by Kim Petersen
Charting the Unknown
Family, Fear, and One Long Boat Ride
by
Kim Petersen
California
USA
Behler Publications
California
Charting the Unknown
A Behler Publications Book
Copyright © 2010 by Kim Petersen
Cover design by Cathy Scott – www.mbcdesigns.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Petersen, Kim.
Charting the unknown : family, fear, and one long boat ride / by Kim Petersen.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-1-933016-63-4 (trade pbk.)
ISBN-10: 1-933016-63-9 (trade pbk.)
1. Boat living – Atlantic Ocean. 2. Yachting – Atlantic Ocean. 3. Petersen, Kim – Travel – Atlantic Ocean. 4. Petersen, Kim – Family. 5. Atlantic Ocean – Description and travel. 6. Family recreation – Atlantic Ocean. I. Title.
GV777.7.P48 2010
797.109163 – dc22
2010010621
FIRST PRINTING
ISBN13: 978-1-93301694-8 (e-book)
Published by Behler Publications, LLC
Lake Forest, California
www.behlerpublications.com
Manufactured in the United States of America
For Lauren and Stefan.
Finer crewmates, teachers, friends, I cannot imagine.
For Bethany, whose short life compelled us to explore outside the lines.
And for Mike, fellow dreamer, navigator, vagabond and stand-up comic.
It's been worth the climb. The view from here is spectacular.
Praise for Charting the Unknown
“Charting the Unknown shows what is possible when you are prepared to step out of the imagined security of a suburban existence. Confronting her fears to sail the Atlantic, Kim Petersen enriches her life with the spirit of adventure and discovers that an ordinary existence can be made extraordinary. Along the way, she reconnects with her family and her innermost self. This is not only a journey of the oceans, but a journey of the heart.”
~Suzanna Clarke – author of A House in Fez
“Kim Petersen's Charting the Unknown tells a story that has been told many times before – a tale of loss, grief, and the slow, uncertain mysteries of healing. What sets it apart is that, like all the best memoirs, it grounds that story in the lives of particular people the reader comes to care about and root for. There is also plenty of adventure in this tale, but perhaps the most daring feat of all is that behind every word we feel the sustained force of Petersen's intrepid honesty and unflagging compassion.”
~ Gregory Wolfe, Editor, Image journal, founder and director of the Master in Fine Arts in Creative Writing at Seattle Pacific University
“It's not very often in life that you meet a family with a dream. Even less frequently you meet a family that will take a big risk to follow their dreams! This is that family and there is an important message for all of us in the story of their adventure, risk and reward!”
~Dave Phillips, coach of Canada's national freestyle ski team, holder of two World Records for Duration Skiing, motivational speaker and life/business mentor/coach.
A joyful and heartfelt account of getting into the cruising life! Enchanting stories and reminiscences of all aspects of the process of getting out and living your dream. We get to know the whole family and live with them as they master the cruising life. A great read for anyone who is a little hesitant about getting out there! “
~ Paul & Sheryl Shard, Authors of - Sail Away! A Guide to Outfitting and Provisioning for Cruising, and hosts for Distant Shores Sailing TV Show
“This is so much more than the surface story of a couple and their two teenagers who spend several years facing the challenges of living together aboard a 65-foot catamaran. The book begins with the author's inner journey as she copes with the loss of a child. Once we have lived with her through the worst, we are caught in her vivid and colorful images of the following years. As the challenges come her way, she brings us again and again into her inner search for meaning and connectedness. Right from the start we care about this family and its journey. The intimacy – and the camaraderie – of the book and the family are captivating.”
~ Rita Golden Gelman, author of Tales of a Female Nomad: Living at Large in the World
Contents
The Sound of the Sea
Introduction
Prelude
Part One
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
Part Two
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
Part Three
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
Part Four
31
32
33
34
35
Part Five
36
37
38
39
40
41
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
The Sound of the Sea
The sea awoke at midnight from its sleep,
And round the pebbly beaches far and wide
I heard the first wave of the rising tide
Rush onward with uninterrupted sweep;
A voice out of the silence of the deep,
A sound mysteriously multiplied
As of a cataract from the mountain's side,
Or roar of winds upon a wooded steep.
So comes to us at times, from the unknown
And inaccessible solitudes of being,
The rushing of the sea-tides of the soul;
And inspirations, that we deem our own,
Are some divine foreshadowing and foreseeing
Of things beyond our reason or control.
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Introduction
When I was in my twenties, I began to have my suspicions. The future, it seemed, rarely worked out the way I planned it. You would think this idea simple enough, but it took several metaphorical whaps on the noggin in the form of lost jobs, fires, break-ups, and blown out tires, to make me wonder how much control I really maintained over my life. It didn't help that early on I had picked up the notion that if I just minded my own business and strode confidently along with my five-year plan and seven highly effective habits, I could cajole life into doing what I wanted and what I wanted was no sudden movements. No unexplained phenomenon. What I wanted was a life submissive to my will with a benign, uneventful future that included copious amounts of coffee, books, and overstuffed LazyBoy. I wouldn't object to a sleek, red, byte-endowed laptop with which to write all the lofty thoughts I was having while reading about other people's lives. Surely the Universe could see that it was all so practical, convenient and comfortable, and would align itself with my path of least resistance.
But Life, that lackey of the Universe, obviously had other plans because it was inevitably handing me an unforeseen event cloaked in a grenade, the resulting “Ka POW” creating a
reality far different than the one I had anticipated. The plot twisted. The landscape changed. I found myself in an alternate universe with no charts and no compass. Here, like everyone else, I was expected to survive using what little wit, wisdom, and provisions remained. Although previously incomprehensible, the unexpected became my home.
I didn't always have Lazy Boy aspirations. As a kid, I was encouraged to dream big. America, after all, had been built through the aspirations of many a profitable dreamer. The right to dream, I assumed growing up, must be listed somewhere in the Charters of Freedom. All the way through elementary school and even as a college student, I dreamed of a triumphant future and not only believed it a virtue but that, a la Disney, if I wished hard enough, my dreams would come true. By the time I was in my thirties, I had just enough life experience behind me to realize that things weren't always that simple.
Around that time, I was sitting in a trendy coffee shop and imagined meeting the person I was back in university. I was pretty sure she would have been a little perturbed to find that my life had become increasingly conventional, and through dogged busyness, devoid of ambition. After listening to my harried description of life, she would say,
“Look, I don't mind that you are married and have kids and are living in suburbia. But you seem so frazzled. Check it out-”
Here she would point to my white button down shirt, “You missed a button.”
Then she would study my face closely, before adding, “And did you forget to put mascara on both eyes? Geez!” She would throw up her hands. “You see, this is exactly what I am trying to point out. You don't seem to have time for anything anymore! When did you last read a book? Or go skinny dipping? Have you played any foosball lately, and if so, are we still able to beat Mike? These things are important. And, say, whatever happened to that list of dreams we wrote up with Mike in college? You know, the ten things we hoped to accomplish before we died? Did you ever accomplish anything on that list? Hey!” She would stop and reach over to grab my arm enthusiastically, “Did you ever live on a boat like we planned? Because that was our favorite!”
Glancing around while discreetly re-buttoning my shirt, I would have to tell her that I hadn't read a book in ages, but I did read magazine articles while waiting for the dentist. And no, I hadn't played foosball, but maybe I would go to the arcade with the kids one of these days and show them a thing or two. Skinny dipping…well honestly, who did that at my age? And living on a boat? I had forgotten about writing it down on that dream list of long ago. I remembered that Mike and I had intended to read it every now and again in order to keep ourselves inspired, but then we had kids and got jobs and life shifted into 5th gear. I had no idea where that list ended up.
Then I would go on and on about how things were actually going great and yes, I was busy, but busy, once you got used to it, wasn't all that bad. After all, everyone was doing it and getting along just fine. And then my past self would roll her eyes and that would really tick me off. On the drive home from the coffee shop, I would consider how young and naïve I was back then. Too young to understand the demands of surviving in a hectic culture that required making ends meet and running the kids to clubs, sporting events, and music lessons, and playing catch up on the weekends with chores and housework. She had no knowledge of the emotional energy involved in relating to teenagers living under the same roof. I found her know-it-all attitude condescending. But I did envy her freedom and the unappreciated gift of believing anything was possible. I thought again of that dream-list and wondered if I would ever regret not being able to cross one or two things off of it.
What I barely recognized in the eyes of my younger self was hope. I wondered where along my journey I had tossed aside this kernel from which, upon germination, the green shoots of dreams begin to grow. Perhaps it wasn't that I had tossed the kernel aside as it had become buried under the hectic pace of years, the grief of losing someone dear to me, and the further thought of, “so what if I dream or set goals, life can come along at any time with its volcanic interruptions and ruin my plans anyway.” I realized, then, that it had been several years since I had given my future a consideration outside of what to make for dinner and what warm locale I might live in when I retired. What I was missing, I recognized, were the grains of hope and their eventual growth into acres of tall, leafy stalks that swayed in the winds of my soul.
Acknowledging my position in life put me at risk. In the quiet recesses, the hard, pale green skin of my soul softened. Without recognizing it, I ripened. One day while cleaning, I unexpectedly happened upon that dream-list. When I showed it to Mike, I had no idea of the residual power it still retained. Like a stick of dynamite, it spontaneously ignited and blew a hole in the safety deposit boxes that had held our imaginations for so long. That list sparked a chain of events that led to a future whose storyline I could never have predicted, one that included Mike, our two teenagers, a 65 foot power catamaran yacht, and crossing the Atlantic Ocean.
If I had to name the chapters for this season of my life, the titles might have centered around building a boat and crossing the ocean, but things are never as simple as they seem. Behind the meta-narrative of our lives exists an intricately woven tale, one whose details are pertinent to the bigger picture. During that season, the outside events of my life combined with the reflections of my soul to gradually reveal a hesitant, mid-life dream, one whose texture reminded me of the dreams I had in childhood, when my mind was a vast open space, before it became cluttered, and all that laid before it was verdant potential, waiting to be grasped. The dream was further fueled by an intense desire to recapture time, live simply, and reconnect with myself, my kids, the environment, and even God. All this brought about an intense desire for change, which created its own combustible energy with enough propulsion to push my whole world right out into the unknown.
I look forward to running into my university self again one day. She will be pleased to hear that we built a boat, lived on it with our kids, and crossed the Atlantic Ocean. I will try to explain to her that it is one thing to write down your dreams on a scrap piece of paper, quite another to live them out, but I don't think she will understand. You have to live it to understand it, and she had yet to accomplish that dream. Reaching over to take her hand, I will look into her eyes and tell her that despite the hardships along the way, Goethe was right. There is power and magic in boldness. In following a dream.
Prelude
I was sitting on the soft, dimpled leather seats inside a black limousine, one of several in a somber lineup, and thinking that although I was twenty-four years old, it was only the second time I had ever been in limo. The first time was for my friend Jody Spencer's 13th birthday when I was in the 7th grade. Her parents rented a white limo and, as a surprise, went around and picked up about ten girls at their homes. I remembered that when the limo pulled up into my driveway there were a bunch of pastel colored balloons floating out through the sunroof along with several squealing girls beckoning me to join them. The limo took us to a fancy Italian restaurant where we stuffed ourselves with chicken scaloppini and, feeling sophisticated and chic, raised our apple juice filled wine glasses to toast the birthday girl.
The memory of my previous limo ride was a pleasant diversion, maybe even a coping mechanism, in what was otherwise a horrific day. Aptly, it was raining, and as the limo pulled further into the bucolic cemetery with its manicured lawn and tall oak and maple trees, I found the natural beauty, normally inspirational, a queer juxtaposition to my devastation. On a low lying hill under a tree, I caught sight of the pastor, our good friend, looking doleful in his dark suit. At his feet, a small casket rested on poles over a hole in the ground. A few people had arrived ahead of us, but they blended together in a monochromatic wash of black and grey. I kept my eyes on the casket. I thought how there was bone of my bone, flesh of my flesh, inside that box. A memory presented itself: my cheek against the softness of hers. The thought made my breath come in short, rapid bursts, and I felt l
ike I might begin to hyperventilate. I clutched the armrest on the door and searched my mental files for a life-ring. Whether Divine or simply an effort at self preservation, a phrase from the past presented itself: “Why do you look for the living in the place of the dead?” I instantly began to relax. ‘You've got to remember that,’ I told myself. ‘She isn't in that box. She isn't here anymore at all.’
And then, Mike and I got out of the limo and were ushered to a place of prominence, close to the shiny, white casket, and despite the fact that I loved our pastor friend, who was, quite honorably, talking about questions and doubt, my mind began to wander. I thought what a stupid cultural tradition this was, standing there dressed up in front of all those people, when what I really wanted was to escape to a remote cave in the Himalayan Mountains and hide out for the rest of my life. I began to dread the reception after the burial. I imagined it would be similar to the visitation we'd had at the funeral home the night before, with awkward conversations and meaningless chit chat, both annoying under the best of circumstances. I got mad at myself for being a spineless wimp and allowing events to be carried along by the masses instead of saying “STOP! We are not having a traditional funeral. We are going to deal with this in our own way.” This was just another example, I thought, of what happened when you were a people pleaser like me.
Most surprising, was how I had come to be here at all when four days ago life was going along just as normal as ever. I had been master of my domain then, a queen presiding over two young daughters, running to the mall, making homemade lasagna for dinner, folding stacks of laundry, and kissing Mike when he came in the door after work. Life was going along exactly as I had scripted, and why shouldn't it? I loved God, my neighbor, and myself, but was careful not to love myself too much so as to be selfish. I went to church and volunteered in the nursery. I thought of myself as a good person with a good heart. The God of the universe was apparently fond of my church denomination, or so I had been taught, and he had my back. I lived in one of the wealthiest countries in the world and up to that point in my life, had little personal experience with sickness and death. The fact that death and grief should interrupt my life-plans was galling.