by Kim Petersen
Jean said, shaking his head back and forth, “Oh! To think you are doing this with your children. It is so good! They will learn so much.”
When the wine ran out, and I realized the hour was late and that back on board Chrysalis Lauren and Stefan would be wondering about supper, I mentioned to Mike that we should be going. We asked Jean to supper, but he said he was meeting a friend in town. We should get together again before we leave Norfolk, Mike said. Just before we climbed onto the dock, Jean kissed both my cheeks, then looked directly into my eyes and said, “There will always be someone around with a grand tale of disaster no matter what life you are living. Try not to listen to them. Cross the ocean! You can do it! If you are prepared and careful you should be fine. On the other side, there is another world just waiting for you to discover!”
I hugged and thanked him. His words meant more to me than I could say at the moment. Back on Chrysalis, as Mike and I began to make supper I said, “I haven't been able to get excited about cruising the Mediterranean because I have only been able to focus on the crossing and not the opportunity beyond it. For the first time, someone whose nautical knowledge and experience I respect has opened my eyes to the bigger picture. His stories were a great encouragement to me. I have a clearer idea of the potential, now. It might, just might, be enough to motivate me to push through and get to the other side. Can you believe he has crossed five times?”
“Who knows, maybe you will cross five times,” Mike said, chuckling.
“I'm pretty sure I'll be lucky to make it once,” I told him.
33
From Norfolk we went up the Chesapeake and entered the quiet, scenic waters of “the Nation's River,” the Potomac. With the passage of each nautical mile, I had the feeling that I was, like a psychiatrist, delving deeper and deeper into the psyche of a nation. As with any exploration, mental or physical, there were issues to contend with. For the duration of our journey we encountered groups of bobbing crab pots, small colored buoys haphazardly scattered everywhere. We kept a keen lookout to avoid their lines becoming entangled in our props. Nearing Washington, D.C., the water turned murky brown and filled with trash and debris. As we were docking in the Washington Channel close to the Francis Case Memorial Bridge, a dead, bloated rat floated by.
Off and on for several months Lauren had writhed and moaned about living on a boat. In a unanimous decision, we were several months over our one-year live aboard goal. She vacillated. Some days she relished the travel, but other days I would find her sitting in the cockpit with a look I translated to be one of a small animal caught in a trap. Even though crossing the ocean and spending time in the Mediterranean was enticing to her, there were some days, she told us, when it was torture making her live on a boat. She should report us to child services. We did not tell her it would pass or make light of it. We reminded her that whether by land or by sea, crappy things were bound to happen in life. How would she survive? Listen, I told her. That's all you have to do right now. Open your eyes and ears. There were good things happening. Focus on them. Let go of the things you can't control. Mike and I kept things as normal as we could. We laughed, played, worked, prayed. We let her win a few games of MarioKart. We reminded each other to practice what we preached: stop, look, and listen. Be still. And if your soul can't be still and know, then at least be still and make peace with the not knowing. This, I told her, was something I was still learning.
In recent months, we had begun to develop an appreciation for the extensive travel living on a boat was affording. The cities and places we had spent over a month in, Miami, the Bahamas, Norfolk, and now Washington, were opening our eyes to a bigger piece of North American history, yes, but it was more than that. Because we were continually arriving somewhere we were unfamiliar with, there was this feeling of expectancy, or curiosity, that had been developing in all of us. A habitual feeling of, ‘I wonder what this place will reveal during our stay?” Our environment was constantly changing. Continually fresh. Our senses were on perpetual full alert.
I believe it was this constant outward focus that caused Lauren to mellow while in Washington. Inquisitiveness overcame her desire to hold on to an alternate ideal of the land life she might be missing out on. I got the feeling she had reluctantly unzipped her self-imposed mental strait jacket and was finally taking a peek at the world outside herself. I could feel things beginning to shift in her soul. ‘Pay attention,’ I told myself, ‘and one of these days you will watch her wake up.’
In the dim light of the National Archives Building, the Rotunda for the Charters of Freedom was not yet packed with tourists. We had arrived early in the day and were coexisting with other sojourners in hushed reverence, waiting for our turn to see the Bill of Rights, Constitution, and the Declaration of Independence.
While waiting I looked at two paintings flanking the Declaration of Independence. My guidebook told me they had been done by Barry Faulkner in 1936. One depicted the signing of the Declaration and one the Constitution. On the left, gallant, noble men, clad in stately garb, some in powdered wigs, faced a young-looking Thomas Jefferson who held the newly penned Declaration in his right hand. They wore determined, if not smug, looks on their faces. Across from it, the picture of the Constitution centered around a tall and regal George Washington in a flowing, pale cape. It featured the men the United States calls their Founding Fathers. Reading through the list of names, there were many I hadn't heard of before. In both pictures the day was bright, the trees in the background were perfectly proportioned. Not one of the men had any spots on their clothing and their wigs were all in place. An unlikely portrayal, I thought.
I looked around the room at my fellow pilgrims whose names I would never know but whose lives would intersect with my own for just these brief moments in time. In contrast to the perfectly portrayed gentlemen in the oil paintings on the wall, we seemed a motley assembly. A few older types wore pastel shorts and sandals with calf high tube socks. A young couple, looking exhausted, tried to rein in their three young, noisy, children, one of whom had just narrowly escaped knocking over a large American flag. The father had grabbed it at the last second and then looking embarrassed, glanced around the room to see if anyone had noticed. He caught my eye and I smiled at him. He shook his head. Two teenagers were kissing on the threshold and the security guard told them in animated disgust to move on. A scholarly, annoyed-looking man, who despite the heat was wearing slacks and a tweed sport coat, was shushing the couple with the kids. Right about then, Mike told me I had green stuff in between my two front teeth. We weren't a perfect bunch, I thought. But we were there. And we were interested.
When it was our turn, we stood next to the Declaration of Independence. You aren't supposed to put your hands up to the glass, but we forgot about that. We instinctively stretched them out as if hoping to connect with the moment or maybe the emotions of the people who were present at the birth and design of a nation. Make some sort of sense as to what it meant to us individually and as a community. A few moments later, a woman in a uniform loudly reminded us not to touch the glass. We pulled our hands away and leaned closer.
I turned my head to look at Lauren. It was fortunate, I thought, that she happened to be studying the American Revolution in her online American History class. She was scrutinizing the Declaration, attempting to read the faded script. Her brows were furrowed. Her lips were moving but no sound was coming out. Then she straightened upright. She looked up at the pictures by Barry Faulkner on the wall. She went into the middle of the room and turned a full three hundred and sixty degrees, before looking back at us. She was blinking hard as if recognizing where she was for the first time.
In a voice sounding louder than it should in such a place, she said, “So all this actually happened? I mean you read about it books, but it is so hard to make the connection. Here is the actual Declaration of Independence! The very one! Look,” she walked back to where we were standing, “there is Benjamin Franklin's signature and John Adams, Samuel Adams, and T
homas Jefferson. They were actual people, you know! Who the heck are the rest of these men? And look, there is John Hancock's signature. Is this why when you sign an important document they ask you to ‘sign your John Hancock’? I bet it is. That saying must come right from this document…and look up here,” she pointed to a plaque on the wall before continuing to talk in a fast and excited voice, “here are all the grievances the colonists had against King George. There were so many of them. No wonder they revolted. And now I remember learning that there were many who disagreed with the revolution and they were called Loyalists and they made their way up to Canada, where we are from. Just think, since this time, we have all been affected by the decisions made by these people during the American Revolution. And omigosh!” she turned to look at us with wide eyes, “That means we're all connected!”
She stopped her monologue and found the three of us staring at her with dumbfounded expressions.
“What?” she said shrugging her shoulders, nonchalantly. “Don't you see? It all makes sense to me now.”
As a mother, I live my days like a hunter dressed in camouflage and wait all afternoon in the bush for a white furry tail in the form of a connection. I stalk that flash of insight between my kids and the world around them, when their eyes widen, they grab my arm, and say, “So that's how it is?” The moment can present itself when you least expect it, so it is best stay alert. If I get distracted, if I become chatty or busy, I will miss it. Sometimes, you can predict the moment is coming. You hear the sound of rustling leaves and prepare yourself. But most of the time, it will take you by surprise, at the end of the day when you have all but given up and have decided to eat your chicken sandwich. Then, it will crawl out of the trees and you will gape in surprise. Cautiously, you put down your sandwich, and just as you reach for your camera, the prize will nimbly disappear back into the bush. No one back home will believe you saw it.
This was one of the reasons I had decided to live on a boat. It was, I was learning, one of the rewards of a simpler lifestyle and large chunks of time spent in each other's company. I had grown to have the mental and emotional capacity to be present at those miraculous moments of complexity in my kids, when the universe shifted into focus. I noticed the furrow of a brow, felt the metaphysical tremor of a brain's rapid computation; links being formed. I reeled when I noticed eyes that widened. Who needed flashy healings supposedly instigated by a preacher in a three thousand dollar suit or random last minute snatches from death, when you could stand witness to the evolution of life? Was this not worthy of thousands of people standing in a stadium with their arms outstretched? If I checked, would there be a star shining in the east? A heavenly host singing “Hallelujah”? Surely, the very ground I walked upon was holy. Should I remove my sandals? Avert my eyes in case the glory blinded me?
I walked out of the National Archives Building feeling inundated with miracles. “Enough, already,” I told God. “There is too much glory. I am simply up to my eyeballs in miracles.” Later, I would catalog those brief seconds of connection in my journal: “new species observed today.”
For the next week, Lauren appeared hungry. This happens sometimes after a prolonged stay in a desert wasteland.
“C'mon you guys. I want to hit the Monument, the White House, and the Lincoln Memorial today, so let's get moving,” she said while tying her shoes one hot and humid morning.
I told her to pace herself. It was a well known fact that starving people who had been rescued needed to eat carefully or they could OD on food and get sick. I said this mainly because she was wearing the rest of us out. She didn't seem to care. After a full day at the Smithsonian, she saw the Library of Congress, and had to go in RIGHT NOW. When we went to the Vietnam War Memorial, she ran her hand slowly along the engraved list of names and afterwards, was quiet for a very long time.
Nearing the end of our time in Washington, D.C. she said, “You know what, Mom? Something has happened to me here in Washington. It is like I connected a bunch of dots in one of those coloring book pages I used to do when I was a kid. It is hard for me to explain. When I think about history and how big the world is, my life seems so small in comparison. And yet, there is a place for me, here. Now. I can enter in. The strange thing is that I am not afraid to be alone anymore. I mean, I still want to hang out with my friends sometimes, but lately I find that I am pretty good company, too. It's like I am finally comfortable with my place in the universe. And I am learning to be comfortable with myself too.”
I envied her this knowledge of herself at sixteen years of age.
34
By the time we got to Boston, I was in deep. American history and the Revolution percolated in my brain. I studied it during the day and dreamed about it at night. I walked it out along the Freedom Trail in the afternoon as I made my way to the small mini mart to pick up bread. The lines between now and the past blended together. I was so immersed that while Lauren and I walked through Fanueil Hall, it didn't surprise me to notice a short, stocky, balding, older guy obviously dressed for a part in some play as Benjamin Franklin. He was walking hurriedly towards us as if late to sign the Declaration of Independence. As he passed, I nodded to him as if I had done it every day of my life.
“Mr. Franklin,” I said casually, “Trust you are well today?”
“I am well, Ladies, well. I wish you a pleasant morrow,” he responded in character while polishing his spectacles. He kept right on walking. I thought nothing of it.
We loved Boston. We loved how they said, “how-wa-ya?” and “gidadaheah.” We ate clam chowder from a vender in Quincy Hall even though it was the end of August and 90 degrees in the shade.
Mike said, “This is the best clam chowder I've ever had.”
“Gidadaheah!” I said smiling and shoving his arm.
This resulted in him jovially hip checking me and my clam chowder sloshed over onto my pants.
We had spent the past month docked in Charlestown, across the Charles River from downtown Boston. There was another family that lived aboard tied up in a powerboat along the same dock. Their four children were similar in age to our own. Lauren and Stefan had been enjoying the camaraderie. One hot evening, Mike and I escaped the antics of four teenagers playing Nintendo, by heading out into the cockpit with cold drinks. The sun had just set and we were enjoying the view of the downtown Boston cityscape. Just about the time I started to unwind, Mike left and returned with the Atlas. He opened it up to the two pages showing the Atlantic Ocean and pointed.
“So what do you think about that?” he asked me.
I took the Atlas and looked at the six inch circle encompassing North and South America, Europe, and Africa with the tiny specks of Bermuda and the Azores splitting the body of water into chunks. Even after living on a boat for over a year, a small pit of fear formed in my brain and settled in my gut.
“We could do it, Kim,” he continued softly. “We could cross the Atlantic. Chrysalis has proven herself. She is seaworthy. We have been able to gain experience traveling up the eastern seaboard. Since Washington, Lauren has been more content, and Stefan just wants to say he crossed an ocean. They could continue on in their studies, sending their work into the online high school. We could keep living life as we are, writing and working from home. As long as we can keep earning a living, we could spend a year in the Mediterranean. From here in Boston, we could make the journey back down to Florida, and from there, we could prepare Chrysalis and wait for a weather window to Bermuda.”
He paused and looked at me to make sure I was still conscious. Noticing I was still coherent, he kept on, “Look, we made the two night, three day crossing straight through from St. Augustine, Florida to Norfolk, Virginia, so we have some extended offshore experience. We can run the same distance as we head south to Florida, giving us more experience. From Florida, if we travel at 9 knots, we can make the trip to Bermuda in four nights, five days. Weather prediction, as you know, is pretty accurate for that time window. From Bermuda, if we make 9 or 10 knots, i
t should take us 8 nights, nine days to make the trek from Bermuda to the Azores. After that, just another 4 night crossing to Gibraltar and we're there.”
It was true that going up and down the coast had further prepared us both in experience and confidence. Even so, for a woman with control issues, I was interested in guarantees or at least the illusion of probabilities. On land, you might see a suspicious, shadowy figure cross your neighbor's lawn around midnight and become concerned. You can pick up the phone and call the police. There is a high probability that a squad car will arrive ten minutes later and two officers will emerge from the car to investigate. If your house catches fire on land, someone in a red truck with flashing lights will come to your aid. If you fall and can't get up, or if someone you love gets in an accident, there is a high probability that several uniformed and well prepared individuals will arrive on the scene in a white van with flashing lights to give you life support. They will take you or your loved one to a tall building and put you into a soft, comfortable bed. Hook you up to drugs of varying sorts that will alleviate your pain and bring you your meals in bed, which will make the whole experience similar to a very expensive vacation.
I knew that many people had successfully crossed the ocean in their own boat. Many had died trying. Being hundreds of miles offshore did entail placing yourself at risk. If your boat catches fire in such a location, you had better be prepared to deal with the situation because there is a zero percent probability that anyone is going to show up with a big hose and an oxygen mask. If you have engine trouble, it will do you little good to call a tow truck for roadside assistance. Should one of the crew develop a fever or happen to break a leg, there are no hospitals with warmed up blankets. If you happen to get caught in a serious storm, and find that your boat is sinking, you can call someone. By all means try to hail anyone. If you are exceptionally lucky, you might reach a tanker 50 miles away who is sympathetic to your plight, but in a storm, he'll be making around 10 knots or less and won't be able to reach you for another five hours. A lot of things can happen in five hours.