Hibiscus Marina. We were tempted by the marina offer because it really was a better location than we had, but we concluded there wasn’t enough daylight left for us to walk 3 miles back to where we’d left the dinghy, motor out to where Crisis Mode was anchored, and then make it to the new marina before dark.
“No problem,” said Fredo. “Grab your bowl of peanuts and your drinks. My friend is heading your way. He’ll drive you to your dinghy.” So we hitched a ride to the dinghy, sped across the waves to Crisis Mode, pulled up the anchor and headed for Hibiscus.
Only then did we remember that we had used the boat hook (a long pole with a hook at the end) as a temporary support for our improvised sun awning. We didn’t have time to untie the various knots and twisted sheets that would free the boat hook, and without the hook it would be nearly impossible for Joe to snag the mooring line that rested in the water while Todd maneuvered the boat into striking distance. In addition, darkness descended more quickly than we had anticipated. Enough details. Suffice it to say that an extended scrub brush in Joe’s hands and a flashlight in mine did the trick eventually (three’s a charm) but it wasn’t pretty and it wasn’t safe.
We did eventually make it to dinner and enjoyed mahi mahi, marlin, and of course, Fredo and his stories of the island. The boys also told a few boating stories that kept me laughing all evening. I especially enjoyed the vision of them paddling their dinghy across a huge bay in the Galapagos because someone had stolen the fuel line from the engine in the dinghy. They started out paddling with their hands; by the time they reached Crisis Mode they were padding with their flip-flops. Cute.
Update 4
This morning we motored to the other side of Taha’a, where we are now. This afternoon we took a long walk on the island; it’s a beautiful, mountainous landscape, lush and green. Hibiscus flowers grow wild, everywhere, in a wide variety of sizes and colors. The vibrant green of the islands and the turquoise waters of the Pacific make a stunning combination. It’s like plopping Ireland down in the middle of the Pacific. Perfect!
On that note I have to close…it’s time to dinghy to shore for evening entertainment. More tomorrow…
Update 5
The swaying Polynesian dancers in their flowing skirts and bikini tops, ornate headdresses, and hibiscus leis were impressive. But the flame-twirling men (and one little boy) stole the show last night at the Haravana Restaurant on the island of Taha’a. The $82-per-person buffet dinner was so far beyond our budget we didn’t even consider it. But Maui, the 28-year-old restaurant manager, said we could sneak in and watch the show if we just ordered something to drink. So we enjoyed the daily punch special, watched the dancers and chatted with Maui. Born in Bora Bora, Maui offered insight about surfing, ocean swells, and what to see on his home island—our next stop.
This morning we pulled up anchor and thoroughly enjoyed the 3-hour sail to Bora Bora, averaging 6 knots with only the small jib up. Just a few minutes into the trip, 9 small dolphins joined us at the bow, playfully darting back and forth just ahead of us. Maybe they actually weren’t being playful at all; maybe I was witnessing serious dolphin behavior. Still, they reminded me of exuberant puppies, delighting in life. What a great way to start the day.
Bora Bora is described in the island guide as “arguably the most beautiful island on the planet” and I wouldn’t dispute that—jagged, brilliant green peaks surrounded by lush lowlands. After catching a mooring in one the famous “blue lagoons” of the South Pacific, Joe worked on the website while Todd and I took a dinghy ride around the island. Small “bungalows” built over the water dotted the coastline, and children laughed and splashed in the most brilliant turquoise water I’ve ever seen.
We found what appeared to be a promising snorkeling area, tied the dinghy to a white mooring and jumped in. It was my first experience with an underwater camera and Todd told me that they key to success was getting really close to the “subject.” I found a beautiful subject, a curly purple shell tucked into a crevasse of coral. I moved in close, ready to snap, when suddenly the “subject” started moving—pulsing, heaving, opening—about 6 inches from my nose. So much for that photo. The I-max sea predator movie I rented for Henry is still messing with my mind.
One of our boating neighbors just came to inform us that the President of French Polynesia is appearing this evening at a tent near the harbor. There will be free food and drinks and “everyone is invited.” This seems hard to believe, but we’re going to hope for the best, dress in our fanciest boating clothes, and head for shore at 7 pm. Hello Mr. President!
Update 6
It was not an idle rumor. The President of French Polynesia really did show up last night in the huge white tent across the bay. He was the small man sitting in the front row with white leis stacked up to his eyeballs. We listened to passionate speeches in a Polynesian dialect (we think) with scattered French. The massive red and white flag behind the stage dictated the evening’s attire. Dancers on stage wore long red dresses. Islanders sitting at tables under strings of red and white balloons wore various red and white floral prints (shirts or blouses) and white pants or skirts. Men and women alike wore leis or a single flower tucked behind an ear. While Todd and Joe didn’t seem tempted to sway their hips in response to the mellifluous sounds of the music, I have no trouble understanding why the traditional dancers are so graceful and smooth. The melodies are gently hypnotic. (Or maybe it was the little green leaves we smelled burning behind the tent that were hypnotic…never mind.)
It’s also true that the festivities included food and drink for all, but we didn’t stay long enough to partake. You can only listen to so many speeches in a foreign language. Besides, a long dinghy ride in the dark awaited us and we were so excited; Joe just loves to make 360-degree sweeps with a tiny flashlight to ward off attacking boaters. Besides, it was already 8:30 pm, almost our bedtime.
Update 7
Today is the first day since I’ve been here that we’ve stayed in one place without moving the boat. I’m enjoying the quiet, onboard day. The boys just left for a run on the island. I was planning to surprise them by doing some cleaning in the cabin while they’re gone, but it is TOO HOT! I’m dripping with sweat just from typing, and I’m generally not much of a sweat-er.
This morning I enjoyed some of the famous oatmeal for breakfast. You may recall that during their 18-day passage from the Galapagos to the Marquesas Joe and Todd ran out of oatmeal and then spent many days discussing the merits of the little flattened grains. Now I understand their obsession. Boat life is so pared down, so basic; any simple pleasure that becomes part of the daily routine is really, really important. You relish the anticipation of it and make the most of the experience when it arrives. Hence, an empty oatmeal box is a serious disappointment.
On the other hand, a turkey and cheese sandwich with thinly sliced tomato is heavenly. Even last night’s ravioli out of a can went down well. But the real culinary adventures unfold when Joe gets creative with rice, tuna, and canned vegetables. His generosity with spices frequently adds a kick to dishes that look more innocent than they are. Seriously, Joe does a great job as chef. I think my favorite dish so far was fresh carrots sautéed in olive oil and powdered with cinnamon. The quesadillas were superb, too. I’m also delighted that Joe shares my fondness for cookies.
My contribution to boat life is laundry, which means turning the tiny galley sink—or even a bucket in the cockpit—into a washtub for whatever items become so smelly something has to be done. When I talk about smelly items I am not implying that there are also smelly bodies on this boat. There aren’t; the humans with whom I’m traveling are remarkably committed to personal hygiene. But a soggy towel splashed with salt water has a smell all its own and it’s not pretty. Though Todd really HATES the look of towels hanging on lifelines, I think he is beginning to realize that when the towels smell better everything smells better.
I don’t know if the boys appreciate my persistent questions about their boating experiences, but they’ve been indulging me. Yesterday while we sailed I asked about the books they’ve read. Since they’ve given some books away, their little library isn’t all it used to be but it’s still pretty impressive. Here’s a smattering of what they’ve read, in no particular order: Life of Pi (Martel), Orthodoxy (Chesterton), Peace Life A River (Enger), The Moveable Feast (Hemingway), Walden (Thoreau), Moby Dick (Melville), Crime and Punishment (Dostoevsky), Inner Voice of Love (Nouwen), The Path Between the Sea: The Creation of the Panama Canal (McCullough), Secrets in the Dark (Buechner), Traveling Mercies (Lamotte), Dreams From My Father (Obama), and How to Change the World: Social Entrepreneurs and the Power of New Ideas (Bornstein).
Currently Todd is reading Over the Edge of the World: Magellan’s Terrifying Circumnavigation of the Globe (Bergreen). Joe is reading Dr. Zhivago (Pasternak). I am reading a fascinating travel memoir, Tales of a Female Nomad: Living at Large in the World (Gelman). I cannot imagine a better way to receive a broad education than a boat bookcase filled with “favorites” recommended by a wide variety of friends. Add empty, stretched-out hours at sea, and you’ve got an unofficial “semester at sea.”
Tonight we had dinner at the Bloody Mary Restaurant with our friends from Gabriella, Gail and Ted, their 16-year-old son Trevor, and Ted’s father, Bill. They set sail from their home in the Florida Keys last July. Todd and Joe have been crossing paths with them ever since they met in the Marquesas. They’ve become the kind of friends with whom you trade books and DVDs, go surfing, and share fresh produce if you’ve been lucky enough to find some. They attend a WCA church in Islemerada, so we always have plenty to talk about.
The Bloody Mary Restaurant has white sandy floors, a thatched roof bar, and flowers everywhere, but none of that compares in grandeur to the sink in the lady’s room: a waterfall tumbles down a huge sculpture of rocks and flowers and gently splashes onto your hands. I went in twice just so I could wash my hands and Gail and I even took photos.
In the morning we’re leaving on our 690-mile crossing to Rarotonga in the Cook Islands. According to the weather channel on the computer, it appears we will have no wind. A motoring trip means we need to fill up the fuel tanks before we head out—too bad, because the dollar is performing really poorly in French Polynesia, but if we wait for a gas station in the Cooks, we may run out of gas and end up bobbing around on a flat sea for a very long time. The good news is that because we’re officially a “boat in transit” we’re eligible for tax-free fuel, which amounts to a considerable savings. So one of the morning chores will be to head into town to get copies of all the necessary boat documents; there’s a surprising amount of paperwork associated with being a boat in transit. We’ll also have to deflate and stow the dinghy, take down our temporary sun canopy, and do a bunch of little chores I’ve not yet been informed of. I did pick up a bit of fresh food—carrots, apples, tomatoes, pears, long French breads, meat and cheese—as well as a new stash of cookies.
This will be my first long passage, 5 or 6 days and nights at sea. I think I’m going to love it and I hope I’m right. I’m not too proud to pop the little seasick pills and rub the fragrant essential oils behind my ears and on my wrists (they’re supposed to ward off seasickness, but even if they don’t, they smell lovely). I’ve accepted the fact that I won’t last more than 30 seconds below deck (unless I’m dead asleep) without feeling seriously queasy. The big question is, can I read on deck while the boat is moving without getting sick? I can’t read in the car—at all—but Todd assures me that it’s different on a boat. I’ll let you know.
Okay, everyone, I hope you’ve gathered that I’m having a wonderful time and am so grateful to the boys for inviting me into their adventure. Love to all…and I’m blowing a kiss to you, Henry.
Update 8
We motored into a working industrial harbor on Rarotonga in the Cook Islands at 8am Tuesday. We had motored slowly throughout the night so we wouldn’t arrive before daylight. As we viewed the island for the first, the sunrise was as beautiful and peaceful as a Michigan sunset. The preceding night, too, had been beautiful, but it was not in the least peaceful. Lightning, thunder, heavy winds and mountainous swells provided the theme for our sleepless night; if the lightning didn’t scare us into wakefulness, slamming back and forth on a narrow bunk did. If you think I’m complaining, I’m not. I kept telling the boys I wanted DRAMA. My dream came true!
After anchoring in stunningly beautiful natural harbors on Moorea, Raiatrea, Taa’ha, and Bora Bora, I was seriously disappointed when we tied up at a stained and chipped concrete wall in a manmade harbor with not a shred of privacy and a seascape dominated by a rusty shipwreck, a massive rusty blue barge loaded with rusty containers, and two rusty commercial fishing boats being refurbished. Did I say “rusty?” An Aussie lady on a neighboring boat was very helpful as we tied up, and the immigration lady who fumigated the boat was extremely friendly; still, I was convinced that nice people could not make up for a rusty harbor.
After getting settled a bit, the boys and I walked through the local town—a strip of shops that lined the road circling the island—then had lunch at the Whatever Bar and Grill. By then I was warming up slightly to the place, but I was still sorry that my sailing adventure was going to end in such a less-than-charming place.
While the boys stood in line to get island drivers’ licenses and rent motorcycles, I went back to the boat to drown my disappointment in a cold Coke. While I sipped, I recalled the vow I’d made early in the trip: to be fully present to every place, person, and experience I encountered. Well then, I decided, I needed to fully embrace the lack of privacy, the rust, and whatever else this little island had to offer. By the time the boys returned with the motorcycles I was in much better spirits and ready to explore the island via motorcycles.
On Rarotonga everyone drives everywhere on motorcycles. Mopeds and small street bikes are the preferred mode of transportation. Frail grandmothers, young mothers with preschoolers, ripped surfers, and tourists of all age and shape scoot around the island on noisy little two-wheeled vehicles. I was appalled to see a tiny slip of a girl riding behind her mother, waving her arms in the wind as her mother leaned around a curve. I don’t know what kept the little waif from blowing off the bike. Fortunately, the speed limit is slow and it’s clearly a way of life.
So I rode with Todd, and Joe followed as we hugged the coast. Then the boys got restless and we headed inland, off the beaten path. Within fifteen minutes we had turned those little street bikes into “the little dirt bikes that could.” Chugging up hills, sliding through gravel, skidding down ravines—and on numerous occasions staring eyeball to eyeball with goats—we got a slightly different view of the island. The houses we discovered on dirt roads that turned out to be driveways were modest, and in many cases fairly run down, but they were surrounded by the most stunning foliage I have ever seen (like a tropical jungle). The jagged, hilly terrain combined with a wide scope of colors and shapes to give incredible texture to the landscape. There were yellow philodendrons and wild purple coleus, giant waxy heart shaped leaves and feathery evergreen boughs. On some hillsides clusters of trees were covered entirely by creeping vines. On other trees, strings of wispy foliage hung like cobwebs nearly to the ground.
By the time we returned to the boat we were covered in sweat and mud, but we had fallen in love with the island. Even the noisy, rusty harbor was beginning to reveal its charm. While the boys showered, I watched a little tugboat push a huge cargo barge out to sea. The powerful tugboat engine roared and spewed smoke—not a pretty sound or sight—but I have to admit it was inspiring to watch the undersized tug manhandle the giant barge. During all my years of being around boats, I’d never actually watched a tugboat do its thing; I’m glad I was sitting in this dusty little harbor to see it.
In the evening, as the sun and temperature dipped, I sat on the bow of the boat and watched the people on the wharf. There were dock laborers leaving work on their motorcycles, women in bright sarongs carrying bags of groceries, little girls fishing with long cane poles. I jumped from the boat to the wharf to talk to the little girls, but they were clearly less interested in me than I was in them, so I ended up chatting with the couple on the boat next to us.
The couple, a Swedish marine engineer and his Aussie wife, had bought a 27-year-old, 48-foot steel sailboat named Olena in the Caribbean and were delivering it to their home in Australia. Todd and I sat under the burgundy awning of Olena’s wide, teak cockpit several times during the next couple of days, intrigued by the life experiences that had led our new friends to take an unpaid leave from successful careers to purchase a boat that’s long on character, style and seagoing durability, but much in need of tender loving care. Like so many people at mid-life, our friends had been pushed by painful losses to seek the time and space to re-evaluate priorities and chart a revised life journey. After every conversation with them I was slightly high on the pleasure of shared stories.
Sometimes my relational pursuits are disappointing; despite my investment of emotional energy and my probing questions, I am left unsatisfied by a shallow conversation or an inauthentic encounter. But at other times—and I thrive on times like these—I am pleasantly surprised by a person’s depth of character or philosophy of life, and by their willingness to talk about it. I don’t know if long days at sea predispose speakers to speak more openly, or if seaward days simply slow listeners down long enough to listen more carefully. At any rate, the conversations I’ve enjoyed during this trip definitely support what Todd and Joe have said: that conversations seem to occur around boats and water that never seem to happen anywhere else.
Yesterday an American woman a bit younger than me told a familiar story. An artist with a free spirit, she made a series of unwise choices until she landed in AA. Sincere and determined to mend her life and follow God, she buried her wandering free spirit and re-invented herself as a “nice girl”—determined to play it safe, follow the rules, and keep everybody happy. But she discovered as so many women do, that God didn’t create her to be nice. God created her to submit her wandering spirit to God, yes, but not to deny her unique personality, passions, gifts, and dreams. As we talked it became obvious that her deepest desire is to be part of a grand vision, a God-inspired adventure of loving this world and everything in it.
She and I went snorkeling together, and I began to see the beauty of her sprit. She was far braver than I when we floated over an underwater field of long black skinny things covered with sharp spines and lacy black “fingers” that swayed menacingly as they inched along the bottom. I was totally creeped out and grabbed my friend, tore off my mask and sputtered, “Do you know what those black things are?”
“No,” she said calmly, “but they seem to move slowly.”
Slowly? Sorry, but that was not good enough for me. I paddled against the current on an inefficient beeline to shore—and we continued our soulful conversation safely on land. Later, on another snorkeling trip, she pointed out creatures I would have missed: an ugly octopus hiding in the coral, a camouflaged scavenger nearly invisible in the sand. When I commented on her ability to see so many things that I missed, she said, “I guess I just have curious eyes.” Ah, curious eyes. That’s how I want to be! And surely, more curious eyes would lead to a more open heart. Dear God, thank you for a new friend who calls me to a new way of being in your world.
The next day Joe and Todd and I joined other tourists to go mountain touring on four-wheel drive quads; this time Joe took the lead. My soul was not particularly filled by dodging clumps of mud flung from Joe’s quad, but I did manage to snap some good photos while we bumped along. I have a great collection of foliage photos—a whole series of potential screen savers—but my favorite shot is the elegant white goat that was completely nonplussed by our parade of 8 rumbling quads. The pigs eating coconuts were pretty cool too.
That evening at 9pm, the wind shifted around to the North, flinging the boats against the concrete wall. We had read in the island guide that North winds make this harbor unsafe, but fortunately “they are very rare.” Right. We had every bumper onboard strung between the wall and the hull, but Todd was still concerned. That night he slept in the cockpit, setting his alarm every hour so he could check the boat. By morning the winds were even stronger and the swells were fierce, but all was well . . . until the huge round bumper holding the bow off the wall burst.
There was no option but for Todd and Joe to stand on deck and push against the wall every few seconds when the waves hit. I felt guilty sitting comfortably under the awning while they strained their muscles and got drenched with rain, but what’s a girl to do? “Take photos of those cranes,” yelled Todd. Cranes? I thought he meant beautiful pinkish bird-type cranes—yippee, more gorgeous creatures!—but no, he meant the two giant yellow machine-type cranes maneuvering a huge fishing boat from the wharf into the water. Switching into grandma mode and remembering how much Henry LOVES machines of any kind, I took about a hundred photos for the little guy. I can’t wait to snuggle him in my lap, show him my photos, and hear him say, “trac-tor, trac-tor, trac-tor.” But, back to the story.
When the winds increased, Todd made a bold decision: to untie the lines and head out to sea. Getting the boat away from the wall without being crushed against it was a major accomplishment. We motored outside the harbor, with Olena following us as she began the next leg of her journey to Australia. After waving goodbye and taking a few parting photos of Olena and her crew, we headed back into the harbor to anchor farther from the wharf. While we were still battered by the fierce North wind, at least we weren’t flailing against a concrete wall. The only downside of the day’s events was discovering in the midst of the maneuvering that the rudder indicator on the autopilot wasn’t functioning. But surely that was just a little glitch; not something to worry about on a Friday evening after an exhausting day.
Now it’s 4:05pm on Saturday. My scheduled flight back to Barrington left 15 minutes ago. I’m not on it. That’s another story.
Update 9
I really was packing my bags on Saturday morning in preparation for catching my 3:50pm flight out of Rarotonga and heading home. But…well…I guess I just didn’t want the adventure to end. And I convinced myself that the boys needed me for another 10 days. It turns out the autopilot really is kaput, which means that on this next passage—Rarotonga to Niue to Tonga—every nautical mile of progress will require a living, breathing human being at the helm, constantly watching the compass and adjusting the course. Without the autopilot, you can’t just push a button, scan the horizon every few minutes, and settle into a good book. Sailing without an autopilot is the REAL THING—when you’re on watch, you’re ON WATCH. So, I think the boys may appreciate a third helms-person. This means, of course, that I’m moving from “I’m on vacation” mode to “I’m a working crewmember” mode. And I’m looking forward to it.
So, I was on the boat writing in my journal when “my” plane flew overhead, and the second leg of this adventure began. An hour later the boys returned from rippin’ up the trails on their cycles and informed me we had reservations for dinner and music at the coolest place on the island. Resort owner Jim, a transplanted Hawaiian, served a beach-style feast, complete with a live musician playing the “vibes” and a hula-dancer. Though reservations for the evening were technically closed, he graciously added us to the list.
The buffet-style dinner served outdoors included grilled fish, fresh roasted corn and potatoes, and a variety of spicy island salads. We were joined at our table by a film crew from New Zealand whom we had seen on the island earlier in the day. They were filming a segment for The Breakfast Show, apparently New Zealand’s version of Good Morning America. Nick, Sarah, and Lena filled us in on the local points of interest they’d been filming, and ended up spending the entire evening with us.
Lena, who grew up in Rarotonga, told me that the black spiny underwater creatures that had freaked me out on Friday were a harmless variety of “sea cucumbers.” Islanders pull them out of the water, break off a chunk, squeeze the “innards” directly into their mouths, then throw the chunk back into the water so it can keep growing. “They taste like salty, slimy little noodles. We love them!” The next time I went snorkeling I was no longer alarmed by the creatures, but neither was I tempted to do a taste test.
Later that night—a mere hours after I decided to miss my plane and embark on a deeper level of adventure—a VERY STRANGE thing happened. Sarah, from the NZ film crew, coaxed me out onto the dance floor. So, at age 56, I danced in public for the first time in my life. It wasn’t impressive, but it was fun. Todd said, “Mom, seeing you have this much fun is worth the entire trip!”
The next day, Sunday, was Joe’s 31st birthday. We celebrated by going to a local church; we’d been told the morning service would be in the local language, with English translation. The highlight of the service was a beautiful, majestic worship anthem that reverberated through the stark white building; despite the unknown language, it was captivating. When the preacher started speaking, we were anxious for the English translation, but it never materialized. Finally we left to find spiritual edification out on the beach.
In the afternoon I snorkeled while the boys surfed. Afterwards Joe celebrated his 31-year-old macho-ness by cracking open a coconut with his bare hands. Okay, there was also a sharp stick involved, but Joe found the stick and sharpened it with his bare hands. Then we sat under a palm tree and ate fresh coconut. If that sounds a bit magical, it’s because it was!
In the evening we ate the most humungous burgers I have ever seen and drank vanilla milkshakes—I don’t know why. Then we watched Dan in Real Life, the movie Emily gave Joe to watch on his birthday. WE ALL WISH YOU’D BEEN HERE, EMILY!!! I did force Joe to pose for a birthday photo for you!
It’s Monday now, and we’re heading out to sea this evening, so it’s a work day: check out of customs, refuel the boat engine and fill the propane tank, get the laundry done, shop for groceries, clean the boat interior, update the website, etc. I really am looking forward to this passage. On the last one I was mostly an observer. This time I intend to move past that…to learn as much as I can…and be genuinely useful.
Update 11
At 4pm this afternoon, Monday, May 5, we left Rarotonga for our passage to Niue. Niue is the smallest country in the world, but the world's largest coral block. Neither Joe, nor Todd, nor I know what a "coral block" is, but the island brochure promises spectacular underwater caves and great diving. Our current ETA is Friday at 1pm and we're hoping we're not late, since we do need to check in with customs before the offices close for the weekend.
The good news is that the autopilot took a turn for the better and started working. The bad news...well, there really is no bad news, just a very slight disappointment. There seemed to be a nice breeze in the harbor, so we were anticipating some good sailing, but the wind died by the time we got out here. I do wish we were sailing rather than motoring, but I'm just happy to be out on the water again. We had a fabulous time in Rarotonga, but we were active every minute. It feels good to settle into the slower rhythm of the water. I started reading To Kill A Mockingbird last week and I'm anxious to pick it up again.
The really big news of the evening is that I've talked the boys into letting me take one of the watches—actually just half of one, an hour and a half—but I'm excited to taste a little of the "nighttime at sea" experience they have talked about. However, if I see any lightning or shipping lights on the horizon, I'm going to call in the re-enforcements.
Okay, it's Todd's turn at the computer, so I'll head up to the cockpit. It's 7:30 pm, really dark, not a star or a sliver of moon visible.
Update 12
Oh man, is it hot! I created a little sun awning up on the bow with my blue bed sheet. I've been up there reading To Kill a Mockingbird, which I haven't read since high school. If you've never read it, please put it on your summer reading list. If you haven't read it for years, consider reading it again. There's a reason why this little book, written by a young woman from a small town in Alabama and published in 1960, has been published in 40 languages and sold millions and millions of copies.
My 8:30-10 pm watch last night was uneventful, except that Todd kept interrupting me. "Are you okay up there? Remember, don't leave the cockpit—for anything! Are you enjoying it? Here, clip this little light to your jacket (in case I fell overboard!)." I assured him I was thoroughly enjoying it, nothing bad was happening, and I couldn't possibly fall overboard when there was no wind, I was standing in the middle of the cockpit, and I had a fierce grip on the rail above the companionway. I'm afraid that me taking a night watch creates more stress for him than it relieves. (I'm sure he would have felt more comfortable if I'd been sitting down, but I just couldn't; I was obsessed with scanning the horizon for little dots of approaching lights.)
Fortunately, the morning watch was a different story. When I poked my head out of the companionway at 6:30 and assured Todd I had slept well (which may have been a tiny exaggeration) he asked if I'd take his fresh cup of coffee in trade for a little more sleep (for him). It was a perfect trade! The sun had just risen and was reflected on wispy clouds in soft pinks and blues. I took numerous photos; they don't begin to capture the luminous colors, but I'll keep the photos just to remind me of this exhilarating morning. Throughout this trip I've been pondering "beauty"—not as an abstract concept but as a concrete reality, storming my senses. I've seen sky and water before, but never such an expanse as this, and never with so many leisurely hours in which to simply watch it. And I've snorkeled before—in spectacular settings—but I've never seen the variety of species and brilliance of color I've seen here. Beauty here seems overdone, excessive, lavishly exaggerated. I'm not complaining. I'm simply overwhelmed. Amazed. Grateful.
Update 13
When I say that the one that got away was a 5-foot yellow fin tuna I am not exaggerating. After fighting it for 2 1/2 hours, the guys got it to the back of the boat and out of the water, but that's when the battle ended and the fish won. About an hour into the fight, we felt so connected with the fish we named her Bubbles (okay, I named her Bubbles). Throughout the whole ordeal Todd handled the line and Joe powered the boat forward and back to follow the fish. My only job was to snap a photo when she finally surfaced. Well, I snapped a lot of photos en route to the finish line, but by the time Bubbles broke the surface of the water, the battery on my camera was dead. So, I cannot prove that this story is true. But I do have a reputation for honesty. And Todd does have some serious blisters on his hands.
What's really sad is that Bubbles was the second one to get away today. Earlier, Joe fought one for over thirty minutes before it spit out the hook. That happened just minutes after the guys set up the fishing lines and Todd said, "We probably won't get a bite, but what do we have to lose?"
All afternoon I kept thinking of The Old Man and the Sea.
But now it's 7 pm and we've been sailing along at nearly 7 knots for the last 4 hours. The angle of the wind, the gentle waves, the temperature—it has all combined for perfect sailing conditions, and it may well continue all night.
There were two things I had been hoping for this week: a fish fight, and some good sailing. What a perfect day!
Update 14
At 7pm last night I described our perfect, smooth sailing conditions. Then at 8pm we hit a squall with 24-knot winds and pouring rain. We had too much sail up so the guys tried to take down the jib, but the self-furler jammed. At the same time the autopilot went out. For about an hour it was pretty chaotic and I could do nothing but cling to my little spot under the awning and watch the guys scramble around in the rain. All this was happening in the pitch-dark, with the guys wearing headlamps to illuminate what was right in front of them. They eventually got the furler unjammed and the autopilot back on track (it comes and goes), but I'm telling you, sailing is not for the faint of heart! The wind backed off a bit after that, but never dipped below 14-16 knots, and the waves increased in size as the night went on. The pouring rain finally stopped late in the morning, but the VERY FREQUENT waves crashing over the bow and awning have kept everything sufficiently drenched all day. It's been really hot again today, but now at 6pm, it’s cooling off pleasantly.
For my non-sailing friends, here's what it's like below deck in the cabin during these conditions: Imagine that the floor of your house is built at a 30-degree angle from the ground (expect when it's bumping up to 40 degrees or down to 20 degrees, which happens constantly). In addition to the sideways angle, the floor is also dipping forward and back over oncoming waves. All this, with a forward movement of 7 knots. In other words, you're under threat of being hurled hither and yon ALL THE TIME. The only way to keep from being hurled is to hang on tight to something stationery ALL THE TIME. The angled, moving floor conditions are duplicated in the bunks, so it's not like you can curl up in a little ball under the covers and wait for it all to go away. Chances are it's not going to go away until we hit landfall in Niue tomorrow evening.
For you sailors, you may be wondering what happened to the gentle SE trade winds that are supposed to be pushing us gently along. We're wondering too. Where did these northwest winds come from???? Why are they here???
Lest any of you think I'm complaining, I'm not. In fact, I'm nearly delirious with happiness. Why? Because I'm not seasick! Never in my life have I been able to go below deck without getting sick. And yet here I am today, plunking on a keyboard while my feet are braced against the galley cabinet to keep me from falling off the bench—and I'm not sick. Yahoo! After all these years of boating I've finally gotten my "sea legs." Or, as Todd said, "Now you're really a boat babe."
As soon as I’m done with this journal entry I'm going to peel and slice a fresh papaya for dessert. The boys teased me about insisting on "produce" for the boat, but they haven't turned down a single salad or piece of fruit I've offered!
Update 15: 24 Hours in Nuie
Four days ago at this hour (2:30pm) we were approaching Nuie, wondering if we'd be able to stop for the night or if we would have to continue straight on to Tonga with nothing more than a distant photo of the Nuie wharf at Alofi. The west winds were strong and getting stronger; according to the guidebooks, west winds make the unprotected moorings off Alofi unsafe. But when Joe called the Nuie Yacht Club on the radio, he was assured that we'd be fine. "Oh yeah, the winds are always a problem, but don't worry about 'em. Call again when you get your dinghy in the water and we'll direct you to immigration." Thus began our 24-hour Nuie adventure.
In his “From the Sea” update Todd wrote eloquently about the drama of our initial wharf landing on Friday afternoon. I believe that was the first time I ever had to hurl myself against a concrete wall covered with leeches in the aftermath of a squall. It was quite exhilarating. As Todd mentioned, our dinghy landing on Saturday morning was even more of a challenge. The waves had increased and a very unfriendly audience from a freighter was smirking at us, undoubtedly convinced that we were going to kill ourselves, or at least make absolute fools of ourselves. On top of that we had a heavy bag of snorkeling gear and a REALLY heavy waterproof case containing two computers. While Joe held the dinghy as securely as possible, and I did my best to maintain stable footing on the slimy concrete stairs, Todd, still in the dinghy, heaved the black case my way. I do wonder what our audience thought was in that case. I mean, what could be so important that three people would risk their very lives to get it to shore? Would they believe us if we told them we just needed to answer emails?
After checking in with customs, immigration and the Nuie Yacht Club, we headed for dinner at the Falala Fa Restaurant, the most highly recommended eatery on the island. After we ordered our fish and chips—the only item on the Friday night menu—we chatted with the New Zealand trained owner/chef who told us that Falala Fa meant “four beautiful women.” He’d opened the restaurant to please his Nuiean parents and named it in honor of his four sisters. While we ate our unusually delicious (really) fish and chips, we talked about our favorite moments of the passage from Rarotonga to Nuie.
Todd mentioned a midnight to 3am watch. It was pouring rain, but he sat in the very back of the boat, wearing full rain gear and crouched under one of the solar panels. He loved experiencing the intensity of the elements while being protected—remaining dry and warm—in his little makeshift shelter.
Joe mentioned a 3 to 6am watch on a clear night when stars were visible across the whole expanse of black sky. During the last few weeks we haven’t had many clear nights, so I know exactly what night he was describing.
I had a whole list of favorite memories, but I settled on the basic pleasure of being under sail in a moderate breeze. You don’t have to be on an ocean to experience that, of course. I’ve experienced it often on Lake Michigan and on small inland lakes while I was growing up. And I’ve experienced it on a variety of sailboats—a tiny Sunfish, a sleek Lightning, a quaint Cape Dory, an elegant Sabre, a competitive Melges 24, and my all-time favorite, this 42-foot J-boat, my temporary home-away-from-home. I absolutely love the feeling of quiet power as the hull slices the sea and the white spray dances off the waves. I love the breeze in my face and the soothing sound of the water swishing along the hull. I love knowing there are no fossil fuels propelling us forward, no engine clocking hours. It’s not that I have anything against the little engine in this boat—without it we’d probably still be sitting in the ocean somewhere (and I really can’t “miss” another flight home)—but I do love it when it’s just us, the sails, and the wind.
After dinner at Falala Fa we re-launched the dinghy—very exciting in the dark!—and motored slowly up and down the swells, aiming for the only thing visible—the anchor light at the top of our mast. As Todd mentioned in his update, it was a very rough night, but the mooring was secure so we slept well.
On Saturday morning we headed with our black computer case to the yacht club, supposedly a wi-fi hotspot. The yacht club was housed in a room in the home of Mrs. Mamata Gill, who also ran Mamata’s Coffee Bar and Ice Cream Heaven. Mamata means “smiler in town,” and perfectly describes our hostess for the day. Born in Nuie, Mamata did what most young adult Nuieans do: she moved to New Zealand for work. After marrying a European employed by a Swedish telecommunications company, she followed her husband’s job around the world, living in China, the Philippines, and Saudi Arabia, before settling back in Nuie with her husband, children and grandson, Alexander.
While Joe and Todd sat on Mamata’s porch, updating the website and answering emails, I wandered around snapping photos. You gotta love a country where the single government building is perched on a cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Unfortunately, community services are a bit inconsistent; by the time I returned from my short walk the electricity and internet were down and Mamata suggested we go have some fun and come back later.
So, in a rented purple station wagon, we began our scenic drive around the island. Our first stop was at one of the must-see spots on our tourist map, the Avaiki Cave. The entire island is made of porous limestone and surrounded by cliffs and caves. The Avaiki Cave reminded us of the Baths on Virga Gorda, though more jagged. It reminded us of the Baths in another way: in its capacity to bring out the little kid in grown adults. I don’t know which of us enjoyed clambering over the stones more, but I will say that Joe was generally in the lead.
Our next stop was at the Limu pools. Even if it hadn’t been advertised as the island’s prime swimming location, I think we would have jumped in just so we could cool off. The snorkeling wasn't fantastic, but it felt so good we hated to get out. And then it happened. I turned to make sure the boys were still in sight (once a mother, always a mother) and slithering through the water by Joe was a massive water snake. Okay, it wasn't very big around, but it was at least 4 feet long with black and white rings circling its body from tip to tip. We were all freaked and started swimming in different directions. The boys may claim they weren't at all bothered by our new little friend, but I am here to tell you they didn't like that critter a bit more than I did. However, it was SO HOT and the snake did disappear, so we decided to linger a little longer. I will confess I didn't enjoy the swim much after that, but I hung in with the program.
All was well until we decided it was time to move on to the next must-see spot on our map. Joe climbed up the rough-hewn steps that led out of the water and up the limestone cliff. I followed, reaching for the heavy chain that trailed in the water next to the steps. My hand was inches from the chain when I realized it wasn't a chain at all. It was another snake! Frantically I reached for the real chain and tried to climb up the narrow steps with my fins still on. Of course that didn't work so I just started flailing my feet at the snake, who wisely decided to get away from me and head for Todd. So while I'm still trying to claw my way up the steps I'm screaming at Todd that a snake is coming his way. With a little help from Joe I made it to the top of the stairs and finally got rid of the fins. When Todd joined us he confessed that he too had had a snake encounter that he hadn't wanted to tell me about. "I thought he was going to swim up my shorts!" he said, and I don't think he was kidding. We don't know if there were one, two, or three snakes. Three makes a better story, but whatever, we are thrilled that we lived to tell it. I have two skinned knees from the limestone stairs, but as battle wounds go, they're pretty unimpressive.
We continued our drive through a number of rural villages. By “village” I mean a posted sign with the village name and two or three abandoned houses. While the island used to be home to roughly 15,000 people, only 1500 people remain today; hence, there are more empty houses than lived-in ones. While Nuie is self-governed, it’s a protectorate of New Zealand, so Nuieans have dual citizenship. Approximately 12,000 Nuieans live in NZ, returning to Nuie for vacations. While they love the easy-going life of Nuie, it’s not easy to make a living there.
After bouncing on a rough road through a rain forest we ended up back at Mamata’s for burgers and ice cream cones. The electricity was back on, so the boys finished their computer work while I chatted with Mamata and laughed at Alexander, who kept begging for peanuts (and making me miss Henry SO MUCH!). It was the day before Mother’s Day, and Mamata was looking forward to Sunday morning church, when the little children would present speeches for the mothers.
One thing I have enjoyed about every island I’ve visited is that so many of the stereotypes regarding the South Pacific are true—at least the good ones are. The people really are laid-back and friendly. They really do wear bright, floral printed clothing, both men and women. (In Nuie I saw an old man with a long, grey beard walking along the road in a red sarong.) They still perform traditional Polynesian dances, and not just to entertain tourists; the inter-island finals in dance competition were held in Rarotonga while we were there. They often wear leis and almost always have a flower tucked behind an ear. Mamata picked a white hibiscus from her garden for me. “We wear them for beauty,” she said. “For happiness. You should wear one.”
Nuie didn’t “wow” us when we first arrived, but 24 hours later we were sorry to leave. As families in wet swimsuits and bright wraps piled out of the backs of pick-up trucks and stood in line for slushies and cones, we waved good-bye to Mamata. Her hands were busy scooping ice cream, but she tossed us one of her famous smiles.
Update 16: Mother’s Day in Paradise
We left the mooring at Nuie last night, shortly after waving goodbye to Mamata. After “missing” my flight in Rarotonga 10 days ago, I booked a flight out of Tonga, which will leave next Tuesday evening at 9:30. If we make good time, we should arrive in Tonga on Tuesday morning—perfect time!
By 6am this morning we had sailed 40 nautical miles from Nuie. I joined Todd on deck, where he wished me Happy Mother’s Day as the sun broke through clouds on the horizon. While we drank our morning cups of coffee we talked about adventure and risk in his life and mine—about physical risks like sailing across oceans, spiritual risks like moving from childhood beliefs to adult faith, vocational or social risks like taking a new job or exploring new ways to fight injustice. One thing I’ve learned on this trip is that facing any risk—like a sea snake or a calculated jump onto a slimy wharf—makes other kinds of risks seem less daunting. When I decided to “miss” my scheduled flight and continue this journey, I wrote in my journal, “I just can’t let this adventure end yet.” I’m glad I followed that prompting, because that choice allowed the spirit of adventure to settle more deeply into my soul, deep enough, I hope, to follow me home.
For Mother’s Day Todd gave me a lovely black pearl, cultivated in the islands, with a traditional Polynesian design carved around it. I’ll wear it on a black leather cord around my neck, a symbol of my brief journey on Crisis Mode and a reminder to live each day as an adventure.
Thank you Todd and Joe for inviting me into your adventure. It has been beautiful, fun, challenging, inspiring, and filled with fabulous memories.
It's rained a lot today, with winds ranging from 3 knots to 28 knots, all
nearly on our nose. We're not sustaining our anticipated rate of progress; maybe I’ll get lucky and “miss” another flight!
Update 17
Rainy, calm, and cool today. We all got tired of reading so we watched two DVDs. This is my last evening of the trip and I do wish I could sit outside and look at the stars. Maybe I'll just sit out there in the rain and make the most of it. I hate for the day to end!
We should arrive in Tonga tomorrow morning, then clear customs and hopefully have a little time to explore before I head to the airport for my Tuesday evening flight. I am sorry the trip is ending, but I do look forward to seeing the rest of the family soon.
Update 18: Epilogue
A funny thing happened on the way to Tonga: We crossed the International Date Line and didn’t know it. When the immigration official wrote the date on our application, we thought he made a mistake. But no, it was Wednesday in Tonga—and I had missed my Tuesday night flight! Fortunately, there was another flight on Thursday and I managed to book the last seat on it. After the immigration official left the boat, we sat in the cockpit and laughed at ourselves—then embarked on another 24 hours of adventure!
On Thursday morning I headed out—from Tonga to Auckland to Los Angeles to Chicago. As always, it was good to arrive home, but I’d relive every minute of that trip again if I had the chance!
In the weeks after the trip, God used the spirit of adventure that had grown in me while we sailed to push me into a whole new era of life. In some very important ways, I feel that I have finally grown up and grown into the life I was created to live. But that’s a whole new story that I’ve not yet written…
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