Swell

by Liz Clark

  The final list reads: “WHO I WANT TO BE.” It includes being generous, honest with myself and others, confident, more emotionally stable, positive, patient, easygoing, and nonjudgmental.

  Everyone sees me as this confident sailor girl, but it’s clear that no matter how much praise I receive for captaining Swell, no matter how far I sail, or how many magazines feature my photos, none of it adds up to me loving myself. Navigating to self-love is not as straightforward as plugging a waypoint into my GPS. I don’t really know where I’m going, nor how to proceed. I just know I have to get there.

  In contrast to my tumultuous inner seas, the Pacific is nothing but lovely, shimmering blue in every direction. I have yet to see any traffic besides clouds and birds. Monita and the northeast wind hold Swell on a steady beam reach directly toward our island destination. For the first three days we average 140 miles per day. I mark our position on my big paper chart of the Pacific every morning and evening. Slowly but surely, the penciled X’s move north. I devour books, write poems, catch up on emails, nurse my abscess, snack on saltines, and gaze out at the ocean for long spells—as if she holds all the answers.

  To me, the sea is more she than he, with her frequent mood swings, exquisite curves, ability to make you stare, and obvious sensitivity to the moon. Our relationship goes beyond romance. She’s always there— providing play, companionship, perspective, nourishment, and emotional relief with her liquid embrace. There are times I can’t understand her, but I can’t always understand myself either. It’s okay. Loving her gives me so much more than fearing her.

  On my fourth day at sea, a front line of dark clouds stalks Swell, bringing persistent rain and increased wind. Overnight, I reduce sail to three reefs in the main and a sliver of headsail. The waves have grown taller and closer together on our beam, shoving us around and often crumbling sideways across the deck or into the cockpit. I can either be wet and salty outside or dry but suffocating inside the sealed cabin. I hate admitting it, but I’m seasick again. A persistent feeling of nausea and sleepiness fogs over me with the onset of the rough seas. By now I’m resigned to the fact that sailing is often suffering, but I like that the discomfort and unpredictability put me in touch with something primal, real, human. The less privileged majority of humanity confronts these realities daily. I hate being nauseous, tired, wet, filthy, hungry, and uncertain, but at the same time, I like exploring my thresholds and strengthening mind over matter.

  Around 5 pm I come up for air and stare at an approaching squall. I lack the enthusiasm to further reef the sails, thanks to my seasickness. I slip on my raincoat and brace for the onslaught, figuring we’ll just ride it out. As the storm closes in, the wind shifts ten degrees, knocking us off course. Monita, after steering reliably for five days, loses control, sending us into sail-flapping irons—the worst possible state for the weakened headsail. I hurry to release the jib sheet and pull the roller furling line with all my might to roll up the sail. When I raise my eyes from the winch on my last heave, I see an enormous new tear parallel to my recent repairs.

  My knees go weak at the shock of my new reality. Tears merge with the rain and salt spray already on my face, but it’s pointless to cry. I crawl to the bow in my harness and wedge myself into a seated position between the dinghy and the lifelines to figure out how to get the ripped sail down and the storm jib in place before dark. I must do it carefully and with full presence. Failure to execute this properly could prove disastrous.

  After talking myself through a strategy, I crawl back to the cockpit, start the engine, turn Swell downwind, and engage the autopilot to steer. Next I raise the storm jib on the Solent stay to further reduce the amount of wind hitting the headsail. It will have to be pulled completely out to its maximum size before I can release the halyard and haul the whole sail down the furler track. Motoring at full speed with the wind, I hope to reduce the apparent wind speed in order to get the sail down without causing more damage.

  It works! I tackle the headsail as it lowers smoothly atop the overturned dinghy, squish it together, roll it aft, and shove it down the main hatch. It lands on the cabin floor in a soggy mountain of canvas.

  Once the storm jib is set and Monita is steering again, the pride of my accomplishment soon fades into dread. I stare down into the cabin and want to vomit at the thought of repairing the sail while we’re bouncing around like this, plus it stinks! The odor of ripe cat urine now joins the already stuffy cabin. I grumble and tramp over my soggy new roommate that evening, while intermittent squalls pound us. The next morning a new groundswell from the north adds to the intense rolling from being undercanvassed in the beam seas. But rolling or not, with five hundred miles to the nearest island in any direction, the sail repair must commence.

  First I rummage to find the head of the sail and haul it all the way up into the forepeak. Then I pull the clew and tack back toward the galley. The sail covers the entire cabin. In an awkward position, somewhere between sitting and lying atop it, I stick my last ten inches of Dacron sail tape across the worst section of the damage, and reinforce it with hand stitching, then patch the rest of the rip by stitching sail material to both sides of the tear. Swell bobs along. Her unsteady motion combined with the tedious work and stinging odor make me hurry topside for fresh air between rounds of sewing.

  I write in the log at 12:45 am that night: “Nearly finished sewing, no thanks to this indecisive weather! That last wicked little squall lasted half an hour! I released the mainsheet all the way out, but nooooooo, that wasn’t enough. It made me take off my last pair of dry underwear to go up on deck and reef the main to the third reef in the chilly rain. Wet again. Is it too late to make macaroni and cheese? Of course not.”

  In the morning, I decide to reinforce the entire length of the fragile luff with double strips of duct tape. Some hand stitching every few feet should help hold the tape in place. I pray the sail will make it through the last 500 miles. I haven’t seen another boat on the entire passage.

  The wind drops enough, after two and a half full days of sewing, to raise “Ol’ Faithful” back into place. She’s soon full of wind once more and her new silver lining gives her a look of armored confidence. I find two flying fish on deck; their deaths will not be in vain. After opening the hatches to air out the cabin, I set about cooking my first real meal in days to celebrate the second anniversary of my voyage. While I’m washing potatoes and frying the fish, a wave hits our side and shoots a few gallons of sea perfectly down the middle hatch, drenching my bunk and bedding. Ocean 1. Captain 0.

  I sit in the cockpit at sunset with the music turned up, savoring my meal and musing about the past year. A high-pitched squeak interrupts my thoughts. Pilot whales! Their hulking black bodies surface astern, trying to squeeze a bit of a glide out of Swell’s small wake. I sit on the aft deck with my dinner and watch them surf, slightly jealous, but elated by their thrilling company. They roll on their sides and look up at me curiously before heading west again. I wish the pod well, my eyes following them toward the unbroken horizon.

  The sea air is heavy and rich as I fill my lungs and sway back and forth in my forty-foot rocking chair, looking out at my vast offshore backyard. A fleet of what appears to be a small type of shearwater floats amongst the wind waves just ahead of Swell’s trajectory. Upon being displaced, they chatter, and loop through the sky. I apologize for the disruption. Their miniature, feathered bodies seem so fragile to be so far out at sea, but I should know by now that there is more to blue-water survival than size and might.

  12,834

  Nautical Miles Traveled

  Precious

  Teachers

  I-Matangs and an Unwanted Surprise

  There it is! A low hunk of land lists just above sea level like an almost- submerged birthday cake with scattered palm-tree candles. After crossing the equator on our seventh night, Swell slips into the lee of the southernmost island of the Republic of Kiribati archipelago around 8 am. The sea instantly flattens. I celebrate with a
badly needed shower, hauling a bucket of sea over the rail and then dousing myself.

  I made it! Without anyone’s help! I’m free again and excited for a new start in a new land. The coconut palms wave at me enthusiastically in the breeze. I wave back, euphoric at the tranquility after eight days of constant rolling. As the atoll takes shape, I absorb the earthy smells, new birds, the surface currents and shoreline contours. Details glow when the mind is untainted by familiarity. The atoll’s strip of white beach runs into a rocky, fragmented reef that drops quickly into deep water, allowing me to get close enough to observe the short bunches of shrubs, crabs dashing across the sand, and lime-green seaweed covering the shallows. Wait, what are those odd green-colored clouds floating above the island?

  That afternoon, I drop anchor near a large pier, and a salty expat character in his fifties races over from another boat.

  “Hey. How you doing? I’m Chuck. Welcome! I know how it is to arrive after a long voyage. I brought you dinner. You’re a surfer? Get some sleep and come by tomorrow. I can fill you in on the place.” He passes me a plate of hot food and smiles as if he has great, wonderful secrets.

  “Thank you, Chuck!” I call as he speeds away.

  The next day, Chuck gives me the general lay of the land before I head off to find the immigration office. On my way, I run into Chris, a solo sailor from one of the other three boats in the bay. He’s headed to the market on his scooter and offers me a ride, so I gladly climb on the back.

  With the first moments of landfall heightening my senses, I can hardly believe I’m on a motorbike whizzing down a one-lane road lined with stunning palms and vibrant village life. Colorful laundry hangs outside scattered palm-thatched homes near piles of coconut husks and kids playing. Whiffs of smoke rising from outdoor kitchens tickle my nostrils. The bright, blue sky blurs with greens and yellows from the overhead palm fronds moving by at twenty-five miles per hour. I can’t contain my smile. A surge of inspiration tingles through me. I must put my personal to-do lists into action, and work to eliminate behaviors that aren’t serving me anymore. Every new arrival is the chance to create myself anew.

  The next morning my inner bottom lip is sunburnt and blistered from smiling so much on the motorbike. I can’t smile at all now, but even so, I’m warmly welcomed into the small group of foreigners spending the cyclone season in the low-latitude safety of the equatorial island. We are the I-Matangs, a Kiribati word that means “people from another world.”

  There’s Chuck, of course, the sparkling-eyed perma-grom who fled his Southern California Jehovah’s Witness upbringing to chase surf all over the Pacific. He’s spent most of his adult life in the islands of Kiribati, and recently bought a sailboat to start a local charter business.

  Chris, the handsome late-forties Canadian UN consultant and single-hander who took me to the market, was diverted north to avoid a tropical storm on a late-season passage from Tahiti to Samoa aboard his boat, Elise. While underway, he collided with something in the night— possibly half-submerged debris, or maybe even a whale. Luckily, a flimsy quarter-inch layer of fiberglass remained intact across the four-foot gouge, and he didn’t have to resort to his life raft. He carefully made his way to the closest island, which was here. He’s now got to figure out a way to fix the damage with the island’s highly limited resources.

  Melanie and Cedric are a cheerful cruising couple in their early forties aboard Island Breeze, a chubby little steel sloop with rust bleeding from her joints. After determining that time and freedom are the greatest riches, they had given up land life and material possessions to sail away into a life of simplicity. Melanie, a practicing Tibetan Buddhist, was raised in Texas. Cedric is French and is the essence of living in the present.

  Henry is a jolly, retired American marine biologist who lives in the village. A former professor at UCSB—before my time there—he instantly takes a fatherly liking to me. He married a lovely local woman, Teretia, and their heart-melting, four-year-old daughter, Reaua, arrived shortly after as a surprise. Even at seventy years old, Henry’s got endless energy—surfing, fishing, playing with Reaua, and running a small local restaurant.

  It’s easy not to think about Gaspar as I’m embraced by this wonderfully diverse and friendly group. We’re all moored at an anchorage not far from Henry’s place, behind a large pier the Japanese built in a trade for fishing rights to the incredibly rich surrounding seas. I-Kiribati men gather on the pier to fish, or drink, or fish and drink. A supply ship arrives from the capital city of Tarawa, listing heavily with a constant flow of water pumping from its bilges; the people and the pigs on deck look pleased to be getting off.

  I spend my first few days in the bay rushing to get the boat cleaned up for the arrival of another filmer. I’m participating in this women’s surf movie called Dear & Yonder, as part of my ongoing effort to attract sponsors and pay the bills. When I spent a couple of weeks with the directors some months earlier, the waves were uncooperative. So they’re sending Dave to capture more surfing footage.

  Dave arrives with not only two huge Pelican cases full of camera gear, but also a new headsail for Swell! My friend Richard from Latitude 38 magazine had put the word out in the sailing community that I was in need of a sail, and Holly, who owns a Cal 40 in Long Beach, had found one sitting in her garage and offered it up for free. My sister picked it up in Los Angeles and delivered it to Dave at the airport before he flew out. If it weren’t for them, I might have had to ask the locals to teach me how they make their sails from rice sacks!

  Dave and I launch into two weeks of capturing life aboard Swell, avoiding close-ups of my blistered lip. His hardworking, go-with-the-flow spirit invites good timing and serendipity. We track down a few waves, but he also captures me fishing, diving, fixing the motor, harvesting seaweed, cooking, sailing, climbing coconut trees, playing with dolphins, hanging with local kids, and doing yoga.

  A few mornings before Dave’s flight will take him home to Hawai‘i, a little yellow speck appears on the horizon. My heart drops. No, it can’t be. After finishing breakfast and discussing the day’s plan, I pop my head out of the cabin just in time to see Octobasse approaching the anchorage.

  “Seriously?” I yell to the wind.

  “Lissy!” Gaspar calls, once in range. I swim over angrily, and he greets me with, “What happen to your face?”

  “What are you doing here? We agreed you would sail somewhere else for cyclone season!?”

  “Oye. Then you don’t want el dibujo de (the drawing for) Valentine’s Day I make for you?” he asks sarcastically, waving a paper with colorful hearts.

  “Ugggggghhhh!” I groan and swim away.

  Buddha on the Bus

  I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it! Why is he here? Gaspar has completely dishonored our agreement and even wants to try our relationship again! Did he hear anything I had said? A rainbow of emotions, running the spectrum from love to hate, resurfaces like a bad case of acid reflux.

  When Dave flies home I continue to try to keep my distance, but the Spaniard quickly charms my I-Matang friends, and whether it’s a potluck dinner or a sunset beer, he is in attendance. Since I don’t want to get back together, he finds a way to antagonize me in front of everyone. I begin to isolate myself in order to avoid him, but it’s next to impossible in this tiny, secluded place.

  “Hey, Lizzy,” I hear Chuck outside Swell one morning. I pop out on deck. “The north swell is up; let’s go check out some spots on the other side of the bay this afternoon!”

  I prep my board and can’t wait to go explore the new breaks with Chuck, until he comes back to pick me up and Gaspar’s in the boat. As soon as I climb aboard, Gaspar says, “What a shame. No chance of catching a fish now that there’s a woman on board.”

  I’m instantly irritated, but I wait until we’re in the lineup to get even. He’s a beginner surfer and I snicker as he goes over the falls in his reef booties, then I shred by and spray him on the next wave.

  In the day
s to come I search for something positive in the situation, a way to use some buena manifestación magic, but I’m at a total loss. I just want him to disappear. I’m rushing to catch a bus to the store, when Gaspar paddles over on his pink kayak. “Lissy, por favor. Can I borrow your bike?”

  I begrudgingly give him the key to my bike, which is locked ashore, and head off by dinghy to catch the bus. I climb aboard, find an empty row near the back, and glare bitterly out the window as Gaspar rides by—smiling and carefree—on my bike. A minute later, Melanie, my Tibetan Buddhist sailing neighbor, boards the bus and sits down beside me.

  “Hi,” I say with a sigh. This whole Gaspar situation is getting the best of me today.

  “Are you okay?” Melanie asks.

  “Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie.

  “Well if you’d like to talk about something, I’m happy to listen,” she says sweetly.

  She’s a radiant woman with bold red hair, high full cheekbones, and smiling eyes behind thick-rimmed glasses. Although I don’t know her very well, she makes me feel safe. But I don’t need to bore her with my dramatic love saga.

  We both quietly survey the chaos in the bus. Islanders of all ages pile on, and when no seats remain, the aisle fills with standing passengers. Mothers pass their babies to someone with a seat as the bus begins to roll. At the main road, the bus goes right instead of left, away from the store. With the language barrier and mob of passengers, there’s nothing to do but go along for the ride. We head into the next town and pick up some elderly women at the health center, then drop them off again a few miles farther down the road. After making a U-turn, we then stop to pick up some coolers from a short, animated man. Finally, we start off in the right direction, but soon turn off for another detour down a rutted dirt road. Ten minutes of bouncing later, we load up a family of seven and their two pigs. Arriving at the store seems less and less probable.