by Liz Clark
There is hardly any swell and the boat is well-balanced on a broad reach, so I decide to give the wind vane another try. The vane starts steering and doesn’t stop; the wing and gears and rudder are all moving in tandem, keeping us steadily on course. I celebrate with guavas and SAO, the local version of saltines. I’m thrilled that the Moniter wind vane is no longer just a fancy piece of stainless steel on the stern. I fine-tune the line that allows me to adjust our course from the head of the cockpit and give my new crew a name: Monita—little monkey, like my Dad used to call me. He always said monkeys like me make great crew.
I buzz about making my floating home more functional. First, I saw down a piece of bamboo and lash it to the steering arch to make a holder for a rigging knife. Then I reinforce the lashings on the fishing reel strapped to the aft stanchion. Next, I screw down a drink holder beside the helm, and after studying my knot book, I fashion a hanging rope sling for my little blue vase. I slip one of the gardenias that Hiva gave me into it.
I keep myself so busy that I hardly even think about being alone, but sailing solo has a few noticeable benefits. There’s only one place in the cockpit that’s always shady and dry—and today, it’s all mine. I feel a bit more relaxed, too, knowing that if I screw up, my own life is the only one at stake. Oftentimes, I wish I had four hands: Alone, the boat jobs take a little longer and can be more complicated, but with ample patience and persistence there’s usually a way. When hoisting the outboard from the dinghy onto Swell’s stern bracket before a passage, I have to use my hands to heave on the davit line, while both my feet and teeth brace stabilizing ropes to keep the outboard from swinging around wildly as it rises.
The wind dies on the second day and I don’t turn on the engine even though I’m moving at only about two knots. Monita steers slowly through the brilliant fluorescent-blue sea. After some chores, I lay back, munch crackers, and watch the clouds. This solitude and speed are delightful—a time and space of pure communion with the sea. Something I’ve long been thirsty for feels quenched, as if finally getting a moment alone with a long-time crush. This peace, this freedom ... it’s utterly satiating ... intense ... delicious! I can’t name or pinpoint it, but I’m sure it’s what keeps sailors returning to the sea. I soak it up, grateful for everything and everyone that led me to this moment.
This feeling must be the reason Barry never tired of being at sea. When I emailed to tell him that I wanted to try sailing solo, he was a bit surprised; I had been dead set against it before leaving. “It’s just something I feel the need to do,” I’d written to him.
“Then you must. I know you can do it. Prepare well, my girl, and remember to wear your harness,” he replied.
Although Barry had made local solo trips, he preferred sharing his mad love for being on the ocean. Over his forty-some years of sailing, he took innumerable guests out on his sailboats—friends, family, colleagues, students, and perfect strangers—on day trips, weekly afternoon races, sunset sails, weekend cruises, and hundreds of longer voyages along the California coast and to the Channel Islands. He even auctioned off trips aboard his boats to raise money for Jean’s tireless charity work, likely as a good excuse to go sailing. I know that he hoped to give all of his crew a taste of this wild, wonderful open-ocean feeling.
For four more carefree days, the sparkles of sunlight on my beloved sea are the only jewels I could ever want. Not too fast, not too slow. Nothing broken, nothing scary, nothing but the enjoyable side of sailing. I listen to music, write poems, do hand laundry, and nibble on fruits. And each night, Swell and I parallel the glowing stripe of the Milky Way overhead. Stargazing long hours from my cockpit bed, I think about the Cloud Goddess and send shooting star wishes to my family and friends; I don’t need anything else at the moment.
Then, as darkness falls on my fifth and final evening at sea, the wind abruptly switches 180 degrees. I spend the whole night tacking precariously between three unlit atolls, awaiting daylight to decide on my destination. Meanwhile, a nasty cold takes up residence in my sinuses. I check my position at least a hundred times, paranoid about getting too close to the long stretches of submerged reefs that helped earn this chain of atolls its nickname, The Dangerous Archipelago. Just before dawn I wipe my nose on my sleeve, and roll my eyes at the twelve-mile figure eight I sailed overnight.
The sun’s first rays light up a flat green patch of palms on an atoll up ahead. It was once an ancient volcanic island that now, over millions of years, has sunk back into the sea. Only the circular rim of the coral reef that once surrounded the island continues to grow toward the sea surface. Such ring-shaped atolls shelter an interior lagoon that can make for a protected anchorage if you can find a navigable entrance through the reef. I check the chart; finding no way in, we continue south.
Zzzzzzzzzzzzzz! The fishing reel sings and I fight in my first fish of the passage—a beautiful female mahi mahi. I see her mate trailing her and feel sad to take her. I must do this to eat. I reach out to gaff her, but she makes a final thrashing leap and shakes herself free. I’m actually relieved.
An hour later the line runs out again, harder this time, and ten minutes later, I haul aboard a gorgeous bigeye tuna. Something about being alone makes me feel more like an equal to this fish—both of us just trying to survive on this wild, open sea.
I look into its wide black eye and almost throw it back, but instead, kneeling by its side, with my left hand gently resting on its opalescent flank, I say, “Thank you, beauty, for your life.”
With a swift jab of my knife to its brain, I watch its neon-purple stripes fade and retractable dorsal fin go limp.
An hour later I find myself in a nervous fluster, approaching my first atoll pass. My Charlie’s Charts guidebook explains, “A pass is a break in the circular coral atoll that, if deep enough, allows entrance into the calmer waters inside the atoll’s interior lagoon.”
The book also describes this particular pass as “difficult, with only a forty-five-foot wide channel and currents reaching velocities of six knots or more.” I’m supposed to enter the pass “on slack low tide with overhead sun.” I have neither. To further complicate the situation, a line of black thunderheads tailgates me toward the entrance. Should I stay another night at sea? I’m exhausted. Another full night of vigilance in these dangerous waters seems unwise, but what if Swell is swept onto the reef? Dad and I had tried to secure insurance for Swell but couldn’t find a company to accept a twenty-seven-year-old solo female captain, so regular maintenance and prudent choices are my best insurance.
I approach the pass cautiously, but when the ocean floor leaps up to eighty feet and I spot a small patch of sand, I toss my anchor and hope for the best. It’s going to be a long night. The northwest wind has died, but it left a sloppy bump on the sea and Swell rolls and bucks unpredictably. If the wind comes up from the west as it did the night before, I will quickly be in a dangerous position against the lee shore. I anxiously shuffle around on deck, furling the mainsail, coiling ropes. A flock of children on the beach wave and holler while three humpbacks surface not a hundred yards away, but I’m too nervous about my anchor arrangement to appreciate the marvelous welcome.
A small fishing boat comes out of the pass headed for sea. I wave the fisherman over, dart below, and return with a bag of tuna steaks from my catch that morning. I have much more than I can eat and this weather is no good for drying it. The enormous Puamotu man flashes a toothless smile, accepts the bag, and asks me in French why I’m anchored outside the pass. The audio lessons are paying off, because I understand enough to attempt a reply.
“Peur. Ja’i peur!” (I’m scared!) I explain.
He laughs and signals for me to follow him through the pass. Thankfully the anchor comes up without a snag, and I line up closely behind him. The outbound currents churn and yank Swell’s bow to port, then starboard. I leap like a frightened cat when a small standing wave crashes over the stern, spilling across the cockpit. The engine is at full throttle, but we’re barely
making a single knot of headway. The fisherman patiently remains just ahead of Swell, looking back now and then to make sure I’m advancing. I smile through my clenched jaw and stiff spine, as Swell fights her way inside.
As we near the lagoon, the force of the current slackens. The fisherman leads me between two bus-sized coral heads awash at the lagoon’s surface, and toward a calm spot out of the current, with an ideal depth for anchoring. I thank him profusely as he waves and speeds away. Dropping the anchor, I thank God, the Universe, the Cloud Goddess, Poseidon, my angels ... and whoever else might have helped this all work out so smoothly.
With survival temporarily off the checklist, I look around in awe. Palms sway over a small row of simple homes lining a white-sand beach, and the sea is as clear as a pool of Evian.
Clementine’s Island Tour
The next morning, as I tie the dinghy up to the quay of the tiny town, I’m greeted by a curious flock of kids. They squeak with delight at the chalk and jump-ropes I pull from my backpack, and I join three elderly ladies on a nearby bench to watch the children jump and draw on the cement landing area. The distinguished Puamotu dames are wearing handmade hats, each uniquely decorated, and they repeatedly ask me a question that I can’t understand.
“Où est ton mari?” (Where’s your husband?)
I pull out my pocket dictionary. One of the women flips through and points. I read, “Mari (n, m), husband.” I laugh and finger through the English side of the dictionary to find “Alone (adj/adv), seul, seule, tout seul.”
“Je suis seule” (I am on my own), I tell them.
They squeal and pet me and squeeze my hands. Shaking their heads and holding their cheeks, they point to Swell and then back to me and talk quickly among themselves.
Before long, I set off to check out the tiny seaside village. I don’t make it far before a great round woman on an adult-sized tricycle approaches. I’m a bit intimidated at first, but as she gets closer, a wide smile spreads across her lovely Polynesian features. She stops and introduces herself as Clementine.
She motions repeatedly toward the large, low basket on the back of her bike, but I have no clue what she’s trying to tell me.
“Içi!” she says. “Monte!” (Here! Get on!)
I dig into my backpack for my dictionary again. She points to me and then to the basket, again and again. A little girl comes over and climbs into the basket, and holds onto Clementine’s shoulders to help her explain. They both point to me. The old ladies on the bench holler, “Allez! Allez! Monte!” (Go! Go! Get on!)
I hesitantly climb into the basket and take hold of Clementine’s shoulders. I don’t know what the plan is, but off we go as she presses casually on the pedals, hardly seeming to notice my weight. She points out the Catholic church, the elementary school, and the post office. As the dirt road veers left, my spontaneous tour guide waves to people tending their yards. The brightly colored homes are each uniquely decorated with shells and flowers and coconuts. Clementine swerves among kids playing marbles on the dirt roads, and two young girls soon join the tour on their bikes. Next, we pass the store, the town generator, and the Mormon and Protestant churches. It only takes us half an hour to ride through all the streets of the village.
Then we pedal out to a coconut grove where Clementine’s mari is working. He’s the fisherman who had guided me into the pass! He opens us some fresh young coconuts to drink. As we sit under the swaying palms sipping nature’s most perfect refreshment, there’s nowhere I’d rather be. I’m in total disbelief at the kindness they’ve shown me. I cannot wait to write Barry about this!
A Perfect Misconception
Our jaws fall simultaneously as Ryan, Taylor, and I watch left-handers reeling down the reef with no one out. We spend all morning in the waves, soaking up the surf miracle and high-fiving the friendly locals who paddle out too. Ryan and Taylor get some brilliant rides. I, on the other hand, am having a hell of a hard time.
My fun-loving surf buddies from back home arrived a few days ago on a backyard-built plywood speedboat they had hired at the nearest island with an airport. They hauled an impressive array of edible goodies and fun surprises from the Land of Plenty, too. I was both thrilled and impressed they’d figured out a way to find me out here in the middle of nowhere. But I should have known, these two are always game for an adventure. The surf even turned on to welcome them.
“Perfect waves,” I mutter bitterly after bubbling up through the whitewash with another bleeding scratch. I had thought that surfing picturesque waves like these would be easy. I was so wrong! These fast, shallow reef waves leave no place to be but inside the tube.
Tube riding has always been elusive in my surf arsenal. It was easy to dodge the frightening vortexes in the softer waves of California. This is a whole new wave world to me and, after a morning of scuffles with the reef, I’m gravely discouraged and covered in scrapes. Despite the pleasantly warm sea temperature, this is no place for a bikini—I already ripped the butt out of my favorite surf shorts. I continue babbling negatively to myself as the surge sucks me back out through the partly exposed fingers of reef. There is just no way around it—at my skill level of backside tube riding, I am going to hit the reef. Rather than call it a day when I obviously can’t find my rhythm, I stubbornly force a few more waves.
Sensing my frustration, Taylor talks me through the process. He’s a regular-footer too. “Okay, Lizzy, you gotta take off behind the peak, and just lean into the face when it starts to pitch in front of you. Use your right hand on your rail for stability.”
Easier said than done, I conclude, after a few more trips over the falls. After traveling over 9,000 sea miles in search of waves like these, I’m disgusted that I can’t even properly ride them!
Another clean line rises and shifts in front of us, putting me in the perfect spot. The massive local guy with a mohawk nods at me, signaling me to go. “It’s yours, Lizzy. You’ve got this one,” Ryan encourages.
I have only a second to judge the takeoff. A little in, or out? Deeper or more on the shoulder? I turn, put my head down, and stroke hard to get under the lip. The wave and I stand up in sync, and my feet glue to the top of my board. I stick my left arm in the face and watch the clear sheet of water launch out. But as the lip comes down, I realize I’ve aimed too low. It nails me on the head. The wave grabs me—we go up together, out together, and down together. The reef catches my bare back while the wave drags me shoreward. When I sputter to the top, I see that my hands and feet are now bleeding too. Ryan signals to be sure I’m okay. I give him thumbs-up, but fight back tears. Not from the pain, but because I’m trying so hard and failing so terribly.
Back aboard Swell later, I’m still grouchy. Ryan scrubs my back wound with iodine, while Taylor pleads, “Lizzy, you can’t expect to be able to ride waves like this your first time. It took me years to figure out backside barrels.”
I refuse to give up. The next day, with the salt water stinging in my wounds, I finally lock into a tube and come out unscathed. The boys cheer and we celebrate that evening with a bonfire and music on the beach, even though my battles with tube riding are far from over.
Dreams and Debts
After an epic few weeks of surf exploration, stuck anchors, dumb jokes, and wily sharks, Ryan and Taylor head off on a cargo ship for their next surfing quest. For a sweet, solo week before the film crew arrives, I dissolve happily into the sparse archipelago of palms, coral, lagoon, and sky. Just gazing at this remote ocean wilderness soothes me. I surf a dying swell with local kids on old beat-up boards in the morning. When the tide changes, I drift with the current into the pass, flying over schools of fish and the colorful coral seafloor with my ankle tied to the dinghy’s bowline. The locals here also welcome me wholly, inviting me for meals and even offering me black pearls and handmade crafts. Their richness is not in having, but in giving.
A lovely light breeze blows over the atoll, but Gaspar, who has resurfaced via email, warns me to pay close attention to wind shifts t
hat could expose my anchorage. Aboard Swell, my first attempt at baking bread produces something more anchorlike than edible, but I marvel at how the simple act of kneading the dough is satisfying. I dance to Ryan’s playlist and pluck at the guitar Kemi gave me back in Panamá. It feels so good to slow down.
In the afternoons, the long bare strips of coral and white sand call. I wander the fingers of exposed reef to study the crabs, fish, and corals. The sea air is decadently fresh. Eels slither completely out of the water and wiggle over the dry reef to the next coral pool. Reef sharks swim right into the shallows, their fins cutting silently along the surface. The reef is so alive I can almost feel it breathing. My mind was blown to learn from the locals that an island not that far from here was used to test nuclear weapons by the French until the mid-’90s. How could anyone bomb this?
Surrounded by nature’s magic, I wonder about the ways of the West, and why we live like we do back home. Most of my friends are grinding their lives away behind a desk or register, paying off student loans, rent, or mortgages. Most don’t enjoy what they do, but everyone needs an income and the corporate ladder promises credentials and material security. Still, what is security with no freedom? Money with no time? Work without passion?
Of course, not everyone would want this sailing life, either, but I wish it were easier for people to pursue their own dreams and desires. I write to Barry about it in my next letter: “How can people learn their strengths, and explore their passions and potential?” I type. “My situation is an anomaly, but I recognize what most people back home are facing and it pains me. The current system devalues our dreams, unless they produce financial gains. Most feel obligated to take the road that keeps them sheltered and fed, and then drown the yearning of their souls with alcohol, drugs, and pills. It hurts to think about our true desires when they seem too inaccessible. They become accustomed to a demure work life with no time to really question it until retirement. But by then their bodies are worn out and minds accustomed to certainty and structure. Too many dreams are going hauntingly unfulfilled.”