by Liz Clark
On our way back toward Swell, we stop by the Arkos to say hello. Jesse and Giles soon return, towing the submarine back from a dive. When the sub guests have departed, Mick, the head pilot, leans over the rail and calls, “Hey girls, if we go right now, we can do a quick dive in the sub before the sun sets. What do you think?”
“Me ... uh ... us ... what? Submarine ... now? Yea!” we stammer.
The Glory Is Forever
After getting whooped by more headwinds and a tenacious crosscurrent for another five hundred miles and five days south, McKenzie and I pull down the sails as Swell hovers over the equator. We make an offering to Poseidon and leap ceremonially into the bottomless blue before carrying on into the Southern Hemisphere. The headwinds and spray grow colder overnight, and at dawn we spot the northern end of the dry, volcanic island of San Crístobal, Galápagos. The chilly effects of the Humboldt Current add to the historic archipelago’s mystique. We watch morning fog hunching in the lowlands and cloaking rocky outcroppings along the shoreline while wrapped up in our winter jackets. I stare at the rocky, wild island and can’t believe I actually sailed myself here—the location I’d chosen for my sixth-grade assignment, “A Destination I Want to Visit.”
We are sure our good fortune with kind sea neighbors has run its course by the time we reach the bay at Puerto Baquerizo Moreno. But the next day we’re invited to tour a Venezuelan tuna ship. I’ve always thought of these purse-seiner operations as evil—being a big cause of the decline of the oceans’ fisheries. It was hard not to marvel at the huge tuna-killing vessel’s internal processing and storage systems and the helicopter on the top deck used to spot the giant tuna schools that they can capture in a single day, but the massive holds full of frozen fish unsettled me. Thousands of motionless tuna eyeballs of all sizes stared back at me, even haunting my dreams that night.
Over dinner, the friendly fishermen showed us photos of their families, and elaborated on the fun they’d have with their kids when they returned home. They are good guys, just trying to make a living like everyone else— cogs in a global economic system based on oil and growth and pushing for the harvesting of more and more resources, faster and faster, before the other guy gets to them. The general lack of respect and understanding of our connection to nature with which European men colonized the world has perpetuated a greedy, me-first mentality that keeps a few rich profiteers finding faster, more efficient ways to catch tuna, clear forests, extract oil, and propagate industry without regard for the health of the ecosystems on which they capitalize, much less the finite nature of our planet. Progress they call it. But as Barry and I would often discuss, humans depend on Earth’s fine-tuned systems for survival, so “progress” that pushes nature out of balance does not truly advance us. But then, I’m no eco-angel either; I gladly accepted the ten gallons of diesel they offered me. I’m part of the problem too.
On the subject of economics, after all my financial stress, I’ve hardly spent a hundred dollars since leaving Panamá City. As McKenzie preps for a journey to Machu Picchu, we score a few more waves and make friends with the local sea lions who like to sleep (and poop) in our dinghy. And when I’m sure there cannot possibly be another sweet surprise, there he is.
He arrives late, stepping assuredly into the warm light that spills from a bare lightbulb dangling over our table at the little open-air restaurant in town. He stands there for a moment, illuminated. A black headband holds wild brown curls off his tanned face and thick stubble. He sits down, joining us with his two Spanish friends for dinner. We had all met earlier that day at a surf break just west of where our sailboats are anchored.
I’m not sure whether it’s the headband or his striking green eyes and strong jawline, or the aura of freedom that surrounds him, but my heart instantly backflips. Gaspar is the captain of a modest little thirty-five-foot cutter, Octobasse, and has been sailing solo for four years out of Spain. “The Glory Is Forever” is scrawled at his bow into the McDonald’s-yellow stripe running the length of the hull. His friends had flown in for a visit.
There hasn’t been a man in every port, although there certainly could have been. My independence intimidates some, but seems to intrigue most. I’m always keeping a sharp eye out for “the one”—the man who I hope to someday sail off into the sunset with—but in the meantime, I’ve kept it interesting with plenty of dates and local forays. Back home, I always refrained from anything that might earn me a “promiscuous” reputation, but moving from place to place so quickly removes that worry and makes it easy to keep things light. There’s no better way to see the best of an area in a short amount of time than with the help of a friendly local—preferably a cute surfer around my age. There was the charming surfer cowboy in northern Mexico, the pro surfer in Puerto Escondido, the hot rasta surfer on the Caribbean side, the California yes-man I met surfing in Costa Rica, and the beautiful black guy I met out dancing in Panamá City. He surfed too. But this ... this feels different.
McKenzie flies off on her next adventure. She uses the slim remainder of her travel savings, but after almost three lucky months with her, I’m certain she’ll be fine. Time and again, we were shown the good-hearted spirit of everyday people. Time and again, our risks were rewarded, and it seemed as if someone or something was watching over us.
With a few days alone before the arrival of my next crew—my mother—Gaspar and I get to know each other.
Despite his good looks, he’s more about function than aesthetics. I like his callused hands, sharp knives, able body, and charming Spanish accent. He’s a few years older than me, and gave up his sailing sponsorships after two years at sea for more freedom to move about as he pleased. He picks up odd jobs in various ports—a project for whale conservation in Chile, shark tagging on Easter Island, bartering or laboring where he can. He sailed all the way to the South Pacific, and then decided to sail back against the trade winds to visit Central America. We’ve crossed paths in this horseshoe-shaped bay, heading in opposite directions. I try not to think about the unfortunate timing, and allow his dark curls, sea wisdom, and carefree approach to voyaging captivate me.
There’s little hope. I fall hard and fast. Neither of us resists, despite the fact that on the day we met he told me that he’d just fallen in love with a girl on Easter Island. After a few days together, I dismiss that information as inconsequential. My blazing heart incinerates all logic. I’m flat-out sprinting into a future together—voyaging, surfing, and exploring the world. It’s going to be all the freedom and adventure plus love! What could be better!?
“I found you, my little rider. I found my woman,” he whispers in my ear as we slow dance in the cockpit of Octobasse under the stars. I melt into him—safe, cherished, whole, but also free.
The blissful days with Gaspar blur together. The enchantment of the Galápagos adds to our love-heightened senses as we run hand-in-hand through hills of towering cacti, hang out on the rocky shoreline with marine iguanas, freedive with sharks and sea lions, and cross our eyes like the blue-footed boobies. Instead of motoring the dinghy back to Swell after a day’s excursion, we drift across the bay letting the cool evening breeze push us out into the anchorage, wrapped in each other’s arms under the open sky as the lights of town flicker in the distance.
“Te amo, Lissy. Te quiero (I love you),” he says. I question nothing, allowing myself to drift fully and freely on a sea of love—adoring, unarmed, present. I refuse to think about the fact that we’ll soon be sailing away from each other, or that it’s already late in the season for me to cross the Pacific. I prefer to ride out this delicious love high—people-watching in town together, basking in the sand side-by-side after a surf, making out under the stars.
When my mother arrives, she too is quickly smitten by the Spaniard. We follow Gaspar and the Octobasse to the next island, and Mom is perfectly happy relaxing aboard Swell while Gaspar and I row off to the “Love Canal.” As he rows between the narrow passage in the cliffs, sea lions cuddle and sun themselves on
the nearby rocks, seemingly concurring that love is all there is.
As the date Mom and I set for our departure nears, I feel a surge of trepidation, not knowing when or if I will ever see my Spanish lover again. The thought leaves me breathless. “Love like this isn’t a mistake,” I write in my journal. My lip quivers between sentences. “The universe will bring us together again if it’s meant to be.”
On the last morning on the island of Santa Cruz, Mom helps me scrub the algae off the anchor chain and stow the dinghy. As we finish up the final prep, Gaspar swims over and looks over my rig one more time. He finally approaches where I stand on the foredeck, and delicately pushes a dangling lock of my hair back behind my ear. He lifts my chin so that my eyes meet his. “Head south-southwest until you find el viento (the wind),” he says sternly. “Pay attention to your ropes for chafe. Hablamos en la radio (We’ll talk on the radio) at 8 am and 6 pm todos los días (every day). Te amo (I love you), my little rider.”
“Te amo, Gaspy,” I reply. Tears drip down my face—for happiness, for the pain of separation, and for the gratitude I feel at having shared these precious moments. I look down. He gently lifts my chin again and breaks into his favorite Ketama song.
“Cantale conmigo, Lissy ... No estamos locos. Sabemos lo que queremos. Vive la vida igual que si fuera un sueño ...” (Sing with me, Lizzy. We are not crazy. We just know what we want. Live life as if it is a dream ...)
I can’t help but smile. He leans in for a last kiss, then dives into the sea. Before swimming away he calls, “Remember, the glory is forever, Lissy! I love you! ¡Adiós, Mama!”
6,514
Nautical Miles Traveled
Taking it in, figuring it out. Learning to sail Swell upwind. SHANNON SWITZER SWANSON
At the helm of our family sailboat, Endless Summer, off Catalina Island, 1988. MELISSA CLARK
With a sea-going passion in common, our friendship begins. First trip with Barry to San Miguel Island, 2001. LIZ CLARK COLLECTION
Plotting our course down the coast of Baja. SHANNON SWITZER SWANSON
Friends find shade below drying fruit, Mexico. SHANNON SWITZER SWANSON
Gracious island elder, Panamá. MCKENZIE CLARK
Girls’ surf trip, laughing about the Mexican Navy realizing there were only women aboard. Citlalli, Maria, Katie and me, with Shannon behind the lens. SHANNON SWITZER SWANSON
Making it work. Gadget and Snaggs headed ashore for some afternoon exploration, Mexico. STIV WILSON
“Only two sailors, in my experience, never ran aground. One never left port and the other was an atrocious liar.” – Don Bamford. Swell aground with Heather in Panamá. LIZ CLARK
My turn on the “throne” during the wet, upwind passage with McKenzie to Isla del Coco. MCKENZIE CLARK
Committed and determined at Puerto Escondido’s unforgiving beach break. RUBEN PIÑA
“One man practicing kindness in the wilderness is worth all the temples this world pulls.” – Jack Kerouac. Catching a ride home with la policía in Mexico. SHANNON SWITZER SWANSON
Spontaneous submarine ride with McKenzie, Isla del Coco. Swell in the far background. JESSE HORTON
Poised for the fruits of our labor in endlessly generous Mexico. SHANNON SWITZER SWANSON
Friendships born from a mutual love for riding waves. SHANNON SWITZER SWANSON
Blue
Mountains
Constantly
Walking
Mom and Me Take on the Sea
It’s no average day aboard Swell as we motor through a boundless mirror of glassy seas. Now that romance is in my wake, my mental horizons are clearer, and I ponder the incredible: My mother has signed up to join me in crossing the largest expanse of open ocean on Earth! On that thirteenth day of June 2007, as the islands of the Galápagos shrink into the distance behind us, our destination, the Marquesas Islands, lies a daunting 3,300 nautical miles to the west.
Two months prior, I received an email from my father. Both he and Barry had been worrying ever since I’d announced my decision to cross the Pacific alone. I didn’t have any friends lined up for the trip, and after gaining confidence sailing Swell with crew, I decided that I was ready to try sailing solo. The subject line stated, “Crew for your Pacific crossing.” I opened the message and read, “Your mother wants to go with you. She is very serious. Love, Dad.”
The next day I found a pay phone ashore in Panamá City and dialed my mother’s number, telling myself not to be disappointed if she’d already changed her mind. A lump rose in my throat as I heard her sweet hello over the street noise.
Before she could say anything, I spilled my anxiety into the receiver: “Mom, don’t worry, you don’t have to come, I’m sure I can do it alone.”
“I’ve made my decision and I’m sticking with it,” she assured me. “It’s just something I need to do right now.”
So now, two months later, my mother—the fairest of fair-weather sailors, who was often miserable when we sailed as a family—sits beside me in the cockpit, sunning her legs and gazing seaward as we motor south through the flat equatorial waters in search of the trade winds. A lone minke whale surfaces to the north, while a pod of common dolphins leaps toward Swell. We make our way to the bow to watch them play.
My father introduced Mom to sailing during their teens. She enjoyed a pleasant day sail with light breezes, but began to distrust the sea when our family was caught in a serious gale off Baja in 1989. Sitting on deck with a good book on a tranquil summer day in Catalina, tied securely to a mooring—that was her ultimate idea of boating—so it’s hard to believe that she is choosing to be out here with me. I’m elated at the thought of spending so much time together, but anxious imagining what might go wrong. We don’t always see eye to eye.
On dawn watches and in quiet moments during my eighteen months at sea, I’ve thought a lot about my relationship with Mom. I’d been rebellious and distant during my teenage years, and later so focused on my surfing obsession and sea-travel dream that I took her steady love for granted. Our differences often made understanding and appreciating each other difficult.
She found solace in tranquility; I found it in adrenaline and action. She could never quite understand why I filled my plate so full; I judged hers as too empty. I always had her unconditional love and blessings to pursue whatever made me happy, but she didn’t always agree that wild abandon was the best approach to my goals. After a nonstop streak of back-to-back evenings out with friends or perpetual surf adventures, I would end up sick, exhausted, hysterical, or sometimes all three. She’d say she told me so, and I’d be annoyed because she was always right.
So I can’t help feeling grateful that Mom is leaping way out of her comfort zone and putting her life in my hands to accompany me on this passage. In addition to some serious quality time, she’ll get a real taste of the life I’ve chosen. For better or worse, there will be no one to distract us, no phones to answer, no surf to chase, and no other obligations.
Swell motors through the slick seas, sniffing out the wind. We are gaining about a knot from the South Equatorial current. Long-period swells billow underneath us like massive neon-blue sheets. I still can’t imagine winds that blow endlessly west. Thus far, I’ve only experienced localized coastal wind patterns. But I remember learning how surface winds in the tropical Pacific flow westward and toward the equator as the “trade winds.” Mom and I are currently in the region where the northeast and southeast trades collide—and the air has nowhere to go but up, creating the infamously windless “doldrums.” Luckily, we have enough fuel to continue motoring south.
“What is that annoying squeak coming from inside the port quarter-berth?” I whine.
“I don’t hear it,” Mom replies. “That’s one of the great parts of aging, honey. But geez, these swells are awfully rolly!”
We meet eyes and burst into laughter.
“Mom, it’s completely calm!”
Wind finally tickles the sea surface on the dawn of day five and a few
hours later the southeast trade winds sing across our ears. Mom helps me set the spinnaker pole, and once we get the sail in place, Swell begins to skip across the iridescent blue. We’ve carved out our roles and rhythm a bit: Mom helps with cooking, while I handle all the sailing and watch duties. She fell asleep on watch our first evening out—succumbing to the new moon darkness—so I have decided that since I wanted to try to do this passage alone, I will handle the sailing responsibilities as if I were by myself. Mom will be here to provide her loving company and lend a hand if I need it.
As we gaze proudly up at our full sails for the first time on the passage, the jib halyard suddenly parts. We watch in horror as the headsail slides smoothly down the furler track and into the sea. I bolt up on deck in a panic, tripping over my harness tether. I try not to leave the cockpit area without wearing my harness attached to the jackline (especially while Mom is here!). When I reach the bow I tug at the massive, dragging sail ballooned full of seawater. I can’t let it break free—we have no spare! But my forces are puny against its great weight. So instead, I rush to pull down the mainsail and slow the boat before the submerged genoa breaks away.
With the mainsail down, I run a halyard to the head of the sail, but discover that the spinnaker pole must come back down because the two halyards are tangled. I can feel Mom’s worried eyes on my every move as the bow bounces and rolls under my feet.