Charting the Unknown

by Kim Petersen

  A little while later, Mike called us up to the helm, and there on the computer chart, we could see the island of Faial, and five miles beyond it, the larger island of Pico which has a volcanic mountain that rises 1400 feet in elevation. Even though we were still over a hundred miles away, I instinctively looked out the window towards the horizon, hoping to see the dark outline of Pico's mountain, but of course we were still too far away.

  We received our final weather update that evening, which hadn't changed for days. Light winds, around ten knots, from the west, and sunshine. Seas 1-2 feet. The crew was in grand spirits. We decided to stay up all night to watch for land. I pulled out two store-bought pizza crusts, and the four of us made up a couple of pizzas, putting what we liked on a half a pizza each. To pass the remaining few hours we played nertz, euchre, Clue, and had a round of Mariokart, which Stefan won, again. “Maybe next time,” he said, “I should play blindfolded.”

  In the early morning hours, with the four of us watching, the lights of Faial finally came into view. Beyond it, we could make out the dark peak of Pico rising up off the horizon. We all cheered when Mike, looking through the binoculars, said, “Land Ho!” I felt the relief of a thousand sailors and cruisers as Mike handed me the binoculars and I could distinctly make out the dark outline of Faial's coastline. Soon our feet would know the feeling of solid ground and the peace and stability it offered. I had a longing for it unlike any I had experienced before.

  Around 7:00 a.m., we approached Monte de Guia on the southeastern tip of the island. We were heady with the sweet smell of the island and the successful crossing. Although we still had a smaller crossing yet to accomplish, the passage to Gibraltar, the most difficult part was over. When we pulled around Monte de Guia and the town of Horta with its wide bay and its black and white homes and terra cotta rooftops creeping up the surrounding hillside, Lauren, Stefan, and I went to the bow and put our arms around each other. Lauren looked at me with tears of joy in her eyes, and immediately my own eyes filled.

  Standing on the bow, I let the tears fall down my cheeks. I wept because I cannot make sense of how there can be such overwhelming beauty and joy walking right alongside horror and agony. I wept thinking how much life changes and how it is hardly ever the way you imagine it will be. In the face of such polarization, what more can you do but stand with your arms outstretched like the sea whip coral. My arms raised partly in praise because once in awhile, life is better than anything you could have anticipated, and partly in bewilderment, as if to say, “Who can make any sense of it at all?”

  For good reason, I have been taught that pride is downfall of many, but while pulling closer to Horta, I felt something that transcended the mere idea of surging emotion at accomplishing a goal. It was a power I hadn't felt before. It coursed through my whole body, making me feel invincible, as if there was now nothing I couldn't do. The giant woman Fear became the Incredible Shrinking Woman right before my eyes, until she was about four inches tall and spoke high and squeaky, like one of the animated Chipmunks on television. I didn't even recognize her, and I hardly recognized myself. Or did I, maybe for the first time? I was reminded, then, of my elderly Aunt's response, who upon listening to my description of the Internet and email, said in a shaky voice, “Well, I'll be surprised at nothing after this.” I wondered if this nugget of thought was the origin of the power I was feeling.

  And right alongside the power, was a flood of gratitude for the journey that led me to this very spot. But that was perplexing because I had a strong inclination that I would not be in Horta had events not happened in my life the way they did, including Bethany's death. I had a hard time coming to grips with the thought that from the devastation of her loss, I could be thankful for the good things it had so obviously brought about. It seemed almost a betrayal. But it was the questions, the struggles, and the hope that had propelled me to take risks I doubted I ever would have felt the need to take otherwise. So I was grateful for those good things and I told God. At that moment, a picture came to mind of the good, the bad, and the ugly in our lives being mashed around in a giant mortar and pestle and somehow, the taste of life was richer because of it.

  “Why, Mom, why?” I hear the incessant voices of my kids when they were younger asking me.

  “I do not know. Go ask your father.”

  Mike steered us around the breakwater and we pulled slowly into the harbor. As it was early, the marina was quiet. It appeared every berth was full. We spun around with the intent of anchoring outside the breakwater, when Stefan said, “Hey, check it out,” while pointing to a man who beckoned to us from the deck of a large Swiss schooner.

  “You can tie up alongside us!” he called out, his English spoken with a heavy accent.

  Grateful, we adjusted fenders, pulled Chrysalis close, and Stefan accepted the line he threw in his direction.

  “Good morning! Where are you coming from?” asked the cheerful man on the schooner.

  “Bermuda!” Lauren and Stefan called out simultaneously, delighted.

  While hitching a fender, I glanced around the marina and it occurred to me that we were the only foreign powerboat in a harbor full of sailboats.

  “Really?” the Swiss man seemed genuinely surprised. “How long did it take you?”

  “This is our ninth day,” Stefan said while effortlessly cleating a line.

  “That so? Then congratulations, guys! Well done. Well done! Welcome to Horta!”

  At that moment, I was inadvertently watching Mike roll up a black line at the bow. As if in slow motion, he stopped what was doing and turned around to look at me, the morning sunshine and green foliage of Monte de Guia making a picturesque backdrop behind him. Our eyes locked. He smiled broadly and winked in my direction.

  41

  Horta was a melting pot if there ever was one. Mike and I joined the steady throng who walked the docks of the large marina attempting to fill in a mental world atlas with all of the countries represented by the flags of various boats now tied up and secure after long passages. There was a pervasive air of respect and triumph, even jubilation, when striking up conversations with other boaters, as simply getting to Horta from outside the Azores required some experience and risk. I felt the instant camaraderie of others who knew what it was like to spend days at sea looking at nothing but water. These were serious, nautical folk, and I told Mike it was hard to imagine myself a part of such company.

  While walking through the marina one day, Mike and I had settled at the end of a dock on a bench to enjoy the scenery, and while doing so, a small boat entered the harbor under full sail. The wind was coming in gusts that late afternoon, and in the warm sun it was obvious that the two young guys on board were having difficulty maneuvering without the use of their engine. As they swung back and forth attempting to harness the wind without allowing it to drive them into pilings, I said to Mike, “Let's go help them out.” When it became apparent where they intended to tie up, we left the bench and met them at their berth.

  The two guys on board, probably in their lower twenties, looked young to me. They were wearing faded and frayed shorts and t-shirts. As they pulled closer, I could tell their beards were coming in, giving them a haggard look. While I caught a line and cleated it, I guessed their sailboat to be a little over 30 feet long. It was an older vessel and in rough condition. Noting the US flag at the stern, I wondered that their craft could make an extended offshore voyage without splintering apart midway through the journey. As Mike asked the usual questions, I listened in. They had come straight from Halifax and shortly after they left, their engine quit, and they had to sail the remainder of the way. It took them seventeen days and during that time they went through two gales of some significance. Not long after their engine quit, their radar and GPS went out as well. I looked around for signs of a liferaft, but couldn't find one.

  “So you guys came across about two thousand miles under sail with only a compass?” Mike asked.

  “Not only that, but we couldn't affor
d any charts either. Luckily, we made it right to Horta using the bearing we looked up before we left Halifax. Otherwise, we had intended to sail up and down the coast until we found a suitable harbor.”

  Subsequent introductions were made, and I committed their names, Joe and Curt, both Americans from New York City, to memory. We made plans to meet later that night at a pub. While walking away, Mike leaned over to me and whispered, “OK, doing what they did, crossing with no charts, no GPS, no engine, THAT is too much adventure even for me! I can handle a few unknowns, but even I have my limits.”

  We met Joe and Curt for dinner at a well known pub, Peters Café Sport. Afterwards, we all took a tour of Chrysalis and Mike gave them some charts of Morocco, their next destination. Then they wanted to show us their sailboat and wondered if Mike could take a look at their engine, so we walked across the marina and boarded their vessel which was small, but comfortable. A decent, floating, bachelor pad.

  “You should have seen the place when we left Halifax!” Joe said. “Every spare inch was packed with food and gear. There was hardly any room to sleep! Doesn't look half bad now, eh, Curt, ole buddy?”

  As he said this, he nudged Curt with his elbow. Curt muttered that there would have been a lot more room if they hadn't had to take all those boxes of Hostess cherry pies Joe loved. Directly after that, Curt and Mike went below to have a look at the engine and Joe and I settled at the galley table, just big enough for two. Over coffee, we discussed future plans. Joe was Jewish. His parents had immigrated to New York from Israel many years ago. He had a lot of family back in Israel, near Natanya, and that was where they were headed. After that, who knew? He and Curt had gone to high school together and had always dreamed of sailing across the ocean. After graduation, they worked hard as waiters in a posh Italian restaurant and saved up money. With it, they purchased their sailboat and planned to travel for at least a year. Longer, if the money held out.

  When he asked me where we were going, I told him we would likely get as far as Greece, maybe Turkey. He said as long as we were in the area, we should definitely visit Israel, a place that hadn't even entered my mind as an option. He told me I would love it there. Scoffing, he continued, “America has this big notion that THEY are a ‘melting pot’ but Israel is the quintessential melting pot. There are all these people of passion from all over the world, living in close quarters, with thousands of years of history thrown in just to make it interesting. When you get there, be sure to look me up. I'll invite you to my grandparent's house and my Bubbe will fix you the best hummus and challah in Israel.”

  “I love hummus,” I said.

  “Not ‘hummus’, ‘HO-mmus’, he corrected me with a guttural pronouncement.

  “Isn't Israel kind of, you know, politically unstable at the moment?”

  “When isn't it politically unstable? Stick to the tourist sights and keep a watch on the US travel advisory and you should be fine. It really is pretty safe to travel in Israel and well worth a visit. If you don't want to stay right at the big marina in Tel Aviv, there are several other nice marinas. Try Herzliya. It's new and very nice.”

  About that time, we heard the engine sputter to life and Joe and I cheered. Mike emerged with a smudge of grease on his cheek, smiling.

  Several days later, Mike and I walked with Lauren and Stefan down the dock to say goodbye to Joe and Curt who now had a working engine, charts, and a new GPS. I handed them a plate of chocolate brownies, for which they seemed grateful, and while waving goodbye, we watched them motor out around the breakwater. When they had passed out of sight, Lauren and Stefan turned to walk out ahead, intent on the promised afternoon gelato. As Mike and I made our way toward the marina restaurant, I told him about Joe's description of Israel. For perhaps the first time, I didn't instinctually make a pro/con list in my brain including the great travel distance or the political dangers of the Middle East. I didn't look around to see what the giant woman FEAR would have to say about it. Instead, I had thoughts of the possibility of the four of us walking the streets of Jerusalem, climbing the Mount of Olives and swimming in the Dead Sea.

  I leaned towards Mike and, taking his arm, said, “Huh…Israel… wouldn't that be something…”

  EPILOGUE

  While looking for a map to hang in our galley, I came across Amerique Septentrionale and instantly loved it. Drawn in 1650 by a respected French cartographer named Nicolas Sanson d' Abbeville, the map represents the extent of what was known at the time about the Americas. It lacked the fanfare and colorful vibrancy of the Dutch maps I had found of the same era being simply drawn in black ink on pale yellow parchment. In researching the map, I learned that French cartographers of the day attempted to utilize scientific proof in their mapmaking, as opposed to artistry, and focused their efforts on producing clean, geographically sound maps. I was attracted to its straightforward presentation.

  On this map created almost four hundred years ago, the eastern coastline of the United States and Canada was well defined and the Caribbean was rendered in detail indicating that the islands had been explored and documented. On the lower end of the page, the tip of South America and the Lesser Antilles Islands were easily recognized, and I could make out the names of Aruba and Margarita Island. The five Great Lakes were represented although they were not completely accurate, falling further north than in actuality. The Labrador Sea was depicted, marked on the map as Mer de Canada, and also Davis Strait opening into Baffin Bay, but as the waterway snaked its way west, it opened up into nothingness, hinting that there might be a Northwest Passage.

  But the best part of the map was the west coast. Delightfully out of place and situated well offshore, California had been drawn as an island. With pronounced authority, the Gulf of California pushed its way north, leaving several islands in its wake, to open back up into the Pacific. Even better, from the Isle of California north and modern day Saskatchewan west, the whole Pacific Northwest on this particular map had been left blank, as if to say, “We, the experts, have absolutely no idea what is out there, and cannot with any accuracy even attempt a guess.” Although theories surrounding the geography were plentiful, I admired the assumed humility of a professional scholar, artist and businessman who signed his name to an official chart with the inherent message: “There is still a great deal I don't know.”

  Corroborated by several other explorers and Jesuit missionaries who had traveled the area, the idea of California as an island was held as truth for almost a hundred years, until 1747 when an official decree was made by the King of Spain announcing reality: California was not an island. Lines were erased. Charts had to be redrawn using more accurate information. Expert mapmakers and explorers, many of whom planned dangerous expeditions lasting many years based on faulty instruction, rolled their eyes, threw up their hands and declared, “Okay! So we were wrong!”

  I am fond of the metaphor, because just about the time I start to think I know how things work and begin to draw lines in the sand the tide rises higher than it has in a thousand years inching closer and closer to my lines until the water laps them up completely. In light of this, I am learning to hold onto things loosely, releasing certain beliefs, no matter how treasured, when new information presents itself. This is not to say that there is no bedrock, certain values I would fight passionately to the death for: love, peace, justice, but the bedrock in my life is much smaller than it was before I lost a child. Before I gave up everything I knew to live this crazy boating life. The more I travel, the more I find that what binds me closely with the rest of the world is that so much is unknown. All of our charts and maps are only half-filled in. And for me, being okay with that has been one of the greatest struggles. I shared these thoughts with a wise friend one day, and he said, “It seems to me that it is easier to admit there are things we don't know, than to erase the lines we have drawn with confidence over the course of a lifetime when new information presents itself. Doing so means we have to admit we were wrong in the first place.”

  In light
of such ambiguity, I am learning to keep my heart open while at the same releasing my need for control, a tricky two-step. As the giant woman, Fear, recedes, much smaller now than before, another entity takes root and sprouts: Hope. The word is optimistically pregnant with a question mark. Will I ever know for certain that things will work out the way I plan? No. But I am learning to trust in the bigger picture. I hope that despite the suffering, all things will eventually be made well, and that I can be a part of all things becoming well, not only for myself, but for others. And this is what I had been trying to find since the death of our daughter. This is the gift her life and the journey has brought me.

  Acknowledgments

  I am deeply grateful to my husband Mike for reading the manuscript and offering critique at all hours of the day and night and for walking me through the wanderings (in more ways than one) of a work in progress. I would like to thank Lauren and Stefan who offered their input on numerous occasions, often filling the gaps in my memory. I owe them a great deal for simply agreeing to participate in the bigger storyline. From the time we began to talk about living on a boat, we were fortunate to be surrounded by people who believed in us and encouraged us to go after our dreams: Mark and Karen, Rick and Joan, our group of friends in Cambridge, Ontario, affectionately known as the Sojourners, including Barb Berg. The older I get the more I realize the importance these people played in helping us to accomplish our goals. I am grateful too, for our parents, Bob and Sharon Eggert and Reg and Carol Petersen, who, although nervous about our Atlantic Ocean crossing, stood by us not only through the passage, but throughout our journey.

  Professionally, I would like to express my thanks to Mary Jo Cartledgehayes from Creative Nonfiction, who was the first to review part of the manuscript, as well as my editor, Susan Schwartz, whose coaching has proven to be invaluable. Lynn Price at Behler Publications has been fantastic to work with as has my publicist, Paula Margulies.