On Imperfectly Coming Back

I’m a romantic. I have a tendency to see things in my mind’s eye through sunset mirrored glasses. I do, however find myself with hindsight 20/20. With precise backward glances, wordlessly giving voice to the “what the f*&^ just happened?” conversations.

Two months ago, when we successfully sailed our boat through the Columbia River Bar to make a right turn onto the Pacific ocean for 150 miles to Neah Bay, to cross the Straight of Juan de Fuca to Victoria, to then reef and rail ourselves into the paradise of the San Juans, to cross the Straight again for 7 hours of “hang on or you’ll get thrown” sailing to Port Angeles, we felt a sigh of relief that we had done it. All we had to do now, was return to where we started.

Big swell and big wind were now a part of our vernacular. We knew what it could feel like. Well, we thought we knew. We remembered but then, maybe we’d forgotten to remember - what it could be like and what it feels like when it’s like that. What does a 4 foot wave at 7 seconds feel like? For 30 hours?

We’ve been privy to what happens when the wilderness shows you it couldn't care less about your Americana schedules and deadlines. We thought we’d learned years ago what happens when you squeeze yourself into a timeline suit too tight for alterations.

We had to bring the boat back, it couldn’t stay in Port Angeles all fall and winter. The window was closing. We tried to rehearse what it would be like to make the 10 hour sailing trip from Port Angeles to Neah Bay, to make the elusive left turn onto the Pacific, to travel 30 hours to arrive at the mouth of the Columbia in time for our slack tide and flood tide window to cross the bar. As my naive and assumptive parts were boasting “ain't nothing but a thing”, my anatomical parts were tight and slightly anxious.

This time, our hand selected crew mate, Craig would be there to make the trip with us. The trust it must take to get on a 34 foot sailboat, having never been on a sailboat before for a 40 hour trip on notoriously fickle water with a couple, who just started this sailing thing 3 years ago is a bow to the Cliché’d but accurate mindset that “great things never come from comfort zones”. Darin said he carefully chose Craig, his ultra distance running buddy because Craig “knows how to suffer”. Oh, and because he’s an accomplished waterman. Craig said he signed up because he’d never spent the night in a small boat 20 miles offshore on the ocean. I guess he needed to feel what it’s like to become a small of grain of salt, floating on a twig. The first part of the trip was dreamy. The water was predictable, the wind was just right and we felt like heroes, catching coho salmon off the back of the boat, while under sail power, with nothing but the wind in our hair and the friendly ocean in front of us. I mean really. Fishing was easy. Sailing was easy. Life on the water was - easy.

By the time we arrived at Neah Bay, the fog was rolling in and the wind was picking up. We felt cozy and happy to be at the Makah marina. We toiled over the different weather websites. Windy. Wind finder. Predict Wind. NWS Marine Forecast. Maybe it was the high of fresh oysters, fresh salmon and steak which led to the decision to go while we could, despite the predictions that the wind, the fog and the seas would be better in a couple days. We would leave early the next morning.

We left with excitement, courage, nerves, resolve and a 30 hour countdown. The fog lifted as we rounded the left turn, just in time to unveil Tatoosh rock, one of these magical places where sirens and puffins live. The seas picked up and the wind picked up and we proceeded to finagle our way for the next 6 hours through extremely high winds and its resultant tumultuous water. It’s here that I lost my hold on perspective. As I swallowed by terror and my pride, I tried to find a point of reference. Are we in danger? I don’t know. Maybe. Will the wind actually calm down? I don’t know. Can we sustain this into the darkness. No. Am I having fun at this moment. No. Does my chest hurt. Yes.

There was no tucking in anywhere or finding shelter, or pretending we weren’t in it. Which meant, we had to go through it. Hats off to Craig for not being the crew mate who crumbled, that role was seemingly mine to play, so Craig had to be steadfast, ready and solid. Darin at the helm, kept reassuring me that we were fine. “Really?” “Are we though!?”

By the time the wind gusts calmed from 20-25 mph to 18 knots, I was able to breathe out - a little. Darin went down below to pass out with exhaustion for an hour, coming down from the sky high laser focus. I went down below to find everything thrown everywhere even though I thought I’d stowed it carefully. As sunset approached and my heart still ached, it became more and more awe inspiring, the shear wildness of it. The sun reflected off the water like sparkly diamonds looking for a million perfect little places to land. The thrill of a salmon on my handline. The belly warming ramen, with freshly grilled salmon, broccoli and basil and the quiet nature by which a crew of three mentally gets prepared for an upcoming 10 hours of pure darkness. The trust it takes to believe that the sun, will once again rise at daybreak.

It was during my nighttime shift at the helm, when everything gets bigger and smaller in unison, that I reflected on what I’ve learned from sailing, even though I still barely know anything. I’ve learned that the panic which rises in one’s throat like bile - is of no service.

I’ve memorized what I would say in the event of a Mayday just like I’ve memorized what the red emergency button on our VHF radio looks like.

I’ve learned that mental and physical fatigue are indeed the same.

I’ve learned that everything can change in a second.

I’ve learned that I do love the wild of it. The middle of nowhere of it.

I’ve learned to never trust the dinghy motor. It’s better off that way.

I’ve learned the sounds a boat can make when it’s in a relationship with wind and water. The creaking, the thumping, the slapping, the grinding, the whistling, the howling, the banging, the clicking, the swooshing, the humming. The symphony of it.

I’ve learned that your produce hammock should hang so free so that should it swing to it’s full capacity, in 8 foot swell, it won’t come in contact with a settee or cabinet of any kind or the resultant “compote” will be strewn about everywhere.

I’ve learned that if a crew mate is pulling on lines and trimming sails and heaving with all their might, you should avoid telling them to “pull harder” or to “put your back into it”.

WE learned that cutting off the Coho ferry in the Victoria Harbor will effectively result in getting pulled over by the harbour police, who may proceed to apologize for pulling you over all while thanking you for doing so.

We learned that the aphorism “Once you think it’s time to reef, it’s too late”, is indeed - true.

I’ve learned to wear an apron when cooking on a swaying gimbaled stove with a lit burner (also known as a flame thrower) - as to not catch on fire.

I’ve learned how to sit. For hours. Looking. Watching. Listening.

I’ve learned that my hair loves all of it. On account of the mermaid connection, of course.

I’ve learned that, as we obsessed over the fancy apps like Windy, Wind-finder and Predict

Wind, we should have also checked - the barometer - before we left.

I’ve learned that commercial fishing boats will turn off their AIS transmissions, especially in the middle of the night in order to not divulge their fishing spot gold mine. Even in the fog. You can’t really blame them.

I’ve learned that hope and trust, when you’re in the shit show is counted in seconds.

I’ve learned that my husband really is a badass Maverick MacGyver.

I understand now what the old salty sailing couple on the dock in Cathlamet in June, the day before we left on our voyage meant when they said - “well, your boat will make it…”. At the risk of sounding long winded (pun intended) I’m glad I wasn’t watching TV or scrolling up on my phone (too much) this summer. I got older but I also found some clarity, even through the fog. The breeze carrying my mother’s voice, stroking my cheek and telling me “don’t take life too seriously” has become more palpable, more breathable.

We’ve returned where we started and I can’t get the water out of my head. My heart full of gratitude for the red sky's at night, for calming winds, for decreasing swell, for the salmon and whales, for Craig - our guru fisherman and friend, for Sean - our panic button phone call Captain Viento and friend, for our sons and loved ones, who followed us on AIS, on Find my iPhone and in their hearts. And lastly, for Darin the one who makes it all possible.