Swell

by Liz Clark

  The first slender sliver of the crescent moon hears every word, gently reminding me to be patient and carry on with grace through the hardships. As the nights pass, she smiles wider and brighter and higher, as if it’s all some hilarious cosmic joke. The waxing half-moon tells me of good things to come and to look at the half-full side of the story. As she nears her full grandeur, she encourages me to be brave—that others are struggling too—and I must use the light inside me to find my way. The waning moon advises me to stop resisting and try a different approach. I even feel the new moon through the dark starry nights, reminding me that light follows darkness—go inward, wipe my slate clean, start anew. Everything is perfect, she says, so perfect that you can’t yet understand.

  The Shaft Tube Challenge

  The prop tube battle continues. I have a slightly larger steel cap made for the extracteur and use a hacksaw to cut the upper side of the tube level. Josh from the pearl farm I’d visited with Gaspar happens to be in the neighborhood and offers to help. He goes below the hull with the sledgehammer while I stay inside the cabin to make sure the steel cap is positioned correctly.

  “My father always told me that your force comes from the mula bandha—the area right between the sphincter and genitals. If you tighten it, you can find power you never knew you had,” Josh calls up from below.

  “Awesome!” I shout back. I’d just been reading about the yogic band-has, chakras, and nadis. Josh proves his father’s words, because on the third try, he hits the steel plate with a force that severs the upper threads of the cap and sends the extracteur flying across the yard. But the tube doesn’t budge.

  I still can’t find anyone else to hire to help cut out the tube. Storage fees for the yard mount each day. I have to find another solution ... but how? Who? As I wander aimlessly through the rows of masts on a Friday afternoon, Mike, a lively British cruiser with his boat in the yard, yells down at me from atop his shiny blue hull, “Hey Liz! We just got my rudder shaft out using a hydraulic jack. Maybe this is your answer?”

  He passes it down to me. Never has a girl sprinted faster carrying a fifteen-pound hydraulic jack as I do back to the VIP yard. I haul it up the ladder, pull off Swell’s stairs, and place it into the space just in front of the tube.

  “It fits!” I cheer. “I’ll just have to remove the V-drive base and cut some wood and steel supports. Since it will have to work on its side, the jack might need some extra fluid,” I tell myself.

  I race cheerfully down to the Friday gathering in the garage to announce the good news. “I’m tired of seeing you walking around here looking like a lost puppy,” Mike says. “I’ll be at your boat at 10 am tomorrow. If I can’t get that tube out in two hours, it’s officially impossible!”

  I roll over at 9:45 am, hoping that Mike wants to postpone our appointment for the Shaft Tube Challenge. I’ve only slept a few hours; Taputu had knocked on my hull at 3 am to warn of an approaching tsunami. I headed for higher ground with my friend Simona and her son, but thankfully the impact was insignificant. I’m about to douse myself with the hose when the British film director-turned-sailor rolls onto the scene right on time. In lieu of my shower, he sends me running about the yard in search of scrap wood and metal to brace the jack.

  Tick, tock ... tick, tock ... he will give exactly two hours of his time, no more. The scavenger hunt continues. I’m exhausted, hot, and hungry while scavenging under the blazing tropical sun. The clock strikes noon and we’ve only just finished building a mish-mash of metal and wood scraps to brace and fit the jack properly against the small area of vertical fiberglass.

  Just as Mike’s overtime charges are about to begin accumulating, Adrian, the cheery six-foot-two Canadian aboard Cassiopeia, appears. He’s been borrowing my bike to ride to town for parts to fix up his newly acquired steel sloop. I praise Mike for getting things started. Now Adrian steps in. He needs cash; I need help. We make a deal, and after a few more hours of setup, we’re nearly ready to pressurize the jack.

  I’ve borrowed a hefty, flame-spitting butane torch, and theorize with Adrian that if we heat and cool the bronze tube—without setting Swell on fire—we might be able to break the bond between the resin and the bronze. Adrian stands by with a bucket of water. The tube turns rainbow colors as I blast it with heat. When we agree that any more might cause Swell to spontaneously combust, Adrian throws on some water to induce a quick contraction of the metal.

  After several rounds of heating and cooling, the true test begins. Back inside the cabin, Adrian pumps the jack’s lever, placing twenty tons of pressure against that stubborn old shaft tube. I can hardly bear to watch—for my fear of exploding jacks since my accident at Georges and Marika’s—and knowing that if this fails, the only solution is the lengthy open-fiberglass surgery. I decide to go down to ground level and survey the progress from the other end where I can see if it has moved: not a millimeter.

  “Hit it with the sledgehammer!” Adrian calls from above.

  “Great idea!” I holler back, slinging the beast of a tool over my shoulder, squeezing my mula bandha, and unloading a hefty swing on the exposed part of the tube. Wham!

  “It moved!” he yells.

  “REALLY?” I shriek back. Upon inspection, I confirm that the shaft tube has officially been pushed one millimeter in the right direction!

  We carry on like this for hours, Adrian loading up pressure with the jack, and me swinging the sledgehammer. Millimeter by sweet millimeter, we make progress. When the tube finally nears extraction, the puzzling cause of the leak is revealed: a series of bean-sized holes corroded through the upper end.

  Refugee Rescues on a Sea of Plastic

  Swell hits the sea watertight after a series of miracles that followed the shaft tube extraction. When I emailed the news that the tube was out, Fin and Doug offered to ship me an epoxy replacement tube and cutlass bearing for half price, and cover the shipping! And then a willing glasser had appeared to install it. After two long years in and out of the yard, I can finally say that the leak saga has ended, but I feel depleted and a little lost.

  The trade winds are out of breath today; I need to get back in the water. I have a hunch about a wave that might be breaking, so I grab my board and shove a pareo, a grapefruit, and sunscreen into my pack and jump in the dinghy. The worn-out hunk of rubber is barely hanging on, but again that day, it delivers me to the pass.

  A few waves into the session, an enormous thunderhead swallows the high mountains behind me. Thunder cracks and cold rain pelts down so heavily I can barely see. I paddle back to the dinghy through the bullying drops and wait out the storm under my board bag.

  By the time it stops, the squall winds have ruined the surf, so I slowly putt back toward Swell. As I turn the corner of the reef, the sight ahead is startling: a half-mile-long stretch of muddy brown water lined with drifting wood, leaves, and trash. The heavy rain must have opened the river mouth and flushed the debris into the lagoon all at once. I turn off the motor and row through it, collecting the scattered plastic trash.

  As I pluck out bottles, bags, and wrappers, I notice movement among the flotsam. Creatures are everywhere. The geckos, lizards, grasshoppers, beetles, snails, and bugs must have been caught in the flash flood. They cling to logs, trash, and clumps of leaves. One by one, I catch them or offer my oar, and load them aboard. My dinghy quickly morphs into a refugee flotilla for life of all sorts—even a CD-sized cane spider. I spend two hours paddling like Pocahontas and loading my ark like Noah.

  Amid the rescue efforts, a cockroach comes swimming frantically toward me, but all I can think of is that nasty family of roaches that had infested Swell. He struggles in the little whirlpool from my paddle. I look forward and try not to think about him. But how can I leave only him? I decide to turn back, but he’s already gone.

  When we reach the end of the debris patch, my new crew and I head toward the nearest islet. All sorts of little feet grip the dinghy’s flexing, half-deflated hypalon tubes in the evening air; a salty
gecko coolly tips its nose into the wind. I snap a picture of the amusing scene for Barry.

  I set the creatures free, one by one, then collect even more plastic on the trash-covered islet. On the way home, the dinghy’s floor seam suddenly parts from the port tube and the boat fills with six inches of water. We limp slowly back to Swell just after dark, brimming with soggy plastic trash and a few straggling stowaways.

  Money and Men

  Swell’s dock lines slacken and then tighten again. I watch them for a moment, the water droplets leaping off as the lines pull taut. Stepping onto the dock, I stroll around the Tahiti marina. It’s a cloudy afternoon and the breeze softly animates the ironwood trees; rain sprinkles intermittently. I suck at the thick sea air and delight in the simplicity of watching my bare feet step rhythmically over the dirt, weeds, and puddles along the marina walkway.

  It’s good to be back in a baggy T-shirt and cut-offs. It’s taken a few days to decompress from the rush and hustle of Southern California. I had flown back to finish up the book project, but despite the potential financial benefits, I ended it completely. It didn’t feel right, so I returned the advance money. I also broke it off with a really great guy I’d started dating. I had been torn about both decisions.

  Sometimes I feel like I don’t fit in anywhere anymore. I’ve been doing this for five years now and friends have stopped asking when I’m coming home. Only when I’m aboard Swell or in wilderness do I feel a sense of true belonging. I try not to judge myself for still being single and nearly broke at thirty years old, but I constantly wrestle these irritating subconscious beliefs about needing a permanent partner and an accruing 401(k).

  Of course, I want lasting love, but not at the expense of freedom. And a steady income would be nice, too, but only if it comes from doing something I believe in. Anything else feels like surrender, captivity. I’m now receiving offers to star in television shows and documentary films, but I cherish my anonymity and the purity of the experiences that come from voyaging like I do. The thought of constantly caravanning with a follow boat or film crew makes me cringe.

  I feel committed to adhering to my truth, and making choices that feel right. I’m constantly working hard, but most of the time it isn’t for money. I stay up late responding to emails, encouraging people to live their dreams. I write blogs to inspire, research environmental issues, connect people, help my neighbors—without any paycheck. But it all comes around. It seems the more I live from the heart, the more my material requirements show up when I really need them.

  Patagonia pitched in significantly for the final round in the boatyard. Achilles just sponsored me by providing a new dinghy. A variety of small companies and individuals who are inspired by my voyage often help out with products or donations. Just when I’m down to a couple hundred bucks, I get a request to write an article or sell a photo, or a check just arrives in the mail. A sweet family from South Carolina sends donations from time to time, signed with “Be Encouraged. Love, The Seshuns.”

  I’m choosing this life adrift, even though it doesn’t make it easy to commit to either men or money. I’ve found that guys with good jobs generally have too many commitments. But men with few commitments often don’t like to work hard. Long-distance relationships are no fun, and language and cultural barriers have proven difficult with the few foreign men I’ve dated. Add the fact that my list of perfect man requirements just keeps getting longer. I’ve started to wonder if I’ll ever find the Yin to my Yang.

  In the past, I always liked to have a relationship brewing. I needed a friend to adventure with, and often it was easier to find eager guys than girls. I gleaned confidence from having a man adore me, too. I drove a few mad because they couldn’t hold onto me. Other times I got clingy—my abhorrence of abandonment keeping me from leaving or making smart boundaries. Sometimes we both knew the romance was situational and purely for fun. There were excruciating heartbreaks too.

  Whether it was just one date, a week’s fling, or a longer connection, I’ve learned from every man I ever spent time with. Some taught me what I don’t want in a partner, but most of them offered something positive. My first boyfriend taught me not to be a kook in the surf. A few others also helped me hone my wave-riding skills. The fisherman showed me the magic of generosity and nonattachment. The poet made me feel securely enraptured by his love. I had mad chemistry with the carpenter. The yes-man taught me how to have more fun. The lifeguard knew how to keep things light, loving, and simple. But these romances all ended for one reason or another. Paralleling paths are precious while they last, but holding onto a relationship for longer than it serves both parties does neither any good. Casual romance doesn’t interest me anymore; I want the real deal.

  When will a man show up who really complements my strengths and my lifestyle? I’d like him to be tough but sensitive. Strong and charming. A surfer. A thinker and a romantic. A nature lover and thrill seeker. Positive and funny. A dreamer and a hero. Spontaneous yet patient. Confident yet not too prideful. Spiritual but not a know-it-all. I hope he enjoys dancing. He’ll have things to teach me, but also be willing to learn. Most importantly, he should make me a better person by setting my heart ablaze and forcing me to look at my blocks to fully loving and being loved.

  While I’m waiting for him to appear, though, being single feels okay, spacious I guess. I walk on, watching raindrops hit puddles and finding great contentment in giving my whole attention to the present. My father is coming for Christmas. I have two months to get Swell dialed in, catch up on my writing, and enjoy some surfing and sailing.

  Before long, while walking back to Swell after doing laundry at a friend’s house, I see a bunch of guys I know sitting around a small dock they’re building. A tall, handsome stranger is among them. They’re finished for the day and offer me a beer. I have a sip or two to be polite, but I can’t stay. I have things to get done before my departure tomorrow morning.

  “Thank you, but I have to go put my dinghy on deck before dark,” I say in the local mixture of French and Tahitian.

  “Tu veux un coup de main?” (Can I give you a hand?) the new guy asks.

  I look at the other guys for approval. I rarely take the help of a total stranger, but four hands would make it so much easier. They nod and encourage me.

  “Je m’appelle Rainui,” he says, sticking out his hand respectfully. It closes around mine, strong and callused. He picks up my sail bag full of clean clothes and follows me to the dinghy. Together, we quickly get the dinghy and motor on deck. He is quiet and gentlemanly, and I thank him sincerely before he swims ashore in the coming darkness.

  Tubes for Breakfast

  Offshore winds rip over the stacked swell lines, blowing water droplets off the wave faces into hovering rainbows as the lips pitch and arc into glorious indigo barrels. My eyes bulge as the quiet girl with long, brown hair and a slender, athletic body drives gracefully through another deep tube and shoots out right in front of me.

  “Yew!” I holler from the shoulder. “That was unreal!” She shrugs it off.

  “Thanks,” she says softly, “but you can totally do it too. You surf well. You just gotta commit early and swoop in behind it.”

  “I don’t know,” I mumble, following her back up the reef.

  I have tried hard to master tube riding, but I’m still inconsistent. I have moments when everything comes together but I lack confidence, which often makes the difference between making the drop or getting pitched over the falls. I have learned a lot about falling, though—like how to “starfish” underwater, cover my head, and just relax to decrease my chances of hitting the sharp coral. I can’t count how many times I’ve hit the reef. My legs, feet, and back are scarred with reminders.

  I paddle for my next wave, get in early, and do some turns, but when it warps into a hollow section with jagged exposed reef sticking up only feet from the impact zone, I kick out like usual. Frustrated, I paddle back toward the lineup again, knowing I’m still missing out on the holy grail of s
urfing.

  Kepi is a natural—smooth, powerful, stylish, and poised. She uproots my prior ideas of what a woman is capable of doing on a wave. Her reserve intimidated me when I first arrived in the bay, but since we both surf in the early mornings before the crowds, we’ve gotten to know each other. She was raised in California and Kaua‘i, chose this South Pacific paradise over a high-profile surfing career, married a local surfer, and has two beautiful kids. I dig her simple, unassuming style.

  The swell keeps pouring in over the next week. Not too big, not too small, offshore winds, and just the right angle to produce flawless wave cylinders.

  I have no excuses not to step it up. We meet at the peak after she drops her kids at school. I study her every movement. Little by little I gain more confidence.

  “Go!” my tube guru encourages.

  “Are you sure? I’m not too deep?” I hesitate.

  “No, you’re good. You got it. Just paddle,” she affirms.

  Finally, it happens: a breakthrough. I start trusting myself and the wave. Instead of jumping into the face or closing my eyes when it looks like it’s going to close out, I hold my line. I get clipped here and there, but falling inside the tube isn’t as scary as I had imagined. I start to feel where to slow down, find the pocket, and then all I have to do is hang on while the lip falls around me and I shoot for the light.

  “See?” Kepi cheers as I come flying out of a deep one. “You’ve got it!”

  Short but Sweet

  When I return from island hopping a couple weeks later, Rainui keeps appearing. First he’s eating with friends by the waterfront and then he’s near the pineapples at the open market. A few days later he picks me up when I’m hitchhiking to town and asks if I want to hang out sometime. I give him my number.