Swell

by Liz Clark

  In the coming weeks, I grow more and more enamored with the solo sessions. But the risk of injury looms large in my mind. The consequences here are unthinkable. It’s not safe to push my limits alone with zero access to medical care and no one around. So I take my time choosing waves. No other surfers are coming out, and no one is watching. I don’t have to charge or “shred.” I force less and just enjoy myself—changing up my stance, throwing my arms and smiling at the sky, or squatting low and leaning back into the face for another view. With ego removed, surfing is an entirely different experience.

  I love to turn around and watch the waves breaking behind me. The pitch and curves of the lips are hypnotizing. Upon collision with the sea below, the wave explodes into bubbling foam. The turquoise sea rushes and blurs under my feet as I speed backward along the wave faces.

  During these sessions, I surf for the feeling of freedom and unity, for the way the soft salt water caresses my skin and the sun warms my back, and to gaze at the ever-evolving clouds and majestic arcs of the wings of seabirds circling and diving around me. Each push of wave energy is a gift from the sea, from the wind, from the sun, from the whole miracle of our spinning planet and mysterious universe. Riding these waves feels more like worship than sport.

  I feel both gratitude and guilt, watching men sail back and forth in their canoes, fishing for dinner for their families. Play seems so luxurious in a land where people spend all day just trying to eat. As the sun sinks, the sea blushes pink. Flying fish soar through the lineup, with tunas as big as golden retrievers bursting from the sea behind them in astounding, open-mouthed leaps. A tuna sandwich will never be the same.

  Evasive Stillness

  Chuck shows up for a week with some professional surfers on his charter boat, and it’s fun to have some surfing company for a change. But between surfs, I have few excuses not to spend more time going within. There is so much I still need to work on. About twelve seconds after I sit down to try Melanie’s meditation techniques, I’m restless, terribly uncomfortable, and my mind is clouded with ten pressing things I need to do.

  I decide to read about meditation instead of actually sitting. I have a variety of books aboard that describe it, making it sound fairly simple, but when I attempt to sit still again, the same feelings of dread and discomfort quickly become intolerable. “Clear your mind,” one book says. “Stop thinking.” But how? My mind is a conveyor belt of endless thoughts with no off button. But even within the laughably short times I try, I am able to grasp the idea that my thoughts are not me. There is some great and powerful stillness below them.

  I want freedom from the tyranny of my ceaseless mind and wild emotions. It’s a matter of doing the work, persevering. I see that becoming a better me is going to take discipline. One book describes a condition of ataraxia: a lucid state of robust tranquility characterized by ongoing freedom from stress and worry. I want that!

  For now, stillness of mind comes to me more easily through movement: surfing, working, and yoga. Although I’ve taken yoga classes sporadically over the years, I’ve never been disciplined about keeping a regular practice. I did it more to stretch than find inner calm. But now I have the time, and it’s so much less painful than meditation.

  A few afternoons a week, I dinghy over and tie off to the far side of the sunken barge, away from Loreen’s usual haunts. An encounter with her would eliminate any hope for finding mental tranquility. I climb up on the old wheelhouse and roll out my mat across the rusted iron roof. Stepping onto the mat is like having a meeting with my higher self, the person I want to be. I stand in mountain pose and start breathing and moving in sync.

  As April moves into May, I find rhythm to my yoga sessions, seeking the balance between strain and poise, grace and strength, effort and flow, too much and too little. Balancing breath and movement, I feel profound presence and connection with my body, the planet, and beyond. With the trades at my back and the sunset a dynamic tableau to the west, I am grateful to be a part, however insignificant, of all of this. I wish for more clarity, more awakening, a better grasp of universal truths. As the horizon glows orange behind the thick row of silhouetted palms, I am dedicated to moving closer to the untouchable, the Light, and a better me.

  Farewell Frenzy

  Cyclone season is well over. It’s time to start prepping Swell for the voyage back to French Polynesia. But the longer I stay somewhere, the longer it takes to leave—more algae to scrub, more things to put away, and more goodbyes. And I must deal with my stowaways: A hardy family of cockroaches joined me at the marina in Tahiti and has taken up residence aboard. I’ve poured boric acid into nooks and corners and sealed off any accessible food sources, but they have only strengthened in numbers. As the battle to reclaim Swell persists, I’ve learned that Tahitian cockroaches are as strong and tough as Tahitian men, although the sight of their bronze bodies weakens my knees for entirely different reasons.

  Luckily, some new cruisers in the bay have a trick. Larry and Trinda roll boric acid and evaporated milk together into irresistible cockroach candy that they distribute throughout their boat. I have both ingredients, so I pull everything out of the storage lockers, mix up the deadly treats, and toss them into Swell’s deepest corners, hoping to end the roaches’ sailing vacation.

  I then stow everything back in its place to some Jimmy Buffett tunes, then look over the engine. The alternator belt needs changing, as do the fuel filters. Transmission, coolant, and V-drive fluids need topping off. I solder an unruly starter wire. The next day I patch a few small rips in the mainsail and reverse the lines on the wind vane so Monita has fresh friction points. The headstay seems oddly loose, so I tighten it as much as possible at the fitting on the bottom. After adding extra pages into my logbook binder, I assess what’s left of my food stores—rice, flour, a pumpkin, and some picked-through cans of food remain. My stores of propane and gasoline for the dinghy are nearly gone too. Everything must be rationed.

  The next morning, I begin mowing the underwater lawn: Donning mask and fins, and armed with a scraper, I leap over the rail to clean Swell’s hull and anchor chain. As I finish the port side of the hull, friends Chris, Henry, and Reaua from the first island appear aboard Elise. Now it’s even harder to concentrate on leaving.

  I start goodbyes to local friends and, knowing I’ll be where I can buy things soon, assemble a pile of items to give away. The isolation of this remote region intensifies my fears of scarcity, but I fight the instinct to cling to my possessions—especially because Gaspar frequently told me I was greedy. I pass on flashlights, dive gear, clothing, cushions, sunglasses, my retired headsail (which can be turned into smaller sails for the local canoes), knives, crayons, paper and pens for kids, two sets of foul-weather gear to Teuta, spare line, glues and resin, shoes and sandals, and a spare camera. I give my bike to a local family and they load me up with handwoven pandanus hats and mats in gratitude. I know I must live up to the principles of generosity through which Barry, my father, and so many others have made living this dream possible. Contrary to logic, the giving actually makes me feel richer.

  It takes another two weeks before I am finally ready to go. On one last drift dive at the pass I say goodbye to my undersea friends and urge the octopi to hide themselves well, as it’s nearly Loreen’s hunting hour. I have one last item to give away—the pumpkin. It’s a precious commodity here; and with my seasickness I’m certain I won’t cook it underway. I decide to give it to Loreen, despite not wanting to see her again.

  “Every great teacher deserves a pumpkin,” I joke with Chris. He thinks I’ve gone nuts.

  I take a deep breath and head over to her boat. She is outside hanging laundry.

  “Hi, Loreen. I’m leaving tomorrow. I know you’ll be here for a while longer, so I wanted to give you guys this pumpkin and say goodbye.” She accepts it gratefully, voice cracking.

  And then she continues, “You’re leaving? But first, there’s something important Richard needs to tell you. It’s something Ga
spar said before he left, but I can’t tell you. Only Richard can.”

  What is she talking about? She calls to Richard, but he’s busy drilling a piece of teak in the wheelhouse of the barge and can’t hear her. I’m itching to get going. “Why don’t you just tell me, Loreen?”

  “Well, it’s just that ... remember the day that the cruise ship came in?”

  “Yes,” I reply. Her face lights up.

  “Well, we crossed Gaspar on the dock that day and he told us that he was ‘going to look for hot chicks.’” Her face becomes eerily pleased.

  I remember the day she is talking about. Gaspar had come back smirking, saying that he’d given Loreen something to gossip about.

  My thoughts race. That is the important thing she wanted to tell me? She’s still desperately looking for a way to hurt me!? As far as she knows, Gaspar and I are still a couple. I fall silent and my hands begin to sweat. She reaches over and rubs my back as if trying to console me.

  A surge of anger crawls up my spine. My vision blurs. I want to knock her bitchy, wrinkled ass right into the water. I want to scream and tell her she’s pathetic, conniving, and cheap, and that she is pushing the local octopus population to extinction. A few years prior I would have, but I use every bit of self-control I can muster—not because I want to be a good person, but because I know she’s looking for drama. She is hoping to upset me. I take a deep breath and slip away from her bony fingers. Melanie’s words echo through my mind, “Turn your poison into medicine.” I turn to face her.

  “Oh Loreen, that’s really no big deal. Please don’t worry about it anymore,” I say. “Enjoy the pumpkin and good luck with yourself.”

  As I push off in the dinghy, I see Richard is waving. “Bye, Richard!” I call. “Thanks again for the hat!”

  The Paddler’s Song

  Chris and I sail out of the pass simultaneously. He is headed southwest for Samoa, and my course for French Polynesia is almost directly south. We plan to talk on the SSB radio every day at noon to check in and exchange positions. A few hours later Elise’s sail is only a fleck of white on the western horizon. The weather is glorious. I sigh with relief. After the flurry of departure and my exasperating “teachers,” this caliber of solitude and tranquility seems more precious than ever. The wind presses into Swell’s sails like a kiss from a long-lost lover, gently persuading us south.

  I’m not breaking any speed records, but four to five knots feels just right. The sea and sky demand so little, and I’m grateful to catch up on some rest. I take advantage of the calm seas to splice a new snubber for the bow anchor and replace the power wire to the refrigerator. It’s enough work to merit a dance party once the tools are put away. I turn up the stereo and head out into the cockpit to dance in my underwear. Arms fly and hips bop in wild, unchecked movements. I don’t feel alone. The sea’s surface sways, the sunlight’s glitter leaps, and the surrounding clouds rise up in a standing ovation. I dance on, shaking my head to feel the wind in my hair.

  That evening, as the heat of the day subsides, I lie on a cockpit cushion and reflect on what became of the cyclone season. It wasn’t exactly the peaceful time I had envisioned, but I certainly feel that I made progress on my personal lists and learned a great deal, especially from the rugged and genuine people of Kiribati. The experience with them has left me pondering my idealized perception of individuality and autonomy.

  It takes great strength of both body and mind to survive on those islands. No one gets by without the help of family and community. The collective good naturally takes priority over personal desires. Unlike in the developed world, they have to figure out how to get along, help each other, and forgive.

  I recall the rhythmic melody of a paddler’s song as he stroked his outrigger past Swell one afternoon, straight into three-foot wind chop. I heard the tenacious spirit of human survival in his steady, recurring refrain. He stroked on, never hesitating as waves splashed him and the wind and sea pressed against his canoe. I wrote to Barry about him: “With the shift from subsistence living to a cash economy well underway, will the paddler’s grandchildren know that song? Will the skills and wit of a people tuned-in so intimately to their surroundings wane when modernity arrives? What will the I-Kiribati eat when the foreign fleets overfish these waters—imported Cheetos and hot dogs? And, most sobering of all, what if they are displaced altogether due to climate change and rising sea levels?”

  The questions riddled me while I watched a cargo ship deliver two hundred orders of personal DVD players. Lying awake some nights, I bemoaned the loss of the old ways, then rolled over in my comfy bunk and thought, Why shouldn’t these people enjoy the comforts and thrills of modern life? While I would never wish to deny anyone access to modern healthcare, comforts, education, and choices, I cringe to think of the cultural and environmental degradation that come hand in hand with westernization.

  Barry agreed that the situation is distressing, and went on to reply, “I find it incredible that humankind has become globalized to this degree, and even more so, powerful enough to fiddle with the Earth’s climate systems! Indigenous wisdom on living in harmony with the Earth will become more and more imperative as humanity seeks to restore the planet’s climate balance. No place will go unaffected if the temperatures rise as predicted. What a terrible irony that peoples of the Pacific, who contribute so insignificantly to this problem, may be some of the worst afflicted.” For more than twenty years Barry worked on his PhD thesis about the risks and hazards of oil production and transportation in the Santa Barbara Channel. He was always pondering nondestructive alternatives to fossil fuels that could meet society’s energy needs.

  I sigh as my own “energy needs” pull me from my deep reflection. I go below to fish around for something to eat.

  For Heaven’s Sake

  Our easy gliding ends abruptly the fourth morning out. I lift my head at dawn to see the sky bruised and swollen with bulbous clouds. I stay horizontal and pick up reading Moby-Dick where I left off yesterday, but not long after, Swell is swallowed into dreary grays. Indecisive winds swirl around us like mini tornados. I can almost feel the atmosphere lifting as we enter the doldrums again, properly called the Intertropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ). The mood turns downright gloomy, as if the air is sad to be going up instead of continuing its long oversea journey.

  Sails in, sails out, up, down, rain, no rain, motor on, motor off, no wind, wind. “Okay, I get it, the joyride has officially ended,” I call out to the peaks of the confused waves.

  They continue to scurry in every direction as if there’s been a bomb scare. Swell and I waltz onward with the help of the engine until the ITCZ finally spits us out on the other side around 10:30 pm into fifteen knots of east-southeast winds and clear skies.

  I set the sails, plot our position, write in the logbook, and wipe down the cockpit cushion. I lie back, grateful to see the spacious galaxy above. I pull my headphones over my ears and find the Starry Night playlist on my iPod. Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata is still my favorite. I relax and dissolve into the exquisite notes and the multitude of twinkling lights from billions of light-years away. The same questions that the night sky usually evokes come to mind, but instead of feeling small and alone as I once did when I looked up, I feel expansive, powerful, and happy to be a part of it all. A warm tear rolls down my cheek. A surge of gratitude pulses through me for whatever force is at work helping me along this marvelous journey.

  Without thinking, I find that my hand reaches down and I begin to touch myself—slowly at first, with my eyes to the sky. No sense of guilt or secrecy surfaces in me as it sometimes does. The act feels reverent and sacred, as if I’m honoring the heavens, and making love to the entire universe. The cool wind caresses my bare skin and twirls my hair. Beethoven’s mystical notes transport me. I’m in love with this beautiful mystery.

  And then I am suddenly flying through the stars, planets, and seas all at once—boundless, ecstatic, satiated, as the line temporarily blurs between I and That.
An evening of divine pleasure fit for a goddess. No man necessary.

  The Belly of Hell

  Swell lurches with a gust. I leap from my bunk for the third time that night to clip my safety harness to the jackline and crawl forward to pull down more sail. As I emerge from the shelter of the spray dodger, blasts of wind and sea strip me of exhaustion. My hands grip and release in rote, rhythmic placements, while my bare toes spread and press into the worn, wet grip of the deck. I wedge myself into my usual sail reefing position below the boom. Tangled clumps of hair batter my face and block my already shadowy view of the line that needs tightening. It doesn’t matter; I don’t really need to see it. Swell’s aluminum and nylon limbs are now extensions of my own. I close my eyes and lean into each crank of the winch.

  Sail shortened, Swell’s wild gallop eases into a smoother lope. I scan the horizon for lights, and make sure nothing on the deck has come loose. After a reverent gaze to my constellation friends, I duck back behind the dodger, dry myself off with a salty T-shirt, then go below to plot our position on the chart. Leaning back into the damp pile of sheets and pillows that line my sea berth, I look up at my family smiling down at me from the pictures on the ceiling.

  I sink into light sleep until I hear, Crack!

  I scramble back on deck in a fluster. Among the silhouettes of dangling lines and blocks, I see that the pin on the boom vang has severed, freeing the mainsail to smack and swing with the bucking motion of the swells. I make a provisional fix, then try to rest a bit more.