by Liz Clark
But when all the ingredients do come together, it’s pure magic. So even after several frightening near misses with lightning, here I am again, pressing my luck on one more surf mission. I’ve always been stubborn. My Auntie Julie Ann always says it’s because I’m a Taurus. My desires often outweigh reason, especially when surfing is involved.
Fatigue steadily weighs on my eyelids as we enter Panamanian waters. I head below to wake my latest crew.
“Jake ... Jake ... I’m getting tired, can you take over for a while?” His lids flash open to reveal his wild, emerald green eyes.
“Hi Lizzypumpkin. Of course,” he replies. He smiles that mischievous smile that drew me to him back in Santa Barbara shortly after Barry’s proposal. We shared a fun love story, full of sea adventures and surf chasing. Jake was nonstop exuberance and charisma. Hanging with him was never boring. His thirst for living on the edge often got him into trouble, but I couldn’t resist his lion heart, self-deprecating humor, and courageous will. He never tried to contain me, supporting me unwaveringly toward this voyage, as he pursued his own commercial fishing dream.
We rented a small studio together to get off our boats at the end of the first year of Swell’s refit, and spent two fantastic weeks there making meals and enjoying a bit of land luxury. But Jake had impossible luck. If there was a one-in-a-million chance of something going wrong, it would. One day he came home looking white as a ghost, saying something about the State of Hawai‘i finding a DUI on his California record while he was on probation. I was surprised because I’d hardly ever seen him drink. He was in trouble, he explained, and drove off the next day with panic in his eyes. He spent the next six months in state prison on Kaua‘i, and he wrote me a letter every single day.
Left alone in the studio, with all of his belongings, I mourned him. But I was scheduled to be heading down the coast on Swell by the time he would get back, so I began to detach myself from the whole situation. I met a charming carpenter in the surf at Hammond’s Point, and his great humor and fun-loving spirit helped me forget about the pain of losing Jake so abruptly. My new friend helped build a nav station aboard Swell, and he encouraged me through the intense final stages of Swell’s preparation. I adored him too, but my heart was already out to sea. The story with Jake felt unfinished, though, so when he offered to fly in and join me for a couple weeks, I couldn’t say no.
After an hour’s sleep, I wake to the sound of fat raindrops pelting the deck. The noise quickly escalates into a deafening torrent, and I push up off the settee and climb up the steps. Glancing at the radar screen on my way up, I see a massive squall blacking out the entire eight-mile radius of the radar screen!
“Is this normal?” Jake asks.
“Eeesh, this doesn’t look good,” I mutter, surveying the flashes of lightning on the horizon all around us. I had recently heard about a couple whose boat had sunk underneath them in minutes after a lightning strike blew a hole through their hull. I sure hope that grounding plate works.
It seems to be closing in on us from every side. I try to steer us where the radar shows a small gap in the storm, but my efforts are in vain. The sails hang limp in the swirling, convectional air.
“Don’t touch anything metal!” I warn, as the bolts bear down closer and closer. Thunderclaps rumble commandingly as white claws of lightning rip down all around us, illuminating our harrowing reality. I duck below to unplug the radios in a panic, my fingers trembling as I yank out their cords.
“So this is your idea of fun?” Jake asks, aghast. We huddle together, trying to avoid touching anything metal, puny and powerless against the raging sky. My body tenses with each flash of light, bracing for the deafening thunderclap that follows. Jaw clenched, I dig my nails deeper into my calves with each incomprehensibly powerful rumble.
“This is bad,” I whisper.
“Well, if it’s any sign of what’s to come, your pet gecko just abandoned ship!” Jake reports, wide-eyed. He wraps his arm tightly around me. The fiercely independent part of me doesn’t want his support, but this could be it, I’ll take it! The dreadful minutes linger on until three bolts shred the sky just above us.
CRACK! And again. And again.
The thunder hits our chests with visceral force. The third bolt strikes the water just a boat-length away, exploding the surface into a tower of whitewater dressed in the full spectrum of the rainbow. The radar blacks out and the chart plotter flashes a question mark, then goes blank.
I moan with terror and clutch Jake. Silent tears stream down my face. Never have I felt so humbled by nature’s power, so raw, unbridled, and unpredictable. I brace for a direct hit, but the next bolt strikes farther north. We both sit in silence for a long time, as the storm starts to break up.
“You okay, Captain?”
“I changed my mind,” I stutter. “I think I want a white picket fence and a golden retriever.”
The Decision
Ear infections have plagued me for several months now. I think the problems started from surfing in the polluted waters near the boatyard. I’ve tried everything—a potpourri of antibiotics, even by injection, and all the home remedies in the book: ear cones, garlic, grapeseed oil. I even borrowed a hair dryer. Antibiotics help temporarily, but as soon as I stop them the infections flare up again. Local doctors are baffled. Jake is leaving tomorrow and he’s worried about me. Both my ears are swollen and painful. I can’t surf, I’m fatigued, and I can barely hear.
I decide to accompany Jake up to the capital of Costa Rica where he’ll catch his flight home. After goodbyes, I go see a specialist, who looks inside my ears with a small video camera that projects the image onto a screen. It’s a jungle in there! She determines it’s some kind of rare fungus and uses a tiny vacuum to clean them out, then prescribes me some antifungal ear-drops. I’m to stay out of the water and rest for at least three weeks. With the holidays coming, I decide to fly home and be with my family to heal.
Swell is safe at a dock with friends watching her, so I can rest at my parents’ new apartment in Point Loma. My hearing and balance gradually come back, but my body feels strange. My period is late, and my breasts are sore. I think back to that fateful morning when Jake’s bad luck surfaced again—a condom broke. I need a pregnancy test.
Two pink lines on the urine test stick find me facing a decision I hoped I’d never have to make. I tell my mother right away, and Jake too. They both want to support whichever decision I make. I’m appalled by the thought of ending my voyage. I haven’t even been gone a year. I’m just gaining momentum; stopping my dream now seems unthinkable.
A few days later I’m at a private clinic in Los Angeles where my mother and the compassionate doctor reassure me that having an abortion doesn’t make me a bad person. All the controversy and stigmas connected to it weigh heavily on me, though. But I remind myself of what I know to be true in my heart: It’s not the right time ... I’m not ready... I still have so much work to do on myself.
I curl up on the passenger seat on the drive home, tears streaming silently down my cheeks. It will be my deepest, darkest secret. My mother strokes my arm. I’m unspeakably grateful for her support through this. Nonetheless, I slip into that familiar dark place. I don’t get out of bed for days, don’t accept phone calls, and hardly eat. Nothing even has taste.
When I finally feel ready, I get myself down to the ocean, where the smell of the sea and the blue of the sky helps lift me out of the sadness. I submerge myself in the cold water, wallowing in the slimy kelp strands. No wetsuit. The cold stings me back to life.
I have my health back, and my sailing dream awaits. But it’s not just about my own dream anymore. I feel recommitted to my voyage as a way to empower others to chase their dreams and raise awareness about pressing environmental issues. Now I’m on this journey for something bigger than me.
4,505
Nautical Miles Traveled
Buena
Manifestación
Positive Vibration
The
last hints of daylight tuck below the western horizon as Swell motors out of the wide gulf, headed out on an overnight passage. My newest crewmate, Heather, takes the first watch. Upon her arrival two weeks ago, we bused overland to explore the Caribbean side of Panamá before readying Swell to head south along Panamá’s Pacific coast. Heather scans for other boats while I scurry around transforming Swell into passage mode as the coast fades into a strip of sparsely scattered lights.
Heather and I met behind the bar in Santa Barbara. During our first shift together, the petite brunette with Bambi-like brown eyes proved patient, hardworking, quick-witted, and caring. Over the following two years, we became like sisters and survived being hit on by stubbly, unshowered fishermen and pining regulars by cracking jokes and rolling our eyes at each other when someone got out of line.
About an hour into her watch, I’m putting away the dishes when Heather comes down the companionway, pale and wide-eyed.
“Ray’s here,” she says, “He’s right outside.”
“What do you mean?”
I can’t understand. It’s completely dark out and we’re already well offshore. I hurry past her up the steps and see Ray, the wily fifty-something Volkswagen salesman-turned-cruiser standing in his dinghy and hanging onto the lifelines as we drag him along at five knots. We had crossed paths in several anchorages, where he’d clearly developed a crush on my new crewmate, but I can’t believe he followed us all this way!
“What the hell are you doing way out here? You scared Heather!” I say sternly.
“Just thought I’d remind you girls, Panamá is to the left!” he says, tossing his head back and exploding with hyena-like laughter.
“Get outta here, you creepy ol’ pirate! We don’t need your help!” I shoo him off in a fluster; he disappears into the dark behind us.
I had hoped for a smoother start to Heather’s first night watch, but thankfully, lecherous older men are something she’s quite skilled at navigating. She has an incredible capacity for grace in the face of insisting drunks, picky snobs, and now, brash sailors. It doesn’t matter that she’s never sailed before. Whether it’s dish-washing or onion-chopping, algae-scrubbing or fish-filleting, hitchhiking or ten-hour bus rides, Heather is game. She has a knack for self-control and a persistent positivity that I hope will rub off on me.
Central America’s lightning season is finally over and I’m excited to get moving again. We’re both thirsty for nature, more self-awareness, and a better understanding of what life is about. She has just been through a difficult relationship, and on the tail of my traumatic decision and ear problem, we’re both healing.
We slowly hop our way down the coast and through the undeveloped islands off Panamá, reading spiritual and self-help books voraciously along the way.
“Why don’t they teach us this stuff in school?” I ponder aloud while reading the illuminating ancient Toltec wisdom in The Four Agreements.
“I know, and how to breathe, calm our minds, and meditate!” Heather adds, breaking for a moment from the book of yogic philosophy she’s studying to become a yoga instructor.
As we go ashore one morning, a local man fishing from a small pier greets us. “Hola. ¡Buena manifestación! Me llamo Gerardo.” (Hello. Good manifestations! My name is Gerardo.)
Upon returning from our walk, Gerardo invites us for a meal. We both get a good feeling, so we follow him to his simple tin-roofed shack in a rugged corner of jungle and mangrove. Compared to how we’ve both grown up, he has very few material things, but his calm demeanor and overwhelming generosity show another sort of richness. He feeds us fresh fish and coconut water, pointing to his toucan and monkey amigos in the nearby trees while light rain falls majestically. Although he speaks little, his peaceful presence and simple living move us to question our modern “needs” and lifestyles.
“¡Muchas gracias!” we call out as we head home. “¡Y buena manifestación!”
We discuss our books and insights while preparing meals, wandering beaches, watching sunsets, and making passages between the endless coves and islets. The fresh air and wilderness feel cleansing and curative. Panamá’s ten- to fifteen-foot tidal fluctuations are a new challenge, but Heather never makes me feel rushed. We remind each other to see the beauty in the present to avoid dwelling emotionally in the past and look for the upside in mistakes or perceived failures. We wonder about meaningful coincidences, the unlimited possibilities of “manifestation,” and how to flow with, rather than force, what life presents.
I’m not wired to flow; I often develop stiff ideas about how I want things to go, and then have a tantrum if they don’t pan out. This first year at sea has shown me that if I insist on having everything my way, I’ll spend most of my time miserable. Equipment failures drive me insane since things break almost as steadily as I repair them. Forcing passages nearly always gets me into trouble with bad weather. And I often waste energy throwing my arms up in frustration about illogical bureaucratic rules or “unfair” circumstances.
I know I must work on being more positive—more flexible when the wind shifts and willing to see water in the carburetor as a chance to learn. I won’t last long out here if I don’t. So far, the ocean has been a gentle teacher, and I’ve only had some minor slaps, but I know I need to stop making the same mistakes.
I launch a conscious effort to go with the flow. Soon we’re awed at a long, open-faced wave we find while exploring by dinghy. I push Heather, a beginner surfer, into a perfect head-high set on the longboard, and she rides it for a hundred yards while I cheer all the way. One evening ashore, we’re attacked by sand flies while Heather leads a yoga session. After collapsing with laughter, we decide to go fishing instead and end up catching dinner. When the wind wakes us up in the night, and forces us to leave our anchorage, I bite my tongue not to complain, and the next morning we find ourselves in a gorgeous empty bay where we dive with rich sea life and cartwheel along wild beaches.
As we begin to feel part of the wildness around us, we climb trees, bathe in the swirling fluorescent sunset sea, pee off the stern under the moonlight, and sleep outside under a sky of winking stars. Nature restores, soothes, and heals. While attempting to harvest coconuts, catch fish, forage high-tide lines, and make mud baths, we talk through our recent adversities and begin to feel new strength and clarity.
When the full moon rises over a jungle island backdrop one evening, I call out “¡Buena manifestación!” then howl at the gorgeous golden orb.
“¡Buena manifestación!” Heather exclaims, howling too. “It’s perfect! Gerardo’s phrase sums up everything we’ve been talking about! Positive thoughts create positive experiences!”
I wake up the next morning feeling the need to make peace with people I’ve wronged and spend a day writing apology letters to friends, ex-boyfriends, and family. Heather studies her yoga books in the cockpit while I type madly. All our recent discussions are helping me see my own faults, and I feel I need to clear out the negativity in my past so I can start again with a fresh slate, living from a better set of principles.
We continue south, and one morning in a deep sheltered bay about halfway down the coast, a local man paddles out to Swell in his dugout canoe. While we exchange batteries and DVDs for fruit, the wind switches and swings Swell over a shallow sandbar. Soon there is a second canoe. An adorable young family needs first aid supplies for their toddler. While searching around Swell for their requests, I don’t notice the tide is dropping out fast. Our visitors head for shore just as Swell’s keel hits the sand. It’s too late; I’m panicked and stressed and pissed off while the hull begins to lean over as the water drops out from under us.
After a foul half hour, the lightbulb goes on: this is a perfect opportunity to try to change my perspective. I take a deep breath, remembering how Barry described his numerous boating follies as “learning experiences.” It’s only sand below us; the tide will rise again. Heather keeps her cool, and I can’t help but smile as she attempts to make breakfast on a 65-deg
ree angle. She climbs up the tilted cabin from the fridge to the sink, and we crack up as the water flows sideways out of the faucet, spilling down onto her legs.
I decide to make use of the next few hours to clean the port side of the hull. “At least I don’t have to hold my breath!” I call up to Heather while the stereo blasts Bob Marley’s voice, reminding me to keep a good vibe.
As January slips into February, we continue to play like kids in the wondrous island landscapes, embracing simplicity and cherishing the natural world around us.
After dropping anchor at a small island one afternoon, we tandem-paddle the longboard to what appears to be a deserted beach. We haul the board up above the high-tide line and skip off down the shoreline to stretch our legs after a long day of moving Swell south. We don’t get very far before a short, balding gringo in a dress shirt appears from the trees in a fluster.
“This is a private beach. You are not welcome to walk here,” he growls at us.
I try to reason with him, but he shakes his head and scrunches his face. I feel my blood beginning to boil.
“How’s it going to hurt anyone if we just walk near the water’s edge?” I sharply question.
Heather softly steps in. “It’s okay, sir, we didn’t mean to bother you,” she says. “Lizzy, let’s go for a swim instead.”
Heather is clearly way ahead of me in this game. I back off, and we turn away. We’ve only made a few steps when he calls out, “Well okay, you can go for a walk, as long as you stay near the water.”
He stomps back into the trees. We recommence our walk and I contemplate my hot temper and how quickly the man had changed his tune when Heather had simply complied. All the new concepts we’re learning are simple, but breaking my ingrained patterns isn’t.
It’s Not Magic, It’s Maintenance
The hard-edged outlines of skyscrapers appear slowly out of the pale, low-lying haze as Swell fights the last few upwind miles toward Panamá City. My head aches with exhaustion from the prior night’s passage. Heather and I, plus spontaneous additional crew—Brad, a surfer friend from back home—had battled stiff, shifty headwinds and short seas around the infamous Punta Mala while playing a perverse game of hide-and-seek with the constant stream of supertankers exiting the Panamá Canal.