by Liz Clark
After I’ve spent a long day taking apart my corroded transmission lever, crammed in a stuffy compartment with a tube of grease and a pile of wrenches, Rainui calls. It’s Friday and I feel like getting off the boat. He suggests walking to the lookout on the mountain above town.
“It’s almost full moon,” he reminds me.
“J’aimerais bien” (I’d like to), I agree. He picks me up and we drive to the trailhead, and start up the grassy path exchanging small talk. Soon we walk together in peaceful silence among the moon shadows, higher and higher above town. About three-quarters of the way up, I slip on a loose rock and plunge toward the ground. He lunges to catch me before I hit, pulling me back to my feet. We both laugh and, as we take off again, he reaches for my hand.
It’s a perfect fit. He holds it without hesitation—not too tight, not too loose. I feel safe; I would never do this walk at night alone. As a single female traveler I choose evening outings carefully, never forgetting the nights I’ve been chased by pit bulls on my bike or followed by lecherous or belligerent males.
We see each other several times over the next few weeks. He’s not pushy when I tell him I’m busy, but he’s available when I want to hang out. He’s six years younger than me, speaks no English, and has no steady work, but he’s polite and charming. Flowers and fruits appear in the cockpit some mornings, and I notice that our outings seem blessed—the wind turns offshore as we arrive to surf, a huge rainbow arches over the mountain when we find a waterfall, and on the next full moon together, we’re sitting in Swell’s cockpit intertwined, only to be surprised by a full lunar eclipse.
I have few obligations to take care of before Dad arrives, and I’m thrilled to have Rainui’s chivalrous company to explore the island. He carries the heavy pack on a four-hour mountain hike to go camping. We set up the tent near a small waterfall among the lofty green peaks with a majestic view of the open sea to the west. The orange flames of our little campfire match the blazing colors of sunset, while we warm soup and munch on the guava berries we’ve collected. When the wind blows the tarp off the stake in the night, he leaps up to fix it. I relax and enjoy feeling like a princess.
Rainui calls one day, sounding troubled.
“What is it?” I ask when he arrives. We sit together on the bow of Swell and he takes my hands.
“I signed up for the army and I’ve been accepted to the parachutist program in the south of France. I’m supposed to leave in three weeks.” He had recently returned to Tahiti after several years working construction in Marseilles when his dream of becoming a legionnaire was dashed.
The news takes me completely by surprise, but I hear his soul calling for this experience. I hide my selfish sadness and make sure he feels encouraged.
“Well this is great news!” I exclaim. “You must go. And tonight, we should celebrate.”
The Dadmiral
A few days later, my father walks off the plane with an enormous smile on his face. We embrace for a full minute. He’s loaded with all kinds of goodies, including a new refrigerator compressor to replace my dead one.
We are underway aboard Swell a couple hours later. Christmas Day has gifted us gentle trades, whisking handfuls of cumulus clouds across the grand ceiling of blue. Dad is in heaven; he has come from below-freezing temperatures in Michigan where he’s recently been working. We’re both glowing; this is the first time Dad has ever sailed on Swell. He’s spent more than his share of hours working aboard, but today he stands at the helm, steering her smoothly through the lagoon with his grand perma-grin.
“She takes off like a racehorse through the water!” he exclaims as a gust accelerates us. I leap about trimming sails and making sure all is in order.
After dropping anchor later in the day, we can’t resist installing the new fridge compressor, and an hour later he has a cold Hinano in hand. He works so hard; I’m thrilled he has this two-week vacation to enjoy the sea and nature with me.
We sail around the islands, and the ocean shows us a bit of everything— glorious fifteen knots on the stern quarter, some squally thirty-knot upwind slogs, rain and rainbows, gusts and lulls, and even a waterspout. Every type of condition thrills Dad’s pirate heart. He grows out his beard and relaxes into his favorite element.
I put up no resistance to his beer drinking. I don’t want my wish for him to live a healthier lifestyle to cloud our time together. I want him to feel comfortable and enjoy himself as he pleases. He deserves it; I couldn’t ask for a more loving dad.
I scowl out the porthole at the brooding sky, when we wake to pouring rain for the second day in a row. Dad cheerfully lights the teakettle.
“Oh Dad, I just wanted your time here to be so perfect,” I moan.
“That’s how it goes, honey. We can’t control nature,” he replies merrily. He breaks into the lyrics of a country song with a bold twang, “I love the rain, because the rain makes the corn, and the corn makes the whiskey, and I looooooove whiskey!”
He much prefers beer, but his point is clear. I hug him and we spend the day catching rain to fill the water tanks, then troubleshoot a problem with the bilge pumps, and enjoy a wet afternoon walk ashore holding hands and tromping through puddles.
After spending New Year’s Eve with his family, Rainui and I say goodbye. Dad is there to hug me when I come back to Swell with swollen eyes.
I’m thinking about setting off on another voyage to the outer islands, now that my French has drastically improved and my visa is sorted for a while. But I’m having qualms about going alone.
“It would just be so much more fun to share it with someone I love,” I tell Dad.
“I understand, Lizzy. Remember, you don’t have to do this anymore. You can come home tomorrow if you want.”
“I want to keep sailing,” I reply.
“Well then, keep sailing. You can do it. You sail this boat like it’s a part of you.”
I’m certain that the confidence behind his ever-supportive words is a huge reason I have come so far. Looking back, it seems mad that he’d backed some of my choices, but through the years his profound belief in me always gave me the courage to choose love over fear.
15,851
Nautical Miles Traveled
Post-tag selfie on a sunken barge during cyclone season in Kiribati. LIZ CLARK COLLECTION
Just after the loaded car jack slipped and exploded in my face. LIZ CLARK COLLECTION
The bronze shaft tube exposed. Holes corroded in the upper part of the tube were the cause of the mysterious leak that led to three haul-outs and a year and a half in the boatyard. LIZ CLARK
Grinding the paint off the wooden skeg that a previous owner had through-bolted to Swell’s hull. I suspected that the source of the leak was coming from broken seals around the bolts, so I fiberglassed over the skeg to make it watertight. Unfortunately, this was not the leak’s source. LIZ CLARK COLLECTION
Facing my fears at Teahupo‘o, Tahiti, after Round 1 in the boatyard. TIM MCKENNA
Jessica and I sing backup for Jimmy Buffett in Bora Bora. Left to right: Mac McAnally, me, Jimmy, and Jessica Gow Tapare. ERIK IPPEL
Laundry day near the equator. LIZ CLARK
Mixed with pride and sorrow after killing this beautiful fish. DAVE HOMCY
Hanging with Kiribati women while they weave costumes in preparation for yearly festivities. LIZ CLARK
Some creative downtime in the boatyard. LIZ CLARK
Precious little Oli. LIZ CLARK
The never-ending boatyard to-do list. LIZ CLARK
Nato and his buddy showing me the true spirit of wave-riding in Kiribati. LIZ CLARK
Just like dessert, there’s always room for more; the superfluous, ever- fluctuating quiver. ADRIAN MIDWOOD
Trimming the headsail on day five of my fifteen-day solo passage from Kiribati to French Polynesia. LIZ CLARK
Revelations
Ripple Effect
On my own again, I lean back comfortably against the trunk of a slanted palm, and watch the wav
es still funneling through. “If it all ended now,” I think, “that would be okay.”
I made it through this afternoon’s surf without a reef cut. A crew of good-vibes Tahitian guys was out, sharing waves and cheering each other’s rides, and mine too. I’m relaxed and content after the thrill, camaraderie, and exercise. Pink hues begin to flash across a thick swab of clouds overhead and color the water’s slick surface. A moment later, it begins to rain. When the fat, widely spaced raindrops hit the lagoon, circular ripples undulate from each drop.
Suddenly thousands of raindrops fall before me. The movement of the expanding rings through the rosy water triggers some kind of trance. I watch the droplets transform into mini-swells of energy—varying wave amplitudes crossing over each other from all directions. Dynamic, chaotic, brilliant. Both infinite and finite at once. Time freezes and it feels as if my consciousness is floating. I am the raindrop, and the cloud, and the sky, and the setting sun. On this unusual frequency, I feel the connectedness of all things, a sensation of deep belonging. All one and simultaneously separate. Feeling becomes understanding—this great dichotomy dissolves. In this strange, brief moment, I am expansive like the Milky Way, minute like plankton, powerful like the tides, as solid as the volcanic crater, fragile like a spider’s web, patient like the trees, and empty as a cloudless sky.
Times and events flash through my mind like a sudden wind: happily joining my kindergarten circle; my auntie spreading fairy dust for my sixth birthday; capsizing in the bay in my little sailing dinghy; taking a taxi to gymnastics practice when I was grounded; beaten to the shore by the whitewater; sneaking out my bedroom window; pranking the lifeguards with my high school girlfriends; rolling in the hot sand; knocking on my first boyfriend’s door to find another girl inside; accidentally eating a pot brownie before my classes at UCSB; my first wave at a point break; dancing with my mother; and curled up on the soft, blessed spot on my father’s chest.
They all brought me to this mystic moment. All my knowing is unimportant. The facts and data have no relevance to this feeling of deep integration; oneness. There is no escape, but I don’t want one. It’s so peaceful here.
In another breath, I am back under the palm: The rainfall has lightened to an effervescent hum, the pinks are fading to grays, and the mosquito biting my toe reminds me that I am back in my skin. I slowly rise to my feet, wade out to the dinghy, and maneuver home through the coral heads before dark.
Conversations with the Clouds
I’m ready for big skies, open horizons, and wild islands. It’s time to put some miles under the hull. My dad’s reassurance helps me feel more confident about setting out on an extended solo passage again. I’m feeling strong and proud to see how my enhanced self-awareness and applied spiritual wisdoms have eased my day-to-day struggles. I haven’t had a real bout of depression in more than two years. The more I feel connected to the world and beyond—through my expanded compassion, my “one love” experience by the lagoon, and the growing group of conscious people I’ve connected with through my blog—the more potential I see for myself and humanity.
But a new question burns in me: How do all these concepts I’m learning— Melanie’s wisdom, karma, compassion, inner healing, oneness—how do they all fit into solving the environmental crisis? Everywhere I look, human greed, immediacy, psychological separation from nature and each other, and prioritizing profits and the present over the future are taking a toll on the planet. And despite all the technology and “progress,” most people aren’t thriving, they’re just getting by. And now with global climate steadily warming, every aspect of Earth’s life-support systems will be affected. There’s no sailing away from it; in fact, long-standing weather patterns will shift and storms will get stronger. I want to stop participating in this madness, but even way out here, I don’t really see how.
It’s an uncomfortable feeling knowing that my light skin somehow links me to the erosion of Polynesian culture. The new god forced upon the native people since colonization—money—means nature is no longer respected here as it once was. An old man recently told me the story of Tahitian politician Pouvanaa Oopa, who mounted a movement against proposed French nuclear testing in the late fifties. At the height of his campaign, he was suspiciously accused of arson and exiled to France. By the time he returned home, a decade later, nuclear bombs were being dropped a few hundred miles from inhabited islands. Recently declassified documents show that only ten years into the thirty years of bombing, tests showed Tahiti was already contaminated with 500 times the maximum allowed level of plutonium fallout. Is it okay to test bombs in someone else’s backyard? Is it moral for corporations to sell their processed snacks here without informing Tahitians that it can hardly be considered food, and that the wrappers they arrive in will never biodegrade?
Every day, I fish plastic out of the lagoons en route to and from Swell. Massive container ships arrive daily to offload fossil fuels, edibles, sugary drinks, and cheap plastic imports that quickly end up in the landfills. The coral is dying off in developed areas, and fish populations are clearly declining. People eat more and more imported meats, refined sugars, and packaged foods, contributing to high rates of obesity and rampant diabetes. The stores sell harsh pesticides to kill bugs and chemical soaps to wash our dishes, clothes, and bodies—all of it ending up in the waterways and oceans. Diesel generators run day and night to supply electricity, and leave behind barrels of used oil that’s rarely disposed of safely.
Our fossil fuel–based economy means virtually everything we do releases carbon one way or another. The impact from climate change will be devastating here—the melting poles that cause rising seas may swallow the low-lying atolls and islets altogether. In the meantime, cruisers drop anchor on live coral, and our hulls release heavy metals from anti-fouling paint into the pristine waters. As much as I try to live lightly, I’m still part of the problem.
I write to Barry about these troubling observations. “It’s overwhelming, really. I want to dedicate myself to a specific environmental cause, but it feels impossible to pick just one. They’re all so interconnected and complex, and I know I’m up against huge forces of greed. All that’s in my power right now is to change myself. I can further simplify, keep educating myself, buy less stuff I don’t need, and vote with my dollar when I do make purchases. On this trip through the outer islands, I want to try to eat more from the local environments, instead of relying on imported foods with their high carbon footprint.”
Barry writes back:
“Your observations are pertinent. ... The latest studies show that a rapid reduction in greenhouse gas emissions is inevitable for life to continue as we know it on our planet. Try not to be discouraged, though, Lizzy. What you’re doing out there is important. I imagine you are eager to sail again; I’m much looking forward to your stories. I have hope that humanity can create the technology to provide modern living standards to all, while finding balance with nature. We will need to use our hearts just as much as our heads, though. I do wince to think of what may be lost in the meantime. ... Did I mention that a gas station up the street from the harbor sells biodiesel now? I bought some for Freya’s engine. Every small step forward is exciting. Courage, my dear. Don’t give up the ship!”
Swell is ready: dinghy on deck, gear stashed and stowed. My new leafy companions—basil, aloe, mint, lemongrass, and oregano plants—are wedged securely around the cabin. The night is eerily calm; the Milky Way explodes across the sky. Swell gently surges against the dock as I top off the water tanks. I make my preparations as if each knot and gear placement is part of a sacred routine—one lazy decision can mean losing everything.
I pull Swell away from the dock and head slowly toward the pass. I’m off.
I motor most of the night to make some solid miles of easting. The bright moonlight and slack winds ease me gently back into the rhythm of an overnight passage. The next morning, the sea is a regal sheet of blue silk billowing out in all directions. The calm weather has eased
my pre-passage nerves. By midday a puff of east wind ripples the surface, so I put up all the sails and fall into a steady reach. With the engine off, the sounds of the open sea come alive. The high and low notes of waves lapping against the hull, the whispers of wind, the carbonated fizz of sea foam bubbling in our wake, the stretching sails and lines, and the cry of a passing seabird all harmonize into an ocean symphony.
I tell the sea of my sufferings in the boatyard, my distress about the state of the planet, and my loneliness since parting with Rainui. Last time I spoke to him, he sounded disappointed. The army had deemed him too heavy to be a parachutist, and he had been shipped off to the freezing-cold northeast corner of France to become a regular infantryman with new, much younger recruits.
“Just give it a little time,” I had told him. “Maybe it will get better.” But I do miss him.
The cloud ballet coaxes me back to the present. The graceful wisps tell me to stop thinking about what isn’t and appreciate what is. A sticky pang of emptiness clings to my chest. I tell the clouds I don’t need to sail alone anymore, that I have proven to myself what needed proving. I want a lover to share the exploration, the workload, the sunsets, the meals, and the wild surprises with me. The clouds just keep morphing and moving—not resisting the winds that mold them. I get it, but it’s not always easy.
After dozing off, I wake to the setting sun shooting a cluster of brilliant rays skyward. Scattered clouds above bathe in reds, pinks, and oranges. The colors grow brighter still, almost neon, then fade slowly back to grays. I watch until the day is only a glowing two-finger strip above the horizon. A thin layer of neon blue fends off the imminent darkness. Deep purple settles over the rest of the sky. Scattered planets appear. And then, like galactic candles being lit, the stars begin to glow one by one.