Seeker

by Rita Pomade

  “You can find another yacht, a smaller one that fits your exact requirements,” I said. “There are a lot of used yachts for sale. And you can service other boats. You’re good at that. A lot of yachties aren’t.” It was a conversation I’d already had with him several times before the sale of the yacht. I hoped he’d be listening this time.

  I wanted to work out a compromise. I had let go of the sailing adventure, but I wasn’t ready to let go of the marriage. I hoped Bernard would agree to a stable home where I could establish a life, and he could have his yacht. “I’ll sail with you,” I said, “but not live on the sea.”

  Bernard didn’t respond to anything I said. His only communication was to mention his loss. Waking time was spent drinking. One day he woke and couldn’t move his limbs. I finally got him to sit up and eventually to walk, but he moved around mechanically, detached from everything around him. Today I wonder if he had been having a mental breakdown — something I wouldn’t have recognized then. And looking back, it makes me sad to remember that time and how little I understood of what the problem might be, though I wouldn’t have been able to do much without his agreement.

  Also, I had too many painful memories of my own to try to make sense of what was happening to him. I felt betrayed and misunderstood. I wasn’t ready to take into account the stress of the responsibility he had carried or the number of years we spent cooped up with each other in a confined space. I was too close to the hurt.

  As he slowly came out of his dazed stupor, his constant drinking and growing paranoia drove us further apart. He called me the spoiler of his dreams, the mate who deceived him. I was not the Santa Rita, and there would be no other. We left Sitges and returned to Montreal, but we fought constantly. He was bitter that he didn’t have his boat, believed I was responsible for his loss, and was determined that I wouldn’t have a home. He withheld most of the proceeds from the sale and lost it in poor investments. We couldn’t bridge our differences, and eventually we divorced.

  Subsequently, Bernard lived in many places and couldn’t seem to settle anywhere. I re-established my life in Montreal. I liked the buzz of the city — the energy of its multicultural diversity, its creative edge, its indifference to unconventional lifestyles, and its multitude of coffee shops and outdoor cafés. Before my journey, I wasn’t aware of how much I liked the city. It happened to be where I lived while longing for a better place, an idealized place. On my return, I was here by choice.

  It wasn’t easy in the beginning. I’d jerk awake every two hours preparing for my night watch. I’d unexpectedly feel the earth shift beneath me as though I was again on water. And I’d experience tension in my throat every time I saw a squall line and worry for those at sea, though curiously I didn’t feel that anxiety when I was at sea. I had cut relationships with friends and colleagues. I now had to reestablish contact or build a new coterie of friends.

  I couldn’t fathom telephone answering machines. The first time I heard one, I slammed down the receiver. It was a long while before I would talk to one or bring myself to buy one. The birth of the computer was another shock. I forced myself to buy a huge, bulky thing that sat in a box in my bedroom for months before I worked up the courage to unwrap it. When I finally got someone to set it up for me, I was paralyzed in front of it.

  I broke through my resistance by understanding that, if I wanted food on the table and a roof over my head, I’d better move with the times. There were no teaching positions available and no jobs for anyone without fluent French. I studied handwriting analysis through a correspondence course because I read in Forbes Magazine there was a call for it in the business community. I already knew about handwriting analysis, having attended a lecture given by a nun in Mallorca, the church being a big proponent of the discipline with a number of practitioners. I figured I’d find clients since so few laypeople were trained in this field.

  I received a scholarship to continue my studies to become a Master Graphoanalyst, after which I set up a business for myself. I don’t know if I would have had the courage to do that with no back-up support if I hadn’t been tested at sea. Those adventure-filled years assured me of my capacity to overcome obstacles, adapt to changing circumstances, and survive whatever challenges came my way.

  In spite of our divorce, Bernard and I never lost contact, our relationship cemented by those years at sea. They formed us, shattered us, and in the reconstruction of our separate lives brought us back into each other’s lives, but with more humour, mutual respect and an appreciation of our differences.

  Epilogue

  COMING FULL CIRCLE

  May 2016: Montreal

  The personal life deeply lived always expands

  into truths beyond itself.

  — ANAÏS NIN

  When Bernard and I first explored the idea of going on this adventure, I didn’t ask him to define his reason for his wanting to do it. I’m not sure he knew. I wasn’t sure of mine. I only knew that anything that took me to a place I hadn’t been was where I wanted to go. I had a restless spirit and a belief that somewhere else must be better than where I was.

  We spent hours talking about finding our paradise, the perfect spot on the planet. We hoped to settle there and live an idyllic life. We thought Sri Lanka might be the place. Before that, when the kids were still little and Bernard and I lived in Mexico, we envisioned some remote island in the Caribbean where we’d build a home and plant our own food. That remote island never materialized. When we got to Sri Lanka, it was not the paradise we’d hoped for. No place was.

  Instead I learned that people were the same everywhere. Whatever culture we were in, the fundamental needs and emotional responses of the people were the same. We all laugh at a bit of irony or a good joke. We all cry when tragedy touches our lives. We all become angry when we feel threatened, and we all want secure and stable lives.

  The awareness killed any tendency I had towards seeing other people as different from me. It opened my heart and made me understand that whatever I was looking for would come from within. “We are like islands in the sea, separate on the surface but connected in the deep,” wrote William James.

  So when Bernard skyped me from Mexico and asked if I’d like to sail with him after so many years, I had to think about it.

  “The yacht’s in Tunisia,” he had said. “The guy wants to sell, and I think the best market would be in Tahiti. We could do it again.”

  I thought back to the journey we had taken together so many years before. I found his proposition interesting. It was tempting. We’d be sailing on someone else’s yacht with a purpose and time frame. We could repeat our earlier experience with less stress and from a totally different perspective — two seniors who had lived full lives since our parting and were coming together for a new adventure. Bernard told me the yacht was equipped with every convenience for an easy sail. I had no doubt we could do it.

  But the more I thought about it, the less it engaged me. When we had first embarked on our adventure, I was searching for something outside of me. I had thought that what was out there was better, and that once I found my place, I’d find peace. I had to leave to come home to myself, and having satisfied my wanderlust, the urge was gone.

  A vacation in Tahiti? Why not? Perhaps we could meet at different legs of the journey and do some day sailing. But in truth, I’m not a sailor. The Santa Rita had served as my launching pad — the base from which I could foray out into an unknown world. She served me well, but I’ve laid her to rest.

  ***

  “I don’t think so,” I finally answer. “But maybe I could meet you there. You know, our voyage was an extraordinary journey, and given how much the world has changed since the eighties, far less possible today. I’d like to write about it.”

  “Do it,” he says. “You’re the writer.”

  “You might not like it.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” he answers. “It’s your story.”

  Ithaka

  Constantine Cavafy

/>   As you start on your way to Ithaka

  hope that the road is long and the way filled

  with adventure and the widest knowledge.

  Do not fear the Lestrygonians and the Cyclopes,

  or angry Poseidon. Nothing will block your way

  if your thoughts are high, if body and soul

  are together touched by the finest feelings.

  Neither Lestrygonians, nor any Cyclopes,

  nor mad, seething Poseidon will check your way

  if you refuse to harbour them in yourself,

  if your soul does not set them down before you.

  You must hope that the road is long.

  Many summer mornings will come

  when, with endless pleasure and joy,

  you will enter eagerly new harbours.

  You will tarry in Phoenician emporia

  procuring their finest wares:

  mother of pearl, corals, ambers, ebony,

  and perfumes that will arouse you,

  great profusions of provocative fragrances.

  Many Egyptian cities will welcome you,

  You will gain much from the learned ones.

  Always hold Ithaka in your mind.

  The goal of your journey is getting there.

  But be calm, you need not go in haste.

  Linger awhile, even for years, out there on the way.

  The shores you seek are better reached in old age,

  when you’re filled by all you’ve gained voyaging.

  Do not reckon that Ithaka will reward you in any way.

  Ithaka gave you the marvelous journey.

  Without her you would never have gone.

  But now she has nothing left to give you.

  If you find Ithaka austere, she has not deceived you.

  Look what you’ve gained, so much wisdom and experience,

  and at the end you will understand what all the Ithakas mean.

  (TRANSLATED BY JOHN XIROS COOPER)

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost, I’m hugely indebted to my wonderfully insightful critique group — Prue Rains, Claire Helman, Karen Zey, Veneranda Wilson, and the late Jim Lewis — all memoirists with their own stories and unique vision. Thanks also to my dear friend Jean Ambrosii whose passion for the written word and sharp eye for detail kept most of my grammatical slip-ups and redundant phrases to a minimum. And where would I be without the fine-tuned reading of Evelyn Matlin, who helped me pare down my story to its most important and poignant moments. And a special thanks to Pat Machin and Marilyn Mill who both read through the finished manuscript during its editing stage and gave me helpful comments.

  I also want to acknowledge the Banff Centre for Art & Creativity for accepting me into the Wired Writing Studio program under the stewardship of Fred Stenson, where I was mentored by Curtis Gillespie, a consummate storyteller and truly nice guy whose own travel writing is a treat to read. His astute observation that my boat journey was a metaphor for my life’s journey was an aha moment that shifted the focus of my story into something much richer than my original intent. All through my writing and into the editing of the manuscript, I tried to keep Curtis’ vision of the memoir alive, and I believe it made Seeker a better book. Aside from being noteworthy writers in their own right, Fred and Curtis are special people. During my stay at Banff, I needed medical attention. Fred, in spite of his position, looked after me, and Curtis took time from his full schedule to drive me from one hospital to another. The best way I could thank them for their generosity and kindness was to make sure I completed this memoir.

  I also want to say how grateful I am to John Xiros Cooper who permitted me to use his translation of Ithaca, a poem by Greek poet Constantine Cafavy. The poem so completely captured the voyage I made, and John’s wonderfully interpretative translation made me feel I’d stumbled upon a soul mate.

  And last but not least, a special thank you goes to my sons, Stefan and Jonah, who have enriched my life in so many ways and whose company on the journey made it a richer story. And Bernard, who let me tell his story through my eyes with no judgement.

  About the Author

  Rita Pomade, an intrepid nomad, hailing from New York, now lives and writes in Montreal. Her articles and book reviews have appeared in the ezine Mexconnect, and her monthly “Dear Rita” column was a regular feature in The Chapala Review during her last years in Mexico. Retired from teaching English as a Second Language at both Concordia University and McGill University, she now devotes herself to writing full time.