Swell

by Liz Clark

  Two more suns set before I see his yellow-striped hull entering the pass. When he drops his anchor near Swell, I head over to greet him and wince through an awkward hug. He looks thin and bitter. He brings up the ciguatera poisoning and I look at him without much sympathy.

  Contaminated fish karma, I think smugly.

  I wait for an apology. I wait for a shower of affection, or an affirmation that Elena isn’t the girl of his dreams. That he loves me more and everything is going to be just like it was.

  Instead he blames the situation on me. “Oye, you should be come up to meet me,” he says. “You is just celosa (jealous). Is not so big deal.”

  Upwind Education

  The next morning the trade winds pick up hard from the southeast. Wind waves build steadily across miles of fetch in the lagoon, quickly making our anchorage unsafe. Gaspar proposes that we sail to another island to the northeast and spend the holidays with his friends who own a pearl farm there. Part of me still wants to salvage what we’d shared in the Galápagos, plus the passage will be all upwind—something I would never attempt by myself. Maybe I should take this chance to learn from him about sailing against the wind? The few attempts I’ve made—like the propane-less passage with McKenzie—proved extremely difficult. Learning how to sail Swell proficiently upwind would open up a whole new array of destinations.

  There isn’t much time to think, as the wind waves in the lagoon grow steadily. I agree to his plan and ready Swell for passage. I’m not sold on his skills as a lover, but I do trust his sailing knowledge. Gaspar talks me through our strategy. “We going to tack mucho. Is better if the wind direction change. Don’t hold Swellito too close to el viento (the wind). Give her enough room to dance. Make sure your sails always tight and flat. I stay close by. No te olvidas (don’t forget), Lissy, we are not hurry!” he says.

  I nervously double-lash the dinghy on deck and stow everything more thoroughly than usual in anticipation of the upwind slog. I’ve learned time and again that Swell—with her long boom and big mainsail—can be easily overpowered. I’ll have to stay on my toes to keep my sail plan balanced between being shortened but in control, and overpowered but making headway. If everything goes as planned, it will be three days and two nights of upwind sailing.

  We raise our anchors at the same time, but my chain sticks on some coral below. Gaspar had scolded me for not diving the anchor every day to be sure it didn’t get wrapped on the coral, but I hadn’t listened.

  Octobasse heads out the pass, Gaspar not realizing my predicament. I desperately try to motor in different directions to see if the chain will come free. When that doesn’t work, I dig out my mask and snorkel. I will need some slack in the chain in order to untangle it from the coral, so I drive the boat forward into the wind. When Swell is as far to windward as possible, I dash to the bow and dive in, pulling myself down the chain. I must reach the place it’s stuck, thirty feet below, before the boat blows back and puts tension on it again. To my dismay, I see that the chain has wound itself around a large coral head. I manage to unravel one wrap before the slack tightens. Then I shoot for the surface, haul myself up over Swell’s rail, and hop behind the helm to motor her forward again. On my second attempt, I remove one more wrap. As I surface, I see Octobasse has moved farther out the pass. I haul myself back on board and drive Swell forward a third time.

  My nervousness about the upwind passage is making everything more difficult. I cough out a few sobs while slipping the shifter into forward again, then sprint to the bow for another descent. I swim down, but I’m already short of breath. I fight the chain out of the last few snags and twists, slicing my hands on the sharp coral in the process, but one final link has entered a slit in the coral hardly big enough for it to pass through.

  My lungs scream for air, so I get ready to lunge for the surface. Just before I push off, though, something comes into view from behind my head. My body freezes as a silhouetted pack of reef sharks swims over, paying me no mind. Once they’ve passed, I flee to the surface, sucking air heavily and seeing stars. When I’ve caught my breath, I pull myself aboard and lie flat on the deck to rest. From where my cheek presses against the rough nonskid deck, I catch a glimpse of Octobasse coming back into the pass.

  “About time,” I mumble.

  Irritated and prideful, I hype myself up for one last go. I don’t need his help. I repeatedly breathe deeply to saturate my lungs. This time I know exactly what I have to do. I motor Swell forward a fourth time, pull the shifter back into neutral, and leap over the side in one motion, kicking straight for the bottom. I grab the chain on either side of the small opening and work it back and forth with all my strength into the perfect position so that when the tension catches, it will yank the chain free. I watch the slack steadily disappear, and then, Pop! The stuck link bursts out of the small opening. I kick to the surface once more. By this time, Octobasse is circling.

  “¿Que pasa?” (What happened?) the Spaniard yells over the wind.

  “I got it!” I call back—proud, bitter, and light-headed.

  I haul the anchor into its cradle and lash it to the nearby cleat. “Hell of a start,” I say to myself.

  The first challenge is in my wake, but each gust of wind that roars across my ears foretells the coming sea trials. I breathe through the fear and remind myself to move slowly and focus only on the next objective. First, I have to navigate Swell out of the tricky pass without hitting the reef. I steer her into the narrow passage and watch the bottom jump to frighteningly shallow depths, but Swell slides cleanly over. When the current spits us out into deep water, I turn the bow into the wind, raise the mainsail to the third reef, roll out a little headsail, and fall in behind Octobasse.

  Our first day out goes better than expected. My growing confidence is reflected by the increasing amount of sail I raise. We tack every five to six hours, which Gaspar explains will keep us centered in relation to our destination in case the wind shifts. But as night falls, the wind and seas increase. Swell bucks and bashes, and every fifth wave washes across the foredeck and leaks into the hatches. The cloud cover and new moon make for an extra dark night. I squint into the blackness, hoping to see approaching squalls before they hit us.

  Items begin to work themselves loose in the cabin, and it soon looks as if I’m hosting a nautical yard sale. Wood joints and chainplates moan, and as much as I want to deny it—I’m seasick. I lean into the leeward corner of the spray dodger and shut my eyes for a moment. What am I doing out here? I’m scared, I feel like shit, and I’m wrecking my precious floating home. I hate this. But I’m committed now. Gaspar and I speak every few hours over the radio, and I spill my concerns about feeling weak against the heavy gusts and bully seas.

  “We’re fighting so hard and I feel seasick. And the squalls are on top of me before I can see them.”

  “Cálmate, my little rider. Try to relax. We making good progress. Everything harder in the night. I know is uncomfortable, pero try to remember that Swellito is made for this!” he encourages.

  Relax? Impossible! I stare at the radar through the night to track the incessant squalls. The cuts from the coral on my hands sting as I pull lines and raise and lower sail to accommodate the varying winds. It’s already cyclone season, meaning more squalls and atmospheric volatility.

  The next morning, I lift my head from the soggy cockpit cushion in a fog of nausea and fatigue, to see a dark cloudline bearing down upon us. I dash to the mast to reef the main and I make it back to the cockpit just before the massive squall slams us with fury. I’m almost in tears as Swell heels over on her rail, even with the tiny amount of sail left up. When the second gust hits, Monita, the wind vane, loses control of the steering, so I leap to the wheel. We lean over and increase speed, but to my surprise, we’re not overpowered, and Swell cuts cleanly through the water.

  As the curtain of rain envelops us, a ray of golden morning light sneaks in through a gap in the clouds, illuminating a fluffy white layer of droplets on the sea surfa
ce being blown around madly. The rain pelts the ocean with such force that each raindrop shatters into a million scattering fragments. The warm golden sunbeam lights up every flying bead of water—I’ve never seen anything like it.

  I stand breathless at the wheel, hypnotized by this ferociously beautiful face of the sea. As Swell plows through the magical scene, my fear transforms into gratitude. I’m soaked to the bone and my thighs burn from leaning into the sharp heel of the boat, but a rush of vitality surges through me. I vow to cease my mental protests and embrace the opportunity to expand my seafaring knowledge. No matter what becomes of the Spaniard and me, I’m pushing past my comfort zone toward new knowledge, and beholding this marvelous expression of nature is already a precious reward.

  My outlook may be improved, but the second day and night hold much of the same: frequent sail changes, squall dodging, wetness, and nausea. By the third morning, there’s only thirty more miles to go, but each one is a fight. We make headway only by constantly tacking according to minor shifts in the wind direction. By 11 am I have gone only eight miles. Fatigued by the constant maneuvering, I see a break in the squalls and go below to nurse my cuts and have a short rest.

  I’m not sure how much time has passed when an abrupt pitch to starboard and a surge of speed awaken me. I launch out of my berth, but it’s too late. The sea rises over the starboard rail as the gust pins us over. I release the jib sheet in a panic. The relentless flapping of the sail from the fierce winds tears three long horizontal rips in the headsail before I manage to haul it in.

  I stare up at the tails of the shredded sail that wave frantically like little white surrender flags. I want to surrender too. I moan aloud at the thought of spending another soggy, sleepless night at sea. “Bullshit!” I holler at the wind.

  But I don’t have time for a tantrum. Each second that passes without making headway lessens my chances of arrival before dark. I duck below and wrestle out my spare headsail, then haul it up to the foredeck, install the Solent stay, and clip each of the the sail’s hanks onto the cable.

  By the time it catches the wind, I’ve lost an hour of daylight. And when I look at our speed with the little jib set, my heart sinks: three and a half knots. I add the power of the engine and stay at the wheel full-time, steering and tacking strategically with each squall to use the stronger winds to gain speed.

  As the sun checks out, we’ve still got a few miles to go. Swell and Octobasse criss-cross through yet another menacing squall as we finally approach the pass. Without much light, it will be a nerve-wracking entry through the unfamiliar slit in the reef, but Gaspar has been here before, and I trust he can guide us in. I drop the little jib, then fall in line behind him, but he suddenly makes a drastic course change. I hear his Spanish accent break in over the radio.

  “Swellito, I have a problem con mi motor (with my motor). Go ahead without me. The current es demasiado fuerte (is too strong) to enter by sail.”

  The outgoing tide is pulling water out of the pass at more than four knots, so without auxiliary power from his motor, Gaspar will have to wait for slack tide. That leaves me to traverse the pass and navigate to the closest protected anchorage alone in the coming darkness.

  Love Stinks

  “Lissy! Li-i-i-i-i-ssy! ¡Llevántate!” (Get up!) I hear Gaspar’s voice outside the next morning and open my eyes, but I don’t want to move.

  Both boats are safely at anchor behind the submerged spit of reef at the south end of the lagoon. All senses on high, I managed to run the pass, dodge pearl lines and coral heads, and make it to the barely discernable anchorage with only a glow on the western horizon to guide me. The bedraggled Octobasse showed up five hours later.

  I crawl out of the cabin to see the Spaniard swimming beside Swell.

  “You are one tough little rider,” he says. “You impress me on this passage.”

  “Gracias, but my sail, it’s badly ripped.”

  “You like sewing?” he asks with a wink. I shrug my shoulders.

  “¿Desayuno?” (Breakfast?) I ask.

  The weather gets worse before it gets better; gusts and squalls violently whip through the anchorage. I catch up on sleep, talk long hours with Gaspar, and use a Sharpie to mark the exact points of Swell’s leaks so I can try to fix them when the weather clears. One final raging gale blows over the atoll at more than forty knots, and then ... stillness.

  I’m happy to see the sun the following morning; it’s time to do some exploring. Gaspar and I freedive, wander through the village, share meals, and hang out with Josh and the wonderful crew at the pearl farm. We both try to rekindle the feeling we’d shared in Galápagos, especially with Christmas only a few days away, but my distrust and sensitivity continue to get in the way. I wish he would just apologize and try to see things my way. When he talks about the other girl, it plays on my insecurities, as do his criticisms of my character. Photos of beautiful women from magazines are pasted all over his walls, as well as pictures of him with his old girlfriends. One evening while I knead pizza dough, I ask about them.

  “What’s with all the photos of women?”

  “I like them. Están hermosas. (They are beautiful.) Who cares, Lissy? Is just photos. You are real,” he replies. “Don’t you think you’re beautiful too?” I don’t know how to answer. His question shines a light directly on a sore spot.

  “Not as beautiful as them,” I muster. I hate him for knowing exactly how to expose my weaknesses. I try to remember what the lady in the clouds had told me, but I’m having a hard time.

  Little by little, my inner voice becomes clearer about the relationship, and I know that I must move on alone. Gaspar can be a prick, but I’m just as difficult in my own ways. We’re both too prideful to own up to our faults, so trying to ameliorate our weaknesses together will never work. I make the decision to sail north to Kiribati alone—1,195 nautical miles from where we are.

  I intend to leave as soon as possible. I must repair the sail, fix some leaks, and buy some fruits and veggies. The townspeople promise that a supply boat will soon arrive with a shipment of produce, but day after day, no ship arrives. My longing for vegetables intensifies. I’m also out of cheese, a serious calamity for me! A quarter-size abscess bursts open on my right arm. I wonder if it’s from the stress or the lack of fresh food.

  I need a place to spread out the sail to make the repair. Josh and my new friends at the pearl farm find me a dark little room to work in. I’m grateful to have it, even though it reeks of cat pee, and I spend three days hand-sewing the tears. Once I’m finished, the only thing I smell is freedom. Passage preparation begins. I’ve given up on fresh provisions, but then a stout little cargo ship comes charging over the horizon, and I stuff my canvas bags with the expensive, but prized vegetables.

  Gaspar is more understanding than I expected about my decision to go on without him, and he agrees when I ask him to find a different location to wait out the rest of cyclone season. On our final morning together, he shows me the best way to pre-rig my storm jib, so that it will be ready to raise quickly, warning me to use it anytime the wind strengthens, since the patched headsail won’t handle much excess strain. I thank him for the good times and all that he taught me. After a last breakfast together, I raise anchor and steer Swell out of the lagoon. Octobasse and the Spaniard morph into a yellowy blob behind my watery-eyed last glances.

  New To-Dos and a Silver Lining

  As Swell pushes out the pass into the open ocean, I feel reborn. I’m going on alone, because my heart knows it’s better for me this way, even though it would have been safer to take on this enormous stretch of the remote Pacific in a caravan with the Octobasse. I’m abuzz from following my truth—the kind of empowering rush that follows a soul-serving decision, logical or not. If Shannon was right about God favoring the brave, I will have the powers that be on my side. I pull up the sails and settle into a smooth beam reach, then sit back to unwind and digest all that has happened since Gaspar and I reunited. Passages have become a re
lief in that way—a gap in time and space where I can process what has happened in my prior reality of being “somewhere.” In the “nowhereness” of the sea, my mind can turn things over carefully and study them from every side.

  Part of me is devastated that it didn’t work out with the Spaniard, but I’ll cherish the fun memories. He has certainly made me a better sailor, and pointed out a few places where Swell could be more functional at sea. In his company, I also found the confidence to freedive to sixty feet and climb fifty-foot coconut trees. My boat might be a little less shiny now, but Gaspar taught me to enjoy myself more and fret less about aesthetics.

  But as our love had turned south it brought out the worst parts of me, and Gaspar had been quick to point them out. A great deal of inner work remains if I want to find a lasting love and sailing partner. And if self-love has to come first, I better get to work.

  As Swell slides smoothly through the perpendicular seas, I pull out my diary and write at the top of a blank page: “Today I’m going to try to make some progress on myself, starting with these lists.” First comes, “EVERYTHING I DISLIKE ABOUT MYSELF.” I jot down eighteen items as they come to mind, including being greedy, jealous, hypercritical, and too reactive.

  Writing them out feels like a first step in changing—like I’m formally acknowledging each issue and making a promise to myself. My next list is titled: “THINGS I WOULD LIKE TO FORGIVE MYSELF FOR.” I include everything from being mean to my little sister, to lying to a few of my boyfriends, to lashing out at my parents, and sleeping with a couple guys I didn’t really want to.