When Vicki stood beside me on the dock in San Diego and our children were running around the boat, all seemed right and good with my world. But as soon as my family left, I began to question everything. I’m not good company for myself. As soon as I am alone, negative and disquieting speculations tend to run through my head.
Was I one of those men? A Running Man? Is that what I was doing on this journey—running? And if so, from what, and why? Valkyrien was now sailing well enough on her own that I began to wonder more pointedly about my own life.
For the first fifteen years of my son’s life (fourteen for my daughter Summer, ten for my daughter Noah), I was around nearly all of the time. I worked in steady jobs that required me to remain at home for long periods of time, without traveling. I prosecuted criminals in Philadelphia as an assistant district attorney. Later, I taught English as an adjunct professor at Boston College, and, with my friend Charlie Lord, I headed the Urban Ecology Institute (UEI) at BC.
At UEI we created an enhanced biology curriculum for public schools in Boston and neighboring cities. We presented a continuing education course for public high school science teachers, pairing them with a mentoring professor at Boston College. As part of the program, we set high school students up to do field studies. Most students began the program by figuring out the species and number of birds that lived around their school campus. The field studies became more complex as the students got better at collecting and interpreting data. Some advanced to the point where they were trapping coyotes and doing radio-collar monitoring of coyote bands living in the city.
We were among the first enhanced science programs to insist that children with developmental disabilities be fully included and integrated into the work. At first teachers thought this would be impossible. But even children with quite severe cognitive impairments can see a bird in flight, and they often notice things, particularly in nature, that those of us with more fully functioning brains miss.
My family and I spent summers together in Cape Cod, and skied on school holidays. When I wrote my World War II book, Danger’s Hour: The Story of the USS Bunker Hill and the Kamikaze Pilot Who Crippled Her, aside from the few long stints I spent researching in Japan and around the United States, I worked at home in my office, writing.
Did my children think of me as an absentee father? I assumed for the most part that my absences were relatively easy for them—certainly easier than the few times Vicki would travel for her work and I was left at home to take care of them.
During one long trip, when Vicki was away lecturing for a teacher-training program, I purchased a dozen frozen lasagnas, and we ate lasagna every day for lunch and dinner. My children could not believe I was willing to eat lasagna every day rather than cook something. We were all beyond grateful for Vicki’s return. The truth is that I actually loved the frozen lasagnas, but I longed for Vicki terribly. When we are apart I suffer a nameless ache, like some part of me is missing.
At times it was a mystery, even to me, maybe especially to me, why I was so obsessed with Valkyrien and the Pearl project. I often lay in my bunk at night, asking myself what the hell I was doing and why I was spending this time away from the people I cared about most. Why was I absenting myself from my wife and the life of our family for such an extended period? Was the Pearl project really worth more to me than the precious time it took away from my family? It certainly was true that the struggle of the slaves who escaped on the Pearl was more important than any single flag-football game. But did the creation of a memorial to those slaves justify my missing out on events in my children’s lives that were irretrievable?
The answer, most certainly, is that missing time with Vicki and our children, their stories around a dinner table or a kiss goodnight, was a mistake. I knew all the time I was away that I was making a choice that I would regret forever. It is true that I was home and with my children more than most fathers—I am lucky in that I could afford to be—but I missed out on many moments in their lives because I was down in Central America on that boat.
I could say I don’t know why I did it, and largely, that is true. A truer answer might have to do with how, particularly for a certain kind of person, working for a full day to loosen a single bolt could be more satisfying than walking with my truly beloved wife through the woods or taking my children to the movies. That sounds terrible, I know, and maybe it is, but when that nut finally slipped, and I could unscrew it with my finger and thumb and slip it off and hold it before my eyes, and see the shiny silver threads and know that some man had tightened that nut down fifty years before and it had not moved one bit since, I am carried away, filled with a strangely satisfying joy and a not uncertain, though inexplicable, pride.
Yes, the guilt of being away from my children always mixed into that moment. My children are beautiful, smart, strong, kind, and filled with love. My wife and I remain deeply in love, and yet I loved to sail away. Even though I sink, I am not sure I will ever get to the bottom of this. Of course the joy I speak of—unscrewing a nut—is easy to understand: It’s the difference between a complex life of relationships and obligations and a life of simple duties and tasks, and on a boat! That part is not tough to get. There is something deeper, though, and darker, I suppose.
I can become disconnected from peace and serenity so easily. An afternoon sail, if, say, a storm blows in, can quickly become, almost subconsciously, a test of my fitness as a man. When I camp or ski or sail or dive, in the back of my mind, every act I attempt is a referendum on my fitness to be alive—a measure of my courage, and my value. I do well in these tests. Although claustrophobic, I can, by praying and concentrating, remain deep inside a mud bank, twenty feet below the ocean’s surface, in zero visibility, for an hour, or until my tank runs out of air.
Partially because I am so filled with self-doubt and partially because I like winning, I tend to put myself in situations in which I am tested, often. My sense of self feels validated through risky behavior that I survive only through courageous acts. These acts become stories, often very funny stories, which substantiate my place in our family—where truly great acts are commonplace among my parents and siblings. And it can take a lot even to be noticed when you are one of eleven. I am happiest when near the water—not, I think, because water is such a touchstone for spirituality and love, but because water, to me, offers constant challenges, where I can be tested each day and be found fit to live.
I was drawn to the call of Valkyrien and to the intense nature of this particular journey. Whether facing the perils of a sudden storm or the constant demands of this vessel, I felt useful. A challenge at sea requires that I set aside the restlessness and despair that so often controls my mind—my choices, my life—and focus on what needs to be done in that one moment, then the next moment. Despite the chaos—and I do have a chaotic life—on a boat there is a sense of order. All of the rules are defined. I know what I need to do to keep the boat afloat for another day. If I do not sink, I have done what I need to do—what I have set out to do.
My father once said, “Well, we all have fathers.” To me, this is a profound statement of what all of us go through in dealing with life on life’s terms—and growing up. I think about this, and Maxey, and why I asked him to climb out on a frail bowsprit during that storm to change sails.
Maxey is now in his early twenties. He will graduate this year from college, and has a job at a serious firm in New York. To some, our lives may seem very different. Maxey does not need the same physical challenges and ordeals in order to feel fully alive, or worthwhile, nor do his sisters, Noah and Summer, but I know that he will never hesitate to dive into stormy seas to rescue me or anyone he loves. Summer will become a public school teacher later this year, in Oakland, California, empowering young minds, building character and confidence and instilling hope. Noah is a creative leader and will start college in the fall.
Maxey, Summer, and Noah are competent and fearless—they climb and
ski mountains, raft challenging rivers, excel in all sports, and yet, like Vicki, they are grounded, content in themselves. They approach life confidently; they do not require the constant ordeals and benediction of the sea. Maxey, Summer, and Noah understand that we are all tethered to this world by the thinnest of lifelines, and they are always ready to reach out a hand. My children will never be limited by the expectations of others. Vicki has always lived completely independent of the thoughts and judgments of others.
Vicki has joined me on so many adventures. I have seen her sick and shivering, on the banks of the Usumacinta River along the border of Mexico and Guatemala—a trip we did without a guide company. I have seen her hungry and tired after a long night’s sail through New England squalls, and I have watched Vicki time and time again rally to the side of our children when their small bones broke or their heads needed forty-six stitches or when they required guidance and comfort. But I have never noticed Vicki scared on a boat. Vicki has the most astonishing gift of enjoying life fully without needing to take physical risk or create drama. Vicki is willing, at any moment, to help me better understand myself, with love.
The other day I asked my son, in a text message, to say a prayer that I would find something I had lost. He sent a note to Vicki saying that he did pray for me—but instead of locating that item, he asked God to allow me to realize how much he, his siblings, and Vicki truly love me. Vicki, my constant companion in adventures big and small, at sea and at home, is always helping me recognize myself—not through danger and challenges, but through love.
Somehow our three children have found a channel between our two lives; between sailing through storms and navigating through reflection on their own lived lives. The fact that our children do not need to feel heroic in order to feel totally loved and beloved, fills me with a rare joy. They are free. They are free from the torment of inventing a life of threatening adventure in order to feel worthy. They are free to live. I hope so much that, despite my mad dashes into stormy seas, I have also helped them to love.
And so, despite the regret of leaving my beloved family behind in San Diego, I set my sights on Panama and sailed south. And in the process, my relationship with this noble yet broken, heroic yet struggling boat continued.
16. Mexico
I have looked upon those brilliant creatures,
And now my heart is sore.
—William Butler Yeats, The Wild Swans at Coole
Jerry, the surveyor, had told us Valkyrien’s fuel tanks could carry more than four hundred gallons of fuel, and she would make at least five miles per gallon. In fact, the tanks held less than two hundred gallons of fuel, and she made only about two miles per gallon, so our fuel capacity quickly became a huge issue, in light of the fact that for much of the trip we were without sufficient wind.
Diesel fuel tanks can be shockingly expensive, and installation adds another big cost. Valkyrien offered few places to install the tanks easily. Any replacements would necessitate the services of a marine architect to make sure that the weight of the fuel—about eight pounds to the gallon—would not completely throw off Valkyrien’s critical balance. We would also have to hire a skilled welder (and it can be tough to convince a skilled welder to create an arc inside a highly incendiary fuel storage area). At first we tried to make do with what we had; later, I tried various schemes to hold more diesel.
My first idea was to purchase diesel fuel from passing foreign-flagged vessels, rather than taking the time to go into port. I figured that the captains of those boats would be willing to sell to us because we would pay them cash, and they probably charged all of their fuel supplies to the owner’s credit card. I think I was probably not far off in that regard. These huge vessels plied the waters off the shores of Mexico for months on end, often with crews that had no connection to Latin America or the United States. I thought it would be interesting to have some interaction with them.
The first boat we hailed was a Russian fishing vessel with a Polish flag. When we pulled beside her, a friendly, shirtless American hailed us in a perfect East LA accent. His face was covered almost completely in dark tattoos, which trailed down his neck and then along his arms, spreading to his chest in a violent series of images that seemed a dark mix of Hieronymus Bosch and the symbols of a San Pedro Valley gang.
He immediately grasped the opportunity for profit and ordered the mostly Slavic crew to action. The dark-inked American had a powerful but disturbing influence over the captain and crew as he supervised the unloading of the fuel. He ended up charging us about six dollars a gallon, roughly double the prevailing price. I didn’t argue, although thereafter gave up on my idea of purchasing fuel from passing freighters.
We motored slowly down the unvarying desert-like coastal plains of Baja, always backed by dark volcanic mountains, sliding inside of Isla Cedros and Isla La Natividad off of Punta Eugenia, where Baja California Norte meets Baja California del Sur.
Mexico created a biosphere zone on the coast near Punta Eugenia, which is now a UNESCO World Heritage Site. The pristine coast there is visited by Pacific gray whales, California sea lions, and even the blue whale. It is also home to four species of endangered sea turtle.
We sailed past several two-liter plastic soda bottles that had been painted pink and green. I vaguely recalled a long-ago biology teacher saying that sea turtles were often trapped by fishermen who made bottles look like jellyfish. Fishermen suspend heavy weights and gillnets below the colored bottles. When the sea turtles show up to investigate, they become tangled in the nets. The turtles are often able to catch just a breath of air, pulling with all their might against the weights—and so, slowly, as they weaken, the turtles are pulled under and drown.
I halted Valkyrien at the next set of bottles and headed out in the Whaler with Jasper and several sharp knives, wire cutters, and needle-nose pliers. We found six or seven traps and freed the turtles from each one, then pulled the prohibited turtle snares into the Whaler. I planned on bringing the traps to the first village we passed so I could inform the authorities.
On the way, we came upon a bigger agglomeration of plastic bottles, this trap floating menacingly, perhaps five feet around. Five turtles struggled in the webbing. Two more were already dead, steel wire, laced throughout the trap, having sliced through their tough skin like a garrote, tearing their forearms to the bone. We set the living turtles free even though I knew that freeing an endangered sea turtle from dying in a trap is a violation of US law. One irony of the environmental movement is that citizens who take action to save any endangered animal face prosecution in every nation.
Years later my brother and I freed a drowning sea turtle caught in a trap off Cape Cod, and we were investigated by NOAA. It is still illegal for a child to pick up a blue-jay feather in every national park. Some wildlife officials use the rules to harass citizens (like me) who seek a more personal interaction with nature.
Authorities in the coastal villages of Pacific Mexico have no mandate for protection and actively support the trappers, making life miserable for Good Samaritans trying to save the turtles. In fact, after pulling the last trap into the Whaler, we were accosted by an angry group of fishermen who threatened to call the police on us. We sailed on in a hurry, farther down the coast, stopping at a small town where we were confronted by the local sheriff. He asked us if we had stolen the fish traps.
“You know damn well these are not fish traps,” I told him. “These are traps for turtles. And this one here had seven turtles stuck in it, two of them dead.”
The uniformed sheriff ordered me to turn over the traps to him at once or I would be arrested. Reluctantly, I passed him the tangled trap, trying to tangle it even more while handing it over. We pulled away from the little seaside fishing village, filled with self-righteous anger. I looked back at the little concrete block bodega restaurant at the corner of the wharf. The board in front advertised turtle eggs and turtle meat for sale. When I read t
he sign, I reconsidered my position. I remember thinking to myself as I looked back at the little bodega, Really, how can we expect to force our will and our values on the rest of the world?
As long as they were not selling to an international market (which is largely shut down, at least for deliveries from Mexico), how could I so self-righteously complain? This limited killing of turtles for local consumption in Baja is perhaps not too bad. The Mexicans have many more serious challenges to deal with before they can justifiably utilize law enforcement resources to address the illegal capture of a few sea turtles whose meat will be sold to local townspeople.
We sailed on. After our jaunt with the turtle traps, Valkyrien had drained all but the furthest diesel tank forward, and the Whaler, too, was low on fuel. Luckily we continued to have fair winds, though light, and were able to sail into Cabo San Lucas two evenings later.
17. The Harbor at Cabo San Lucas
Errand into the Wilderness
—Title of a book by Perry Miller
Valkyrien’s anchor was a gigantic antique Danforth, weighing about 125 pounds. The anchor was fastened via a galvanized steel shackle to the anchor chain. The chain itself weighed about five pounds per foot. The anchor was lifted and raised by a rusty iron windlass powered by two electric motors salvaged from a World War II bomber. A cogged wheel, attached to the motors via chain drives, turned the windlass.
While in San Francisco, I tested the windlass, and one of the drive chains snapped. It turned out that the size of chain that fit the cogs was no longer made. We couldn’t figure out a way to cut off the wheels without damaging the windlass, and after driving around to dozens of machine shops, we finally found someone who would make us a chain. I remained skeptical about the dubious replacement drive chain and successfully avoided anchoring all the way down to Cabo.
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