by Liz Clark
“We did it!” Shannon cheers.
“Yea! And we’ve gained almost two knots!” I exclaim. Snaggs goes down to make sandwiches, while I make an entry in the logbook to recount the momentous event. After lunch Shannon takes the watch and I lay back and doze off, head in the clouds.
Day by day, I am learning to captain Swell more proficiently. I’m constantly reading equipment manuals and finally figured out how to use the SSB radio to download weather forecasts. Between planning and prepping for passages, we explore for waves, try local restaurants, and meet new friends. We sure get a lot of attention as two young women. Most of it is positive—dinner invites, special tours, questions, and curiosity—both from locals ashore and people on other sailboats in the anchorages.
“Cruisers” is the accepted title given to people living and traveling on small boats for extended periods of time. Some have taken a sabbatical from work; for others, it’s a permanent lifestyle. We see the same faces often, as most boats are heading south and share the same window of time to get to safe hurricane-season destinations. Most cruisers are much older than Shannon and me, seeing as it takes resources to buy and maintain a boat. There are occasional “in-betweeners,” in their thirties and forties, often with kids aboard, and a few male “single handers” here and there. But the majority of cruisers are retired, salt-of-the-earth couples who never intend to return to land and know every trick in the cruising book—from covering their eggs in Vaseline to make them stay fresh longer, to pirating the latest electronic charts, and knowing which clothespins actually hold drying clothes on the lifelines. He’ll always have advice about fixing things and she can sew curtains and cushions and whip a delicacy out of a few simple ingredients.
People go cruising for various reasons. Some relish the everyday “sunset happy hour” that starts at 5 pm on one or more of the boats in a harbor. There is usually an open invite as long as you bring your own booze. Others, like the scuba divers and shell collectors, or surfers like us, do it to enjoy their watersports or hobbies. Many just love sailing and the ocean, and living free and disconnected from society. They all have stories to tell, some louder than others. At almost every bay, a cruising wife—likely dying to talk to someone other than her husband—organizes a potluck get-together, spreading the word via the VHF radio. Whether the potlucks are on the beach or on one of the boats, these eclectic events are the social fabric of cruising life. As diverse as they come, cruisers are almost always helpful, good-willed, and frugal. There is one golden rule—always do your best to help another cruiser in need—because inevitably at some point, you’ll need help too.
I feel lucky to have Shannon aboard; she’s straightforward, ready for anything, and laughs at my jokes. Sailing with others means being together twenty-four hours a day without many comforts and with lots to accomplish. You quickly learn each other’s personal habits (for better or worse), and must seek compromise between everyone’s different needs and wishes. Boat life lacks immediacy and privacy, so hangups, quirks, and weaknesses are rapidly exposed. An “elephant in the room” can sink the ship. There’s no TV, no Internet, no picking up some take-out when you’re hungry. But Shannon and I inhabit this space well together. There’s a forward cabin with a v-shaped berth, a tiny head with a hand pump toilet, a central cabin area with a narrow bunk, nav table, and galley, and then two aft crawl-in berths—the smaller serving as storage and the bigger as Shannon’s bunk. Three or four aboard can be fun for a stint, but two feels a bit more spacious.
On passages, we now trade watch duties with a simple nod. On watch, vigilance for boat traffic, weather changes, fishing buoys, and equipment issues is obligatory. While off watch, we read, listen to music, spot sea life, snooze in our bunks, make food, fix things, or take photos. Shannon steers Swell while I get the anchor up or down, and helps furl the sails as we come into harbor. We’re reading Rachel Carson’s The Sea Around Us aloud at night and discuss the coastal pollution, development, and other environmental issues we observe.
Swell’s little galley stove boils tea and oatmeal in the mornings, and cooks up rice and fish, curry, or quesadillas in the evening. Opposite the stove and sink, the rectangular lid of the fridge doubles as a countertop, making every foray within an act of juggling half-made sandwiches or chopped veggies above while scavenging for perishables piled randomly below. While it seems things would be so easy to access in such a small space, it quite often requires some bodily contortion and patience. Each storage compartment becomes its own little universe, and the extraction of one simple item, like a tool or pan for cooking, can require taking everything else out too.
Even with our little watermaker functioning, freshwater use is strictly limited. Using the device requires constant filter changes, cleaning, and energy. So we wash dishes with salt water pumped by foot in the galley sink. To bathe, we leap off Swell, climb into the dinghy to soap up, rinse off in the sea, and can usually afford a brief freshwater rinse under the little shower spigot on the aft deck.
Making calls on the satellite phone is crazy expensive, so unless there’s an emergency, contacting home at sea happens via short text emails we can send and receive through Swell’s SSB radio. The bulk of our communication happens in port. We spend hours in Internet cafés calling home, sending emails and photos, and networking to sell photos or articles. Barry and I are mostly in touch via email, because the ham radio he installed at home has grounding issues. He’s been forced to purchase his first computer, in spite of his “incurable allergy to electronic devices.” I enjoy writing him about the voyage happenings about twice a month. Then I edit these letters to use as updates on my website. It’s great to see how people are enjoying them. A surf forecasting website is even reposting them! And now Patagonia, the clothing company, is interested in sponsoring me with gear!
When we arrive at a port, we’re required to check in with the local officials and then we usually provision for food, fuel, and the propane used for cooking, plus make necessary repairs. We do laundry, too, when the opportunity arises. If we’re lucky, it’s at a new friend’s house or a Laundromat, but more often we stomp and scrub it clean in buckets when freshwater is available ashore. So “dirty,” as applied to our clothes, has become a relative term. Practical is much more valuable in this lifestyle than stylish, so you wear things until you can’t stand the smell or sight of them.
New surf spots, language barriers, and local bureaucracy are intimidating at times, but we’ve had nothing but positive experiences with the warm-hearted Mexican people. Not only have we been given rides and offered fresh fish, but people are always happy to help. The general mañana sentiment means the locals are not too hurried to talk with us. They walk us down the street to make sure we find our destination, and repeat their words slowly enough that we can understand. Although to us, the disparities between rich and poor seem great, families are tight and work hard to support each other. They cheerfully accommodate our gringo needs, even when it has nothing to do with earning them any money.
On the way into Puerto Escondido at sundown, Shannon and I wrestle the spinnaker pole back into its cradle. Once the anchor is down, we decide the only reasonable thing to do is go ashore for ice cream. Luckily the bay is calm enough to beach the dinghy. This isn’t always the case. Our participation in nightlife has become selective since it often means anchoring the dinghy off the beach and swimming in through the surfline to get to shore. We’ll show up to dinner invites or discotecas salty and sandy, with a dripping dry bag in tow.
We walk the length of the town to stretch our legs, winding along sidewalks packed with vendors selling corn on the cob, tacos, traditional woven goods, whirling plastic doodads, portrait sketches, and mini wood carvings. Upon spotting an ice cream shop, we duck inside. Snaggs and I are easy to please—ice cream, some surf, a few cute guys to flirt with, and a decently calm anchorage. In that order.
We sit outside on the curb licking our quickly melting delights. A group of young kids play in the street nearb
y. One of their pelotas (balls) comes flying our way and an adorable chubby girl comes racing after it. She stops short, seeing Shannon’s ice cream cone, and reaches out to signal that she wants some. Shannon caves and hands it over.
Little “Gordita,” as they call her, inhales what is left as a wide-grinned boy comes running up and hucks his feet over his head in an awkward cartwheel. I pass him the rest of my cone, get up, and cartwheel myself. The girl then bounces Shannon a ball. Shannon chucks it to me. Soon the road around us erupts into a playground of rocketing pelotas, sprawling brown limbs, deliberate collisions, speedy footraces, dance moves, and unbridled yelps. It’s like the whistle for recess has blown and Shannon and I revert to our days on the blacktop.
After an hour of dodging tourists, twirling kids, and flinging pelotas, I look over to see Shannon dancing in a misshapen circle of squirming kids, holding hands and singing with glee. I’m not sure who’s having more fun—us or them? We begin to tire, but they don’t. We need an escape plan.
“More ice cream?” I propose, thinking of Barry and my father’s generosity. Shannon nods.
I get permission from their onlooking mothers, who’ve been sitting on the sidewalk, taking in the show while selling handmade crafts. They nod unanimously. We herd the kids into the ice cream parlor, and the head count doubles as children up and down the street catch on to the deal. Even Juanito Chiquito, who couldn’t have been more than two years old, is lifted up by his sister so he can pick out a flavor. They walk out one by one, ice cream princes and princesses flaunting their tall, cold scoops. Snaggs and I go for round two, and then sit back on the curb where we started, surrounded by our new fleet of young friends licking, laughing, and wiggling beside us. Gordita is pinned at my left hip, alternately dipping her spoon into her scoop then mine.
A Fillet of Humility
Knife in hand, I hunch over the taut body of the medium-sized tuna we caught on our passage. Swell is tied to a dock for the first time in months, and it’s nice to have a flat open space to clean our catch. Just as I begin to make my first cut, a lanky forty-something gringo walks up and leans casually against a nearby dock box.
“Nice catch,” he remarks.
“Thanks,” I reply, not even looking up. I’m not enthused about having a spectator. He doesn’t catch my hint, though, and launches into a detailed fish story. Roger that, amigo, you’re the boss, now please let me fillet my fish in peace, I think.
He carries on and I roll my eyes while preparing to make the first cut. I was up all night fighting a three-knot current and an angry bee swarm to get here. I’m tired, and hungry, and not in the mood to chat right now.
My knife isn’t sharp enough, and my impatience is making it harder. I massacre the first fillet, finally hacking it off the carcass. Then I struggle to grip the skin to remove it from the meat.
“You know,” he says, pausing his storm story.
I knew this was coming.
“If you cut the outline of the fillet first, and leave the meat connected to the bones, it’s a hell of a lot easier to pull off the skin.”
I continue peeling and pulling at the skin of the first fillet, struggling to hide my irritation. He keeps right on with his stories, jolly as ever. “My parents weren’t sailors, you see ...”
I try hopelessly to tune him out, flipping the fish over to start on the other side. My foul attitude aside, I decide to try his technique. I slice across the backbone first, then from the head down to the stomach, and so forth, finishing with the fillet completely outlined.
“Perfect. Now pull the skin back starting from the head,” he says.
It peels off perfectly in one piece.
“Thadda girl,” he smiles, then turns and walks down the dock.
My exasperation dissolves quickly into guilt. I had been so cold and disrespectful, hardly even looking up at him. I finish the cleanly cut second fillet and run to catch up with him.
“Here you go.” I hand him the fresh hunk of meat. “Thank you for the tip.”
Light in the Dark
It’s 3 am. I’m sitting on the bow in total darkness, my harness clipped securely to the mast like a baby’s umbilical cord to its mother. The moon has set. I can’t really make out the horizon, but the steady sound of Swell’s hull cutting through the calm sea provides some orientation. The darkness is freckled with twinkling stars and planets, clusters of lights from land, and thick blooms of tumbling phosphorescence in the bow wake. I can’t stop staring. There’s something about the scene that brings all the mysteries of life to mind.
What the heck are we doing here on this tiny speck in the void? What is life about? I ponder.
The mainsail rustles, filling and slackening in the light offshore breeze. The warm, dry air carries whiffs of dust and burnt trash from the coast of Guatemala. As I scan and squint for lights from other ships, I have no answers, but feel certain that I am where I am supposed to be.
We were lucky to bump into Pablo in Puerto Escondido, our expat buddy from farther north, who quickly advised us to change out our shortboards for the biggest boards we had, and lose our leashes so as to lessen hold-down time at the heavy beach break. He even gave Shannon a big-wave board. Thanks to his tips, we caught some unforgettable rides, although I was frustrated because I never managed to get a tube. When the surf got too big we rounded up a few local Mexican surfer girls, picked up Katie, my surf buddy who had flown in to join us, and sailed to a remote surf spot outside of town. We enjoyed the time like sisters, but being around such confident women had quietly reminded me of my own insecurities.
The dark night and solitude coax my inner shadows to the surface. I’ve put off facing them for as long as I can remember, always finding an excuse. I have never felt pretty or desirable enough. I fight with the ugly parts of me on the inside, too—I can be terribly greedy, impatient, and self-centered. I’m too sensitive, too reactive, too quick to judge. And when my bouts with depression arise, the sadness blots out everything and the world becomes almost unbearable.
My parents’ faces come to mind. I always tried to make them happier but nothing ever worked. I feel their pain as my own. The uncomfortable silences, the sorrow I don’t always understand, the sound of another beer being opened, a door slamming, hidden tears, the smell of cigarettes, alcohol, regret, misunderstanding. The distant looks in their eyes. The feeling of being alone even when they were near. My throat swells. Hot tears well up in my eyes. I quickly wipe them away.
Knowing these feelings can return with only a slight trigger renders me weak and vulnerable. I have to face my own flaws, slay these emotional monsters, and give up trying to change Mom and Dad. Now I’m here, living my dream. There are no excuses for being unhappy.
Pssssssssshhhhhhhht, pssshhhht. Something surfaces for a breath nearby.
Glowing torpedoes rocket toward us from the starboard quarter: dolphins! They light up the sea around Swell with their trails of phosphorescence, surfing the bow wake and looping back for more.
Everything’s okay. It’s more than okay. And if they can bring light to this darkness, why can’t I?
Million-Dollar Views and Fine Dining
Yet another tropical thunderstorm engulfs Swell. After four months without rain through Central America’s dry season, the falling water is a welcome change. Large drops pelt the decks as Shannon and I sail from Nicaragua into Costa Rican waters after two soggy days at sea. Unlike Nicaragua’s stick-straight coast, Costa Rica has thick fingers of land that jut out into the sea, creating a haven of deep, forested bays. We approach the entrance to one of them, hoping for protection from the west wind and sloppy seas.
Waking the next morning to blue skies, we set off with ambitious plans to hike to the top of a nearby mountain through the wild national park area. It’s an all-day affair with DEET, machetes, cameras, mud, and fire ants. Thanks to Shannon’s fierce trail-blazing skills, we make it to the top.
The silence on the peak feels sacred. We sit and take in the 360-degree view o
f the high hills and jungle slopes. Swell is just a tiny speck in the grand bay below. Gratitude mixes with sweet fatigue. I quiet myself and try to hear what the tiny puffs of wind are whispering.
We finally emerge from the foliage at sea level to find the dinghy stuck in the silty mud of low tide. We jump in the sea fully clothed to await the rising tide and wash off our filthy shoes, clothes, and bodies.
When the dinghy floats free, we head back toward Swell, noticing a new neighbor anchored just to our port.
“They’re awfully close,” I remark.
Shannon wrinkles her nose in agreement. We study the faded white fishing panga with its neon blue rails, and the name Angelo scrawled across the side in slightly smeared magenta script. Three men lounging in the afternoon sun immediately hail us as we draw near. They introduce themselves as Efrain, Manuel, and Geronimo, and ask if we have a light bulb to replace the dead one in their flashlight.
“¿Les gustan ceviche? ¿Quieren venir a cenar con nosotros?” (Do you like ceviche? Want to come eat dinner with us?)
I look at Shannon. We are both starving.
“Sí. Gracias. ¡Hasta pronto!” (Yes, thanks. See you soon!)
Back aboard Swell, we scrub ourselves of the lingering mud and DEET, then scour the rather barren food bin for something to bring as a side dish. We grab the last pack of Oreos instead.
“Is this a good idea?” Shannon asks.
“Do you want me to bring the Mace just in case?” I reply.
“Couldn’t hurt.”
It’s dark when we row toward the panga.
“Hola, amigos” (Hello, friends), we call.
“¡Vengan!” (Come!) They welcome us aboard, taking our bow line. We climb over the rail and into the makeshift cabin. Wet and worn wooden slats cover the bare hull forward of the two raised fish holds in the aft. A small relic of a radio dangles by a wire from one of the two-by-fours holding up a blue plastic tarp to provide shelter from the rain. From its tiny speaker, a man’s voice belts out a Mexican love ballad accompanied by dramatic horns. We offer them an extra flashlight I had aboard Swell, since I didn’t find a replacement bulb. The light is put to use right away as Manuel fishes a packet of Tang out of a dark compartment.