Swell

by Liz Clark

  After gathering my belongings, Simon and I walk the property. We met before my time with Rainui but only recently became friends while he was working in the bay near Monique and Aymeric’s house. The little cat follows us up through the banana forest and into the open field below the waterfall. She bounds like a gazelle through the high grasses and dashes after us as we head back toward the house. I’m taken by her commanding air and carefree bravado. As it nears time to go, I hesitate to leave her.

  I can’t count the forlorn cats and dogs I’ve longed to adopt over the years, but it never seemed fair to drag them into my nomadic lifestyle. I’m not sure that I can properly care for a pet. But something about this cat’s spirit touches me.

  “She’s all alone here and it seems like she needs love. I can at least try to find her a good home,” I tell Simon.

  “Or you can keep her. She’s a cool cat.”

  “I doubt it. The boat is too small. She’ll get bored. And I have to travel from time to time,” I reason. “But she seems lonely, don’t you think?”

  “Definitely. Don’t you think love is just as important as freedom?” he asks me.

  I ponder for a minute. I’ve had extreme freedom with no love. And extreme “love” with no freedom.

  “I think she needs a balance of both,” I tell him.

  Adjusting to boat life isn’t easy for her. Life on a slippery, forty-by-eleven-foot hunk of fiberglass surrounded by water is a radical contrast to the lonesome jungle mansion. She scours every nook and locker of Swell for anything that moves, then resorts to ambushing flies. She nuzzles her food dish, watches sunsets from atop the dodger, and spends twilight dawns on the dinghy eyeing fish below. Her high-flying, over-the-water acrobatic routines soon lead to a few “kitty overboard” incidents. She quickly learns to dread the sea, but despite her distaste for swimming, she is amazingly good at it, and masters the art of clawing her way onto the rubber dinghy when necessary. Amelia seems like a good name for her, since her courageous, unbounded spirit reminds me of the esteemed pioneering pilot Miss Amelia Earhart.

  I ask everyone I can think of who might give Amelia a good home, but find no takers. In the meantime, she’s quickly growing on me. I do my best to make life as fun as possible for her aboard, devising toys and dragging strings for her to chase. I worry she might fall overboard when I am away, so I make a ladder from a long strip of old towel and hang it over the side. It dangles aft into the sea so she can grab it easily. I come back from surfing one morning to find her wet and madly preening; she obviously made good use of it.

  Simon becomes a dear friend. He’s as optimistic and sincere as a kindergarten teacher. The idea of starting a new relationship completely freaks me out, but he is happy to just be close and philosophize about life, love, and the mystic. We read Rumi aloud, perform underwater ballet, take long, slow walks, and feel a closeness that supersedes attachment. His kindness helps rebuild my faith in males after my great romantic fail.

  “Hypothetically,” I ask one afternoon. “What if we were in love, and then one day I fell in love with someone else?”

  “I would be happy for you,” he says. “Sad for me, but so happy for you. True love is wanting for the other person what they truly want for themselves.”

  I never thought of it this way before, but it makes perfect sense. Is it love if you love someone only if they are going to love you back? Wanting someone to be happy, regardless if it means that you are in the equation—that sounds like true love to me. It sounds full of room for growth, changes, imperfections, and opportunities.

  Simon watches Amelia and Swell when Patagonia invites me to join the surf crew on the North Shore of Hawai‘i. I leap at the chance, knowing I’ll also get to see my dear friend, Anna, who lives there in a house full of surfer girls. Upon my return, Simon graciously accompanies me on the first long passage since my “great escape.” We head two hundred miles northeast to the atolls, and then he flies back home.

  The Sisterhood

  “It looks a bit tricky ahead,” Léa calls from halfway up the mast, scanning for coral heads from her perch on the spreader. We have been dodging them for a few miles across the lagoon, but now they’re becoming thicker.

  “It’s getting harder to see with the afternoon glare. Let’s just stop here for tonight,” I reply.

  I circle back to drop the anchor. Léa helps me locate an area with a sandy bottom, then climbs down while I pay out the chain and set the anchor. When I shut down the engine, we find ourselves in perfect silence. We look at each other and grin; it’s magical. It’s real. It’s all ours. The ocean lagoon is calm and there isn’t another boat or human in sight.

  “The beach across the way looks divine,” she says in her endearing accent. She’s a French surf adventurer, and a fellow Patagonia ambassador.

  “Let’s go ashore,” I reply. “We can bring the soap and bathe in the shallows.”

  “And cook over a fire!” she adds. The miles of deserted sand call. We enthusiastically prep for an evening ashore.

  Amelia rides eagerly on the bow of the dinghy as we motor toward a patch of palms. Approaching the beach, the cat makes an enormous leap over the shallows to be first on the rosy-pink sand. A turquoise ocean rivulet flows through the reef from the open Pacific into a variety of sand-lined pools, and then gushes out into the lagoon. Léa and I quickly unload the gear and anchor the dinghy. These are the most gorgeous bathing pools imaginable!

  We strip down to bare skin, grab the eco soap, and slip into the water. I can sense that Léa also feels that this moment is holy. As sunset dyes the whole sky pink and red, vibrant reflections dance around us in the pools and saturate the evening scene with rosy light. Amelia races up nearby palms and stalks crabs, while we exfoliate our skin with the fine sands and massage our scalps with soap, laughing and joyful. There couldn’t be more royal baths for two mermaid queens.

  We don’t want it to end, but we set out to collect firewood before it’s too dark. Léa lights the fire, and once the leaping flames have settled, we cook some local sweet potatoes and the fish that Léa had speared. With full bellies, we throw more wood on the fire and lounge in the sand nearby to stare at the broad night sky and the mango-orange flames. Amelia chases the leaping shadows. The campfire of my heart is ablaze, too. Ever since I left Rainui my immediate world has been overflowing with strong, spirited, open-hearted women—of course Kepi the brave; then gracious matron Monique and the Spanish goddesses, Paula and Lucia; then my wild and righteous sea sisters Anna, Leah, Leane, and Lauren, at the Hen House in Hawai‘i; my hilarious and loving blood sister, Kathleen, who put me up en route; and now Léa and Kimi.

  Patagonia had kindly arranged an outer island rendezvous with two of my fellow female Patagonia ambassadors to shoot photos. It took some scrambling to prepare Swell, and then seven days and two island stops to arrive at the remote locale where a sleek catamaran hosted Léa and Kimi and the crew. But after only a few hours, it felt as if I’d known them in another lifetime—maybe as lions or seabirds, warriors, brash maids, or “witches” burned at the stake.

  When the Patagonia crew headed home, Léa hopped aboard Swell. She’d like to buy a sailboat, and hopes to learn a bit while she’s with me. Amelia and I are delighted to have her company. She shares my unquenchable thirst for adventure and wild places. The way that she looks out at the open horizon, it’s clear that she gets why I do this. It feels good to be so deeply understood.

  In contrast to so many female relationships that are implicitly based on competition—for attractiveness, men, talent, and status—these ladies are pure love. They are fearless, confident women who want the best for others, and consider themselves part of a great, unlimited sisterhood. They are honest and direct and too busy bettering themselves to gossip. They feel more, think less, and are not afraid to seek their own truth—and manifest big dreams. They know their power and use it wisely. While they don’t settle, they do compromise. They are stewards for Mother Earth, ready to make sacrifice
s for her, and explore new ways to love her. They can pee in the bushes, and often prefer to. They embrace their femininity however it feels right. They focus on loving others better, more than how to be loved more. With them, as with my best old girlfriends and Swell crewmates, daily life is a celebration. Lying back in the sand near our dying fire, I wink back at the stars above, grateful for all my beautiful sisters.

  In the coming days, Léa and I make no plans—just flow with the weather and swell. We howl at the moon and don’t brush our hair. We find ourselves backflipping underwater with manta rays, breathing in sync through morning yoga, and hooting each other into waves.

  On a two-day passage to another island, Léa, Amelia, and I slog through the first night of sloppy seas and relentless rain—all of us seasick. Throughout her misery, Léa smiles and makes sure I know that she’s deeply contented despite needing to puke at any second. When a downpour arrives, I hop up to install the canvas tarp over the cockpit to shelter her makeshift bed from the heavy rain. She can’t even contemplate leaving the fresh air to go below. She lies flat, indifferent, immobilized by the daemon of motion sickness while the rain pummels her lower half. I struggle to get the zippers lined up in the tugging wind, blinding rain, and darkness.

  “I’m so sorry I can’t help you. I can’t move,” she says.

  “Don’t!” I tell her, not holding back my laughter.

  Normally, she wants to help with everything. But even now, her determination to love voyaging refuses to surrender, exhibited by her unrelenting grin. I love her for that grin. I understand all too well. No matter how awful the seasickness feels, the adventure, the freedom, and the wildness feel better. I finally succeed at installing the cover, and go back to my soggy position at the wheel. We giggle at each other’s plight off and on through the night. When one of Monita’s steering lines breaks, I hang over the stern, topless, trying to run a new line in the bucking seas. Now she’s the one laughing. Our mutual discomfort—both nauseous, wet, cold, exhausted, and hungry—is simultaneously hilarious and glorious. We’re way out here, all on our own!

  From the corner of my dive mask a few days later, I see Léa reaching out for me. I kick my fins harder to catch up and take her hand. She knows I’ve been dreaming of this moment for years. As we swim across the surface of the translucent blue, the sun’s rays shoot light pillars into the depths of the dropoff. I peer down in excitement, but see nothing unusual. Then Léa squeezes tighter, pointing. To our left a female humpback whale is watching us only a few meters below the surface.

  Her pectoral fins hang softly by her sides. She hovers in stillness as if evaluating us. Léa and I both instinctively relax, breathe slowly through our snorkels, and gaze back at her earnestly, motionless. A full minute passes until, with a slow, effortless push of her tail, she glides across the canvas of blue underneath us.

  Léa squeezes me again, this time pointing down as two enormous males approach. We clutch each other, exhilarated. The girth of their bodies alone renders me instantly breathless. All three whales meet in the middle like it’s been choreographed, then together they glide majestically toward the surface. Grace, intelligence, humility, power—all conveyed without a word.

  “Pssssshhhhhh! Pssssshhhhhh! Pssssshhhhhh!” Their mighty exhales vibrate through us. My mind turns inside out; the whales are only a few meters away. Léa and I look on with sheer awe.

  They observe us for another moment, then descend to forty feet below, where they hover horizontally—heads in the middle, tails out—forming a symmetrical, three-pointed star. Every cell in my body thrills!

  Léa’s whale specialist friend, who’s holding onto my dinghy, swims over to explain that the whales are resting. “If they didn’t approve of you, they wouldn’t have surfaced beside you like that,” he adds. We’re completely honored.

  Léa and I dive among the plunging rays of light, until the whales surface again ten minutes later. One of them nears, making eye contact while passing slowly. Boundless respect stirs my spirit. I’m suddenly reminded of my purpose: the Earth, the kids, the plants, trees, cows, corals, and whales need my voice.

  19,935

  Nautical Miles Traveled

  Vahine

  Tits in the Wind

  Amelia and I settle into a quiet, spacious bay—there’s a market, a few waves nearby, and good holding in nine feet of white sand—perfect for living on the hook. It’s August 2014. I’ve signed a book contract, and must leave the anchor down for a while in order to wrap my head around writing my story. It actually feels good to think about staying put, but the task ahead is daunting. I begin by sifting through eight years of journals, sea logs, and blogs. There’s Internet in the bay here, so I can also spread inspiration and environmental messages on social media. Being connected has other benefits too. I’ve been battling recurring staph infections for months, and after unsuccessful rounds of antibiotics and supplements, I sign up for Wim Hof’s online breathing course in hopes of strengthening my immune system.

  As a kid, I was often sick. During the voyage I suffered through numerous fevers, rashes, bladder infections, sinus and skin infections, sore throats, and other bouts of bedridden illness. If it was catchable, I would get it. Spending lots of time away from medical facilities, I’ve realized that I have to take a proactive approach to my health. No vitamin or immunity-booster compares to simply changing the way I eat.

  Since I embraced a mainly organic, whole foods, plant-based diet, my nagging injuries disappeared, my joints feel better, and the persistent acne on my face vanished. Colds and flus are less frequent. The stable flow of strong energy I have through the day cannot be compared to my old ups and downs. Alongside my personal health benefits, the animals and earth rejoice too.

  I eat fish only rarely now, for two reasons: First, much of the coral is dead here, and there are noticeably few edible species around, and, second, after experiencing the fear and helplessness that I felt at times with Rainui, I can’t bear to inflict the same on any being—even a fish. It triggers me to relive those feelings. Fortunately, plant food is abundant here. I don’t judge others for what they eat, as this has been a long, personal process, but it’s clear that for me, a diet in alignment with my beliefs is as nourishing as the food itself. I do struggle with how to feed Amelia sustainably, though.

  In monitoring my patterns, I’ve noticed that illness and injury often follow bouts of negative emotions or times when my inner world is out of alignment. The episode with Rainui was the worst, but it was far from the only case. I see that forgiveness, positive thinking, and making choices that support my deepest truth also contribute to maintaining my health. I try to do more meditation, more exercise—releasing stress in between bouts of accruing it. Less stress not only seems to benefit my health, but it’s also easier to be self-aware—in other words, I realize more quickly when I’m being an ass.

  I putt slowly in the dinghy and appreciate the scenery. Amelia and I take long walks on the beach or in the mountains. I can spend half a day doing errands in town, moseying down the main road and practicing Tahitian with friendly older ladies. I think twice about who to spend time and energy on, often opting to be near kids. I enjoy cooking too—it used to be that eating was a necessity that got me back to surfing, sailing, fixing, and whatever else my packed days entailed, but now my nourishment is sacred. I spend a lot of time naked, appreciating every lump and freckle of my body. (Plus, it’s hot, and wearing clothing only means more laundry.) I often sit up on deck, enjoying the breeze on my tits, and wishing every woman could revel in the same delicious feeling.

  When I’m not writing, there’s music playing—while I do dishes, clean the head, check the waves, sew repairs to my clothes, cook. Or while I prep extra line, chain, anchors, and shackles for the possibility of a big storm during cyclone season. When I’m finished with a task or just need a break I play with Amelia and dance ... I dance a lot—sometimes while chopping veggies, sometimes in the rain, in the wind, or after dark—my body and the moo
nbeams moving to the beat. I dance to connect to myself, and the heavens, and to ask for my continued safety through the cyclone season. I plan out a strategy for several different storm scenarios, because I’m scared at the thought of riding out a powerful storm alone aboard Swell.

  Although at times I feel lonely, being single at this stage is giving me the time to explore who I am more deeply. I seek other ways to stay in balance and listen to my body: tracking my female cycles, rarely overeating, saying no to invites that don’t resonate, and fasting occasionally. When my Auntie Julie Ann sends me a vibrator and a harmonica for my thirty-fifth birthday, all I can do is embrace my crazy cat-lady tendencies, make that harmonica and my own body sing, and keep holding out for the man who will love all of me.

  I continue seeking practical, immediate solutions to making a positive difference in a world where the mightiest powers seem stiffly resistant to bending from our destructive trajectory. I focus on what I can do, examining my daily choices and actions. Solar and wind power provide my energy needs, although I still cook with propane and use gasoline and diesel to power the dinghy and Swell when needed. I purchase a small canoe to paddle ashore when I don’t have a heavy load. I bring reusable shopping bags to the store, refuse unnecessary plastic, recycle, pick up trash, repair instead of buying new, and research the sources and ramifications of my purchases. I buy only eco-friendly soaps, and begin collaborating with a sunscreen company that uses only non-nanoparticle, mineral UV blockers. My Spanish girlfriends introduce me to a menstrual cup, and I can’t believe I’m only now discovering this amazingly comfortable and wasteless revolution in dealing with periods!

  Food choices seem to pack the most punch, though. Three times a day, I can support organic farming, animal welfare, and local options. Eating this way is activism, and I feel empowered with each bite. It doesn’t matter that the opposing forces are immeasurably bigger than I am, the problems endlessly more complicated than I can comprehend. My efforts need not be measured or compared; I feel their benefits in the fabric of my own integrity.