Swell

by Liz Clark

  I can’t remember the last time I watched a day’s full transition to night. How have we become so busy that we hardly notice Earth’s daily miracles?

  Free as a Bird

  “Skree, skreee, skree!” The birds’ cries wake me from a dead sleep. I crack open my eyes and squint up at the flapping wings churning above me. Where am I?

  “Skree, skree, skree!”

  I sit up and wrap my sheet around me in the cool dawn air, relieved that I made it to a safe anchorage after two days of upwind slogging and a sketchy sunset run through the pass. The flock of hungry terns circles and dives around Swell. The baitfish hiding below are under full attack. A school of jacks and a lone needlefish dart at the school from below, sending them fleeing in all directions and erupting at the surface in frenzied leaps. This is exactly what I came for: thriving nature on full display right here on my turquoise doorstep.

  “I MADE IT! I’m here!” I shout to the terns. They are more excited about the baitfish, but I continue bouncing up and down on the cockpit cushion.

  After cleaning up Swell and emailing my parents and Barry to let them know I’ve arrived to the little island safely, I launch the dinghy, load up my rusty, no-brakes bike, and head toward what looks like the easiest place to land. My first moments in a new place are often my favorite; I hop on my bike excited to check out the island. With the trades now at my back, my lungs tingle and my legs thrill to push my weight after the passage. To my right, the brilliant blue ocean tosses itself dramatically upon the fringe of bare pink coral. I pedal a few miles through the shade of the coconut palms lining the road, past an airstrip, a hotel, a school, and a few stores and homes. Not a soul stirs; it’s Sunday. I take my time, winding on through the empty town, and stopping to chat with a group of teens on their way back from a surf.

  “Right up there,” they point.

  I come around the corner and nearly fall off my bike. Light offshores groom a set wave as it peels across the reef in the golden afternoon light. I smile in awe of the magical scene and then head over to say hello to some locals standing under a tree. They offer me a snack of uto—the spongy interior part of a sprouted coconut.

  “You want to surf?” a guy asks, pointing to his yellowed, beat-up board.

  “Really? Yeah! Thank you so much!” I say, jumping at the offer.

  I grab the heavy old board, strip off my hat and sunnies with glee, and skip up the point in my clothes. A kid getting out of the water leads me through the maze of coral heads, then I paddle up the little coral point. Before I even reach the lineup, a wave swings wide, and I’m in position. I drop in and trim down the line of warping golds and pinks. The locals under the tree raise their arms in celebration. I relish a couple more waves while the sun melts into a tuft of clouds in the west. Seabirds soar through the magenta sky. One young kid is still out with me.

  “Regarde” (Look), he says, pointing.

  Through the palms at the top of the point, the voluptuous full moon glows rusty orange. I let out a wild howl; the kid yelps too.

  Birthday Parting

  I receive word via email that Barry isn’t doing well. He had another shoulder surgery and the recovery has been tough. On the morning of my thirty-first birthday, a few days later, I learn that Barry—my dear friend, my environmental hero, the man who guided and empowered me to live my dream—has passed away at eighty-seven years old.

  I walk the lagoon shallows that day, heavy with the loss, watching small sharks scavenge the shallow waters. Mourning Barry out in the natural world—where he always turned for inner strength and renewal—feels most appropriate. I toast him under the stars that evening with the last drops of a bottle of sherry he gave me. His parting comes so abruptly; I need some sort of goodbye sign—a shooting star, a whisper on the wind, a quick stop on his way to the other side?

  That first night, I wait for a visit until well after midnight. Each night after, I look up at the heavens and think of him. I imagine him sitting at the wooden seat on the stern of my boat, wrapped in his black wool peacoat.

  A week or two later, I sit in the surf alone after arriving at a new island. Since Barry’s passing, there has been plenty of action: I dove with hordes of sharks, ran a tidal river in Swell, landed a yellowfin tuna, and swam with wild dolphins. Still no sign of him. Not even when I had to go up the mast at sea to retrieve the head of the furler because the stitching on the top of my genoa burst and the sail fell into the sea. The lineup feels lonely this morning. The sharky waters and shallow reef seem scarier than usual, and I let a few waves go by as tears flow down my face. I watch them drip into the sea off my chin.

  Just then I notice something moving below the surface. A tiny jellyfish. All at once Barry is with me. On our last visit together, we went to lunch at the yacht club in Santa Barbara like always, and he gave me a book in which a tiny species of jellyfish called the Lizzia blondina is described. Edward Forbes—the humorous and passionate biologist, a contemporary of Charles Darwin—discovered the pretty little invertebrate, and named it after a crush. Barry found it amusing and had marked the page and saved the book for my visit.

  He was in a wheelchair that day, and as I pushed him down the sidewalk near the beach after lunch, a large sand flea leapt frantically across the cement, desperate to find its element again. Barry leaned over to help the lost creature find its way, but before he could, a bird swooped down and picked it up, swallowing as it flew away.

  “Well, we tried, Lizzy,” he sighed. “There comes a time for all of us to get recycled back into the seams of life, my dear.”

  The little jellyfish dances and twirls just in front of me. Jellyfish are a rare sight in these waters, and never have I seen this sort of miniature, tasseled species. “Lizzia blondina,” I chuckle. Something assures me the little creature is here to comfort me.

  More tears fall as I tell Barry how much I am going to miss him—his scholarly wisdom, unfailing support, and thoughtful approach to life. His wit, philosophy, and tireless backing of people and causes he believed in. His efforts to make the world better. Our letters and lunches. I tell him that I wouldn’t be who I am today if it wasn’t for his foresight, encouragment, and generosity. The jellyfish stays close, pumping its many tentacles beside me.

  “How can I ever thank you enough?” I ask him, “I often wonder what would have become of me if we hadn’t met. I don’t know how far I will make it, but you will live on with me every single day, on or off Swell. Thank you for believing in me. I love you, Barry.”

  When I finally stop gushing, I hear his voice clearly in my mind.

  “Now, now, Lizzy girl. The pleasure was all mine. I will be with you on the darkest nights and wildest days. Carry on, brave one, and don’t give up the ship!”

  The dark line of a set wave lifts ahead of me and the little jellyfish disappears into the depths. “Don’t go!” I say.

  My instinct is to follow it, but I hear his words again, “My girl, I am in your heart.”

  I turn my board and paddle, smiling and crying as I drop in.

  Fair Game?

  The outer islands treat me well—aside from a few annoying men. It seems lately that men of any age find it perfectly appropriate to hit on me. Is this what happens to women in their thirties? I’ve dealt with it from men closer to my age throughout the voyage, but this is getting ridiculous. A middle-aged Frenchman is following me around like a puppy, an eighty-year-old doctor starts telling everyone I am his girlfriend, and a local fisherman’s favorite fishing hole seems to be right under my boat.

  Swell is tied to a town quay on an atoll with a population of two hundred, when a French customs boat bristling with mounted guns arrives around midday. They launch their tender, and a group of uniformed men comes speeding over. The captain scrambles out and storms over.

  “What are you doing here?” he demands in French. “This dock is for cargo ships and official French vessels only!”

  “I’m so sorry, sir,” I reply. “The villagers told me that t
he next ship wouldn’t be in until Thursday. I think we can both fit here if I move my boat forward.”

  “Where is your husband?” he demands. “Tell him he’ll have to move this boat right now!”

  “I don’t have a husband,” I reply.

  “You mean you’re alone?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His expression morphs from anger to surprise. Then his brow softens entirely.

  “Yes, I believe you’re right,” he chirps accommodatingly. “We can both fit if we move you forward.” He waves over the other men, who handle Swell’s lines while I motor her against the outgoing current, and the dark gray boat pulls in behind me.

  The captain comes over with a clipboard in hand. I run down to get my official paperwork.

  “You’re welcome to join us for dinner on board tonight,” he says. “And here’s my phone number so you can give me a call next time you’re in Papeete. I’d like to take you out for an evening on the town.”

  He tears a square of paper from the clipboard and slips it into my hand, squeezing my fingers for an uncomfortably long pause while looking me up and down. Without checking my paperwork, he turns and walks back to his ship.

  I am tired of feeling vulnerable to men. I dress in raggedy, oversized clothes and try to send out the message that I’m not interested, but often it doesn’t deter them. Once in the boatyard, and another time in a marina, I woke to young men staring down at me through my forward hatch in the night. Luckily, I’d been able to scare them both away.

  A few days later I receive an email from Rainui. “My four-month trial period is ending. What if I come back?” he asks. “Could we try to be together? Could I live with you on the boat and find a way to make it work between us?” He isn’t taking to the winter weather and doesn’t like his commanding officials or his unit. His morale seems to be plunging. I am surprised by his proposition. I didn’t expect him to change his mind about the army so drastically.

  I have some trepidations about this—I love him, but living and traveling on a boat is a whole new level of intimacy, and I don’t know him that well. But he’s a fast learner, tough and hard-working. It will be another cross-cultural dating adventure, but Polynesians intrigue me—their laid-back style, generosity, and intimacy with nature. They don’t hurry. They respect their roots, embrace their elders, and know how to live simply. All of this suits me. And cruising through the outer islands with him would be so much safer, easier, and more fun! It’ll put these suitors at bay, too, and who knows, maybe it will work out for the long haul?

  Reunited

  Two months later, in a tiny outer island boatyard, I sit in the cockpit of Swell with Rainui. It hasn’t been a smooth transition, but he’s here. We met up in California after I hauled out Swell to fly back and attend Barry’s memorial service. I was so grateful to have found a way to be there to pay tribute to my legendary friend.

  A few days after returning to Swell, I became gravely ill with ciguatera poisoning after eating some contaminated fish. As the symptoms came on in the middle of the night, I was reminded of Gaspar’s description of the poison’s effects. First, a sore throat and a fever, then I was spewing violently from both ends in the middle of the night, amongst the coral rubble and crab holes underneath Swell. I began to feel a strange aching and tingling sensation in my arms and legs as the poison took hold.

  Rainui stayed by my side for the awful next few days—massaging my burning muscles where the pain was most intense. He had to hold me over the bucket in the forepeak to use the bathroom because my weakened, aching legs could not support me. I had my period at the same time, and cursed my horrid luck, as my new boyfriend disposed of disgusting buckets of my excrements. We consulted with a French doctor over the phone, and his advice to drink milk caused me extra days of suffering. When I wasn’t improving, a local grandmother explained to Rainui that consuming any animal protein intensifies the toxin. Together, they made me the traditional remedy from coconut milk and pandanus root. I drank it twice a day for three days.

  It’s been almost two weeks now, and I’m feeling better, aside from the bizarre prickly and hot sensation I get from touching anything cold. While I gain back my strength, Rainui builds a shelf for cookware, dividers to organize the tools, and a stowable double bed where we can sleep side by side. Thankfully, the grandmother’s remedy allows me to eat fish again right away, as not much other food is available among the sand and coral on this low-lying atoll.

  Once I’m feeling strong enough, we launch Swell and sail away into the most remote, postcard-perfect corners of the islands.

  The last time I was in this region, a few years ago, I wasn’t able to do much in-depth exploring of the lagoons. It was too dangerous with the numerous unmarked coral heads and the treacherous fetch that can quickly build with a minor switch of the wind. But with two, it’s possible. Rainui climbs the mast to direct me through the coral. We develop a technique to build our own temporary moorings, which allows us to tuck Swell behind some otherwise impossible sections of reef for protection.

  Once Swell is secured, we dive or surf or wander on expansive white-sand beaches and bask in the sun. Even here, so far away from civilization, there is a staggering amount of plastic debris mingled with the driftwood in the high tide lines—empty shampoo and soda and oil bottles, lighters, toothbrushes, Styrofoam, and heaps of lost or discarded commercial fishing lines, nets, and buoys. We feel helpless to do anything about it. There is more than we can possibly collect, and even if we did, there are no facilities nearby to dispose of it.

  Rainui shares my concerns about the environment and is up for the challenge of trying to eat primarily from what we can find around us. On days we’re not sailing, we spend much of our time gathering food— fishing and spearfishing, we’re careful to choose fish that eat plankton and have no chance of concentrating ciguatera poison. The mostly healthy reef systems mean sharks often lurk nearby, so we have to work as a team—one shoots the fish while the other keeps the dinghy nearby so we can quickly toss our catch inside. I am able to focus better since fishing in a pair feels much safer, improving my skills with the gun.

  I become disciplined about saying a prayer when we take a life to nourish our own. And I feel a responsibility not to waste it, awakening my enthusiam in the galley. Plus, cooking for two is much more fun than just for me. Meals become ceremonies, their ingredients sacred.

  We use a bedsheet to collect tiny baitfish that come ashore by the thousands for a few days in a row, and forage the reef at night for lobsters. We harvest shellfish and urchins, too—but only what we can eat for our next meal. Heart of palm is a delicious vegetable complement to the seafood, easily extracted from a young coconut palm. Islanders often invite us to harvest coconuts from their land or join them in hunting, teaching us new skills. It’s heartwarming to see how they consider Rainui family, always looking for ways to make sure our needs are met. An elder man shows us a small leafy plant that the Puamotu eat like salad. Rainui opens sprouted coconuts for the cotton candy–like uto on the inside, and we munch on the young shoots as well. We grate mature coconut meat, and wring the sweet milk out of the shavings, to pour over raw fish with a squeeze of lime for breakfast. On its own, the meat of a mature coconut makes an easy, filling snack when hunger calls. We sometimes even slice it thin and fry it.

  Once in a while we find bananas or papayas or vegetables in a village. I sprout lentils and mung beans, make yogurt from powdered milk, bake bread, and haul out a bag of rice or pasta when we are desperate for extra calories.

  Instead of using the watermaker, we haul water from land to fill Swell’s tanks, kind villagers offering to share from their rain catchment. Each morning we leap overboard, to dive down and check that the anchor chain isn’t snagged on coral. Boat maintenance, passage-making, meals— it’s all easier with four hands instead of two. Sharing the workload and the simple wonders helps me fall in love with life afloat all over again. Through Rainui’s enthusiasm, I rediscover little things t
hat have become routine over the years. We sleep on deck under the massive atoll sky. The Great Shark—as the Puamotu people call the Milky Way—stretches magnificently over us. We even spot a moonbow one evening as I lie in his arms.

  Occasionally we stumble upon waves with no one around, indulging in the surf until our arms can’t move. On other days, we dive and hunt in the thriving passes or forage ashore. Gradually I feel as strong and wild as our surroundings.

  I’m thrilled to have Rainui’s chivalrous help with the heavy lifting, not only because of a nagging knee injury, but because it feels good to explore a more traditionally feminine role. Although I’d felt ready to be more feminine years ago, it made me feel vulnerable when I was alone, so I stuck to my tomboy ways. Now I feel free to wear my ponytail up a little higher, and dig to the bottom of the plastic storage bin that serves as my closet to pull out a skirt or dress. I finally feel safe in clothing that actually flatters my body instead of hides it.

  Beyond my attire, I sense an inner transition, too—a letting go of needing to feel in charge. I’ve always been so intent on doing it all and showing myself and everyone else that I am as capable as a man, but nowadays, I don’t feel as much need to show my strength on the outside. I know very well that it resides within me.

  Bad Wiring

  When all is well, Rainui and I make a fantastic team, but toward the end of our third month together, he starts acting like a light with bad wiring—occasionally going dark. It’s like a short circuit occurs in his mind and he goes silent and inward, and then I can’t connect with him anymore. He explains that he has a terrible mistrust of women because his first girlfriend left him for his best friend. We spend hours talking out his fears. With both my words and actions I try to convince him that I’m truly in love with him and want to make a life together. As situations arise to trigger him, I go into detailed discourses on the wisdom I have learned through books and experiences, about being present, staying positive, and focusing on the love, not the fear.