by Liz Clark
“Everybody goes through hard things,” I say. “But we have to find a way to get past them. If we can see our hardships as what got us to where we are now, it’s easier to accept them as part of our journey. You’re somewhere pretty good now, right? I mean, people only dream about doing this kind of exotic sailing, and Richard is such a nice man.”
“How can you tell me to be happy?” she says. “You’re completely free and a rich guy gave you a boat. You can do whatever you want.”
“Well, that’s not exactly the case, Loreen. And I’m not saying I’m good at being happy either. That’s probably why I recognize it in you. I just thought I’d share what’s helped me recently.”
A couple of hours later I leave feeling confused and drained. No matter what ropes I tossed to her to help her climb out of her misery, she found a way to dismiss them. I guess Gaspar was right—not everyone is looking to end his or her suffering. And it’s clear that I’m no guru yet. I must focus on myself.
That evening, I pick up the Pema Chödrön book that Melanie had given me. And as if the universe is sending me a message, I open to a list of Buddhist wisdoms; the first one on the page reads: “Don’t ponder others.”
13,004
Nautical Miles Traveled
Once the anchor is set, a saltwater rinse takes away the sweat and angst of a difficult passage—the rewards of the sea as my backyard. JACK BUTTLER
Warm, welcoming Clementine. LIZ CLARK
The glory is forever— Gaspar. LIZ CLARK
Tautu, pleased after a first coat of paint on his house. LIZ CLARK
“Hang on, Mom!” Sizable swell rises from behind on day eight of the Pacific crossing. LIZ CLARK
Because sailing for surf requires so many uncontrollable elements to coalesce, each ride feels like a gift. SCOTT AICHNER
One with wings, one with sails, exploring freedom on the open seas. LIZ CLARK
Paying out the handline on a passage in hopes of catching dinner. BALI STRICKLAND
Mom with her catch on day sixteen at sea. LIZ CLARK
Being small has its advantages on a boat, like while fixing the refrigerator compressor down below. BALI STRICKLAND
I-Kiribati family on their afternoon commute. LIZ CLARK
After wrapping my chain around coral a few times, I learned to place the anchor more precisely by hand— to avoid damaging the reef. LIZ CLARK COLLECTION
Determined to ride the tube, whether or not it cost some skin. TAYLOR PAUL
Both above and below water, maintaining Swell is an endless task. JIANCA LAZARUS
Autonomy
Afar
Pedaling Daydreams
The trade winds whisper across my ears as I push the bike pedals and swerve between mud puddles. Gaspar finally sailed away two weeks ago, so I’ve had time to explore and meet the locals. I don’t know if I’ll ever see him again, and I’m thankful we parted on good terms. I held tight to Melanie’s wisdom, and stayed patient for the most part but came away convinced, yet again, that I prefer to be solo for now.
The road winds through a thick palm forest to a village farther north. Overhead, the tall trees nod and rustle, as if gossiping while I pass. Where their shadows stop, the equatorial sun is oppressive. I wipe the sweat from my brow, suck at the steamy air, and keep pedaling. When the road cuts closer to the lagoon, hues of milky turquoise stack up behind the arcing trunks of the palms that lean deeply over the lagoon’s edge.
I’ve spent a lot of time marveling at the paradisaical scenery here, which contrasts with the harsh realities of life that I’ve encountered. Without foreign aid, easily cured illnesses go untreated. Kids suffer with horrible skin rashes and chronic diarrhea from the polluted drinking water. Their arms and legs are covered in scars from bug bites. Education is limited to elementary levels. Stories of birthing and infant deaths and amputations are frequent.
Being a woman here looks tough. Domestic violence and incest are normal. Women are men’s possessions, useful for sex, sweeping, weaving, cooking, washing, sewing, hauling water, and raising children. They also collect the seaweed for drying, pandanus leaves for weaving, and coconut husks for cooking. They bathe fully clothed in the brackish groundwater because there is no privacy. Coconut fiber and rags are used for menstruation. Lice infestations are rampant. Items like elastic hair ties, tampons, shampoo and conditioner, washing machines, baby wipes, and strollers don’t exist. Women gather in big circles under each village’s open-air, tin-roofed meeting house, or maneaba, sewing together old tarps or rice bags to make sails, twisting coconut fibers into rope, making hand brooms, or weaving hats, bags, and sleeping mats from dried pandanus leaves.
Frankly, being a man doesn’t look much easier. They make constant home repairs, go fishing in the blazing tropical sun, and dry copra—one of the few ways to earn money—by collecting mature brown coconuts in the forest, hauling them home by the dozens, splitting them open (with a hatchet if your family is lucky enough to own one), then laying the open halves out to dry in the sun. After three or four days of praying it doesn’t rain, they dislodge the dried meat from the coconut shell and load it into sacks. Captains from the few passing ships then purchase the sacks by weight. With seafood as a dietary staple here, fishing is life. The men go trolling on their sailing canoes with one hand on the rudder, one hand on the line that trims the sail, with the nylon fishing line wrapped around their big toe. The canoes are anything but sturdy or stable, but they wrangle huge tuna and game fish. There are no VHF radios, no Coast Guard, no life rafts to get in if the canoe cracks or they are blown too far offshore.
But despite the perpetual discomfort, back-breaking work, and constant uncertainty, the I-Kiribati generally seem lighthearted. They exude a live-for-the-day feeling that makes life seem less serious. Heck, why make a big deal, when a fever could kill you tomorrow!
No matter how long it takes for the supply boat to show up, the I-Kiribati will endure. They eat everything that moves: fish, sharks, turtles, dogs, seabirds—and they know how to laugh. The best jokers are revered, and rightly so: Laughing makes hunger, pain, monotony, or sadness a little easier to bear.
I grow thirsty, pull off the road, and wander through the coconut grove with my eyes cast skyward. My fingers begin to tingle with excitement when I spot a choice young bunch of green coconuts. The climb takes absolute concentration. I grip around the back of the trunk and walk my bare feet up the front. At the top, I collapse into a tight hug of the trunk, then twist two coconuts from the bunch and drop them gingerly. My knee-length shorts allow me to slide straight down. After opening the coconuts with a knife, I suck down the sweet liquid and hop back on my bike.
Kiakias freckle the roadside as I approach a village. The glare off the roof of the maneaba is blinding as I pull over into its shade. Independence Day festivities are only a month away and every islander is busy. The women sit, lean, or lie among heaps of loose plant fibers. They are making elaborate, double-layered grass skirts for dancing. My friend Taurenga sets a plate of dried bananas in front of me as I join the circle.
“Ko rabwa” (Thank you), I reply with an appreciative nod. The women tease and bicker over whose son will sail away as my husband. I only understand what Taurenga can translate. Their laughter is delightfully unchecked—flooding the maneaba with boisterous cackles and belly laughs. I stand up with one of the finished skirts, tie it around my waist, and try to mimic their dancing. They hoot with hilarity.
“You no I-Matang, you I-Kiribati woman!” one woman cries, rising to her feet to dance too. I feel safe and happy here with them. Their inner beauty and confidence radiate so strongly that missing teeth or body shape or hairs on a chin are meaningless. “Beauty” itself takes a new shape in my mind from being near them. An hour passes and I pull out some DVDs and a mix of medical supplies to leave with them. As far as it feels from modern civilization, the people here love watching movies. Families gather around a communal TV at the maneaba. I wave goodbye to everyone and carry on. It’s after 3
pm, and the kids will already be in the water.
Near a grassy trail, I stash my bike in the bushes and wander out to the beach. Squinting into the afternoon sun, I’m happy to see small swell-lines marching into the bay.
“Leees! Leees!” little Nato shouts, running toward me with a frantic smile. At least ten little boys leap and frolic in the waves that wedge up at the end of a half-submerged jetty. The boys run out over the cracked cement blocks of the WWII remnant, and hurl themselves off the end into an approaching wave face. They ride flat wooden planks or old bodyboard cadavers all the way to shore. Half of them are naked. The other half wear hand-sewn shorts, often ripped or too big. They trade off with the plywood or foam, because there aren’t enough for everyone. I join the loop, run out the jetty wall, and leap into a wedging right, bodysurfing it in. Washing up, they laugh and scream and pat me. I take a few more and then sit with the pack of girls gathered by the bushes to watch. I wish they would come put their feet in the sea, but it’s taboo for females here. Even though I despise this disparity, I don’t feel it’s my place to challenge their customs. In fact, I know there is much to learn from them. My eyes well up when I watch Nato pass his square of plywood off to the youngest boy, who has been waiting patiently for a turn. They hug each other in excitement before the little dude skips wildly out the jetty.
Lucky Hearts
“Is she going to vomit?” asks Teaboka, the youngest of the three fishermen, in Gilbertese. As we motor away from Swell in the twelve-foot tinny, Teuta, Nato’s father, translates his question with a cracked-tooth grin. It’s obvious Teaboka isn’t thrilled about adding my company to their weekly Saturday fishing expedition. I’m not so sure either. We’re headed offshore in this easily sinkable aluminum boat with an outboard motor that looks like it’s past its prime.
“Does he know I sailed here?” I reply.
“It because Kiribati people believe women bring bad luck on the sea,” he answers. I roll my eyes. I think it’s more likely that women aboard cause competition for the men and thus, complication. Teuta laughs as the boat bounces toward the rocky shore in the drizzling rain. We land on the beach, and Beeto and Teuta search for the roundest coral stones lining the water’s edge. I take note of the desired specs and hunt too. Teaboka takes off toward a cluster of bushes, returning with a stack of large round leaves and a hatful of hermit crabs. When our empty rice bag is nearly filled with stones, we pile aboard and head out the pass.
It feels good to be in open waters after almost six weeks at anchor, although I’m not fully awake. The squalls and pummeling rain had kept me up through the night. I’d tossed and turned, regretting my request to go fishing the night before at dinner with Nato’s family. The weather is still stormy, and Kiribati fishermen are regularly lost at sea. What if the engine dies?
Beeto yanks a hermit crab out of its shell, then lashes its live, writhing body to the hook using a piece of dried grass, and tosses it over. We troll for flying fish without a bite for nearly an hour; I’m sure I’ve brought along the woman’s curse.
Eventually, we manage to catch three flying fish. Each man hooks one to his trolling rig and we speed out to sea with them in tow. After another hour, the atoll is just a smudge on the gray horizon. The sky spits rain, and the sea churns with the mix of swells from all the squalls. Sitting with my back to the wind, the cold rain steadily pelts my rain jacket, interrupted by warmer dousings of seawater sporadically coming over the rail.
“We outside, but you still in the house!” Beeto says. Everyone bursts out laughing, comparing their useless ripped slickers to my head-to-ankle rain gear.
We soon catch a large wahoo, but the squalls and seas seem to be worsening. A failed engine would send us drifting toward the Gilbert or Marshall Island groups, 2,500 miles downwind. I praise myself for stashing a handheld GPS and VHF radio at the bottom of my dry bag.
As we fight our way back toward the island, we spot a lone man in an outrigger. His slender paddle is not enough against the vicious thirty-knot gusts. Using the thick monofilament tuna handline, we tie the outrigger to the back of the tinny and tow him into the headwinds. Shortly after, we spot another man in need of help, and soon we’re plowing slowly landward with both canoes in tow, looking like three body segments of a water-walking insect.
“I drift out to sea once,” Teuta recalls. “I float for three days.” My eyes widen. He grins and nonchalantly tells the tale of being blown offshore on a similarly windy day, and then being randomly spotted by a passing US Coast Guard plane that dropped him a life raft and gave his coordinates to a nearby ship. No one could be that lucky twice!
When I turn to check our progress, I’m relieved to see the island is now at a swimmable distance. We drop off the two fishermen and they each give Teuta a fish in gratitude.
Our next pursuit is tuna. We motor up to where we can see the reef rising from deep water. Teaboka drops an old drum brake for an anchor, and the tinny drifts back over the abysmal depths. Teuta opens a couple of coconuts for drinks and snacks. I pull out a bag of peanuts. The men are cautious at first, but finally dip into the bag and are immediately taken by the foreign delicacy. After puffing a pandanus-leaf cigarette and munching on more peanuts, raw wahoo, and coconut meat, the men’s thoughts turn back to fishing.
I look on as they rig their tackle. First, they cut meat from the wahoo into small pieces—if the one knife aboard is being used, the others simply bite chunks right off the fish’s body—and pile them in the center of one of the round leaves. Then they skewer a piece of fish with a large hook and put it inside the same leaf, folding the leaf edges up all around it. Next, they select a stone, and wrap the thick monofilament from the hook around both the folded leaf and the stone, turning it into a compact package. With a hoot for luck, it’s dropped over the rail and, as it sinks to around 300 feet, the fisherman gives a swift jerk on the line to open the leaf package, sending the stone to the seafloor and scattering the extra bits of bait to serve as chum.
Teaboka hooks the first tuna. The men work together in smooth unison pulling it to the surface, heaving it aboard, and killing the fish with three swift blows from a hand-carved club. I’m impressed at the size of the golden striped beauty, but to them it seems only a trifle.
I’m not quite ready to gnaw on the half-chewed, sun-warmed wahoo, so while the knife is free I slice some bait and try my hand at crafting one of the rock-and-leaf rigs. When I’ve finished, Beeto lets me use his handline. I wrap my creation in the thick monofilament and drop it over the side with my best version of the fish yelp. Not a minute goes by before it feels like I’ve snagged a sinking car. The monofilament wheels off the handline in hot stings across my bare hands. Luckily, I manage to keep the spool in the boat.
Once the beast tires a bit, I begin hauling it up from the deep. After ten minutes my arms burn, and I pass it off to Beeto. By the time the fish breaches the surface, all four of us have taken a turn heaving on the line. When the “big mama,” as they call it, comes over the rail she’s only slightly smaller than I am. Soon all three lines are back at 300 feet.
An hour passes with little action. Teuta hooks something, but it gets off. I curl into a blissful catnap on the bow until Beeto nudges me gently. “Leeess, Leeess. You try again,” he says.
I lug myself vertical and take hold of his line. Before I’ve fully regained alertness, there’s dead weight on the end of it, and another wild belaying of the monofilament. I pass off the handline and soon another big mama comes over the rail. It makes me sad to see the big beauties killed, but their meat, along with coconuts, is the main food source for the islanders.
When the men seem pleased with our catch, we head back. On the way, Teuta lops off the head of one of the great fish, reaches into its body, and pulls out the round red heart. Beeto and Teaboka grab at the lungs and other organs, gobbling them on the spot, but Teuta passes the heart to me with an air of honor. I’ve heard the fishermen’s legend about eating the heart of the tuna and, after such a day
of bonding, I can’t let them down. I reach out and take the still warm heart in my hand and sink my teeth into it. The mildly nauseating moment is well worth the grand smiles of my proud new fishing buddies.
The following Saturday, I hear a knock on the hull in the early dawn hours.
“Haloooooo? Leeeeeesss?” I leap out of bed and come out of the cabin to see Teuta, Beeto, and Teaboka smiling and hanging onto Swell’s rail from the tinny.
“They want you to come fish with us again,” Teuta announces. “They think you very lucky.”
Soul-o Sessions
When the first south swells show up in mid-April, a beautiful wave breaks at the pass. From my cockpit, I sit and watch the mesmerizing lefts spin through, unridden. It’s every surfer’s dream to have a perfect wave all to him or herself on a tropical island. I wait for the slack tide, then motor over with my board in the dinghy.
I dive down and rig a small mooring in the channel, as the currents are strong and I don’t want my dinghy to be swept away. The scene is surreal as I paddle solo up the reef with flawless lines pouring in. I take a moment to observe, and then drop in on a shoulder to warm up. I hoot for myself as I drop in a little deeper each time and carve down the line. It’s nice not to be forced to sit deeper than my skills allow or to have to wait for the scrap waves the crowd doesn’t want. I can mess around and throw up a radical turn without worrying about wasting the wave if I fall.
Between waves, I think about how crazy it is that I actually made it into this moment. Peppered among the exhausting nights, lifting and hauling, ripped sails, clogged carburetors, perennial scrubbing of algae, persistent nausea, and unrelenting dampness are the moments like this for which my soul has yearned. As difficult as this voyage can be, there is something valuable in the process. Appreciation deepens for a prize earned through hardship. And every action along the way becomes sacred.