ATLANTIC // PART III

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JULY 4 // DAY 9

I strip down naked and put on my favorite outfit.

An American flag onesie that I bought in Charleston SC four years ago. I remember walking out of the store into a swamp of humidity, wondering with every step WTF I just spent $58 on. A tiny piece of material that awkwardly fit my body.

It’s a high-waist cut, making my already short torso appear shorter. It wedges up you-know-what in both the front and the back. It smashes my already small tits smaller. For some reason I have an insistent desire to wear it every 4th of July. And so I have. Today is year 4. Despite its’ offensive fit, I’m beginning to think that it was indeed, a wise purchase.

Today marks our half way point across the ocean. Dead center between departure and destination.

It also happens to be my favorite holiday. Fourth of July. I have no good reason for why this is my favorite holiday aside from it is a zero-pressure holiday. Boats. Beers. Friends. The outcome is typically fantastic. Today is bringing home the win.

I am celebrating my favorite day of the year, in my favorite outfit, in a gale, in the rain, alone. I’ve set up my self-timer to document this historic moment. The camera hangs from a sail tie in the companionway and oscillates with the swells. I take at least 37 self- timed photos before I get one with all body parts appropriately placed either inside my leotard or outside of the photograph. I smile big. It’s genuine. I am having a blast.

I prance around on deck to reef the main. Straps fall down my shoulders. Wedgie in full effect. It’s raining. The waves are… sizable. The wind is building and I don’t tether in because I am invincible in my American Flag suit. It howls 38 knots. We surf down swells at 11.3 knots. Four hours pass and this could be the first watch that I am not ready for to be over. Although I can’t wait to wake Luke up. I’m ready to party.

He is sleep talking again and I give him extra minutes because this is entertaining. He does this bizarre thing where he sleeps with his eyes moderately cracked open, it really freaks me out. He garbles in his stupor asking me, or whoever he is talking to in his dream, where he put his phone. I would tell him that he shut it off last week and put it in the silverware drawer but I’d rather watch him try and find it in his sleep with his eyes half open.

A wave strikes the starboard side violently. My body stiffens and my eyes widen under the assumption we have hit a whale. The savage wave wakes Luke up in a panic before I get the chance to.

I make us both coffee. I’m not ready to go to sleep. Not today. Luke admits to seeing me through the port hole as I was flopping around on the deck reefing the main. I am disappointed to hear this because in my mind I situated the sails with grace and coordination. With the body of Pamela Anderson. In reality I tripped and held onto the mast for dear life. I struggled to uncoil the halyard in the body of a 12 year old boy.

I play Chris Stapleton again, this album has become our soundtrack. I extract our highest quality ingredients. The kinds that scream “wealth” and “celebration”. Imitation lobster and a can of Trader Joe’s Vegetable soup.  It takes all four of our hands to prep holiday lunch. I hold the pot and start the burner. Luke opens the can and dumps it in the pot. I keep the contents from spilling out over the edges and the flame from starting anything else on fire. Luke gnaws at the plastic packaging of the fake lobster and rips it open. We work hard to stay in position. Just when I think I’ve found my balance I lose my suave as a wave lifts me and I smash into the knobs on the stove.

We lavish in “fresh lobster soup” and “ice cold champagne”. We high five. We cheers. We are kids. After three bites of fake lobster soup I put the spoon back in the pot and pass it over. All I can taste it what is going to come back up later. Luke licks the pot clean. We share a Budweiser. I puff on a menthol cigarette out the companionway and am high from half a beer and a single inhale.  A wave crashes into the galley dumping gallons of water directly on my head. I stand there soaking wet wondering why the ocean just did that to me. How rude. The ocean laughs at me. Luke laughs at me. It takes me a moment for me to laugh at me.

This is the most greatest 4th of July with the shittiest weather I have ever had. I struggle to rest because, well, were half way across the ocean and this is awesome.

By 1am my body is exhausted and I’m on graveyard shift.  I strenuously work to stay upright. Nothing sounds appetizing.  I snack here and there. I force down some bites of lasagna desperate to regain energy, to keep my mind moving and my eyes open. I feel dehydration and loath drinking water because going pee is a difficult task. I do everything I can to power through this shift, to pull my weight. I won’t wake Luke up.

Desireé behaves the best she can in the gale and I do my best to emulate. I critically seek a secure nook. I try to settle my tummy. If I read I am sick. If I go outside in the cockpit I’m wet and cold. If I lay down I will fall asleep. I sit on the galley floor shoved in between the ladder and the stove using my feet to press my back into the galley drawers. A hazardous and uncomfortable place where things fly off the shelf. I don’t know where else to go. I sit. I think. I wait. I bury my negative thoughts and think happy ones on the off chance I can fly outa here. But I wouldn’t. Because then Luke would be here alone. That would be cruel and he would be worried about my disappearance. I retreat to negative thoughts.

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July 6 // day 11

Michael Jackson is cooking in the galley. He slides side to side in his socks tactfully chopping vegetables on the starboard side. He waits for the right wave and moonwalks to the port side vegetables in hand, and drops them into a pot. He slides back to port with the next wave. He is having a ball. He has no clue that I am paying attention.

Dinner is served. A crafty stew made up of everything that was going bad. I admire his creativity in the kitchen and have never turned his experiments away, even when it involves horse, liver, cassoulet and bovril. He sits in the companionway gimbaled. Feet hooked around the ladder, torso swinging in circles clockwise and then counterclockwise tasting his experiment. When he is finished he puts his face as deep into the pot and licks it clean as if it were his last meal. When he comes up for air a rainbow of stew arcs across his forehead. He picks up a liter of water and guzzles it from full to empty in one go. Down he goes for a nap and is twitching within minutes. It must be my shift.

You can’t help but find yourself acutely observing the other human in which you share a confined space. I’ve never once felt it too small, in fact I’ve only ever wished the opposite.  Come closer – I think. We have reached the comfort level of having full on eye contact conversations when one or the other is defecating and think nothing of it. Lack of privacy doesn’t cross my mind. I suppose we are lucky in that way, completely comfortable with ourselves. With each other. Being comfortable with yourself is a requirement when sailing with your mate. For if you weren’t before – you will become and this is one of sailings great gifts to relationships.

What I have noticed bluntly is my attitude and how often it erratically swings. I’m defining the bulk of emotional female stereotypes and understand now more than ever where these stereotypes stem from. I am either gazing at my celebrity crush, seeing fireworks, lost in his sweet nothings and finding myself fiercely proud to be his. Or – I am fuming inside from some sort of miscommunication, a conversation that went sour, wanting to sucker punch him in the face and go bat-shit crazy. How I act and react to Luke has everything to do with my state exhaustion and/or attitude. If I am well rested, relaxed, fed, dry and warm, it is recognized by sparkling fireworks and devouring admiration. If I am tired, wet, cold, hungry, hangry, or irritable, it is recognized by the urge to sucker punch or karate kick. Poor Luke, never knows what he’s going to get. I am a mess.

He doesn’t mind when I’m grumpy. I’m convinced that either he doesn’t notice or I hide it well. When I don’t think he is paying me any mind, I react by thinking to myself “Hello there, I’m grumpy and it’s your job to fix it. Chop chop.” Instead I say nothing and he happily carries on while my grump remains unnoticed. Childishly – this makes me more grumpy. Envious of his negligence to my struggles I up the drama so he might notice, I do this in the form of more silence. Silence is my round about way of communicating that I need attention, a kiss, a hug, a candy, a compliment, a nap, a pat on the back, anything (and it’s up to you to figure it out) What is wrong with me? I highly suggest that no one uses this tactic because it fails every time. Every. Time. I sit beside myself laughing. The girl he fell in love with at the Annapolis boat show, was not a grumpy bitch. I save me from myself and dig out Bob Bitchin’s favorite bumper sticker “ATTITUDE – the difference between ordeal and adventure” and post it on my forehead.

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July 5 // Day 10

 

It’s overcast. I’m feeling sluggish. The air is viscous with dew and I am hanging everything out to dry purely so that the cabin has more space to breath. I have to talk myself through every task before I am able to make myself do it. Give myself a motivational speech to change my underwear.  Read “Dove” to get us back on course. Listen to Tony Robbins to change the propane tank.

 I notice a theme as the days pass – W a i t i n g. 

Seven letters summarize every hour. Waiting for things to dry. Waiting for the cloud to move. Waiting for the wind to pick up. Waiting for the wind to die down. Waiting for the wind to shift.  Waiting for the swell to change. Waiting for the sun to rise. Waiting for the rain to stop. Waiting for the temperatures to rise. Wait for the dolphins to come back. Waiting for something good to happen. Waiting for something bad to happen. Waiting for the batteries to charge. Waiting to have a conversation. Waiting for the next meal. Waiting to sleep. Waiting to get to the other side. Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.

It bothers me – the waiting. It’s disables me from enjoy the present even when I am convinced there is nothing to enjoy. Waiting is taking up all of my time, paralyzing the benefits I could very well be harvesting if my time were spent doing anything other than waiting.

“Tell us Jessie, what did you do for 17 days?”

“I waited”

Hell of an answer, Jess. With this recognition I unwind. I know what the challenge is now and I work diligently to win. To manipulate time spent waiting. To delight in the art of patience. Patience with my time, patience with our boat, patience with the ocean, patience with our relationship, patience with myself.

I am compelled by the desperate race to get to the other side. How wildly we want to make land fall. How there is a constant desire to go faster in a vehicle in which,  we are fully aware is one of the slowest ways to travel the globe.  But for what? Why do we want to get there so bad? When we make it, being back here in the middle of the ocean, waiting, is all we are going to dream. How is it possible to want so badly for something to be over and for it to never ever end all at once? I don’t get it.

I couldn’t tell you my expectations for being 1000 miles away from land in either direction.  In a small boat. With my celebrity crush. At any given moment I can feel invincible in my favorite costume. Legendary.  And within hours feel weak. Powerless. A chicken in a slaughter house. An eternal sense of accomplishment and a constant state of physical discomfort.

I detect I will come home slightly barbaric, holding secrets not worthy of sharing. Quiet and at peace. Waiting for the day I get to come back to sea. 

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PART II . Just blue .

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NIGHT 5 // b e c a l m e d

I’ve taken the days, and I’ve taken the nights, put them in a blender and hold down the “whip” button. I don’t remember their individual flavors but together they taste of monotony in 4 hour increments, with the occasional leftover chunk that requires chewing – or should I say, work.

The ocean is a very odd place.

There is a simplistic pattern in sailing the ocean. It brings you right down to basic survival needs. Safety. Rest. Water. Food. That’s it. There is not much thinking beyond these four needs. Every 4 hours we go through the motion.

We are a third of the way across the Atlantic Ocean. Tonight is blacker than a cave with no exit. No moon. No stars. Completely becalmed. It wasn’t long ago I imagined a situation like this – how nice it must be, to sit in a rocking chair in the vastness of an ocean, far from your living room. To go nowhere. To ponder life afloat the deep salt sea. To rest atop a mile of water that somehow sticks to the earth. I thought this could very well be some kind of moving experience in which I would learn something important about myself, about life, about the sea, maybe find some answers in the silence to questions I didn’t even know I had – I don’t know. Here I am, the human in this so-called-beautiful-situation I imagined feeling far from peaceful and meditative. I am frustrated. Fiercely frustrated.

The sails flap like curtains hanging in the back yard. Air rolls through the canvas one end to the next snapping the main sail taut. It goes silent while the air rolls off the edges and the canvas becomes a loose t-shirt hung upon an anxious body. A swell lifts the starboard side and snakes underneath the hull until we rock back to port to compensate. All contents board shift with any spare space. Our first gale passed nearly 24 hours ago, but the swells…mmm… they are still here.

Roll. Snap. Silence. Rock. Shift. Repeat.

The hangers in the closet. The dishes in the cupboard. The cups in their shelves. The Binoculars hanging from the lamp. The sour milk in the ice box. The fruit in the basket. The water in the tanks. The insides of my tummy. The weight of my body. The brain in my head.

Swing. Smash. Silence. Slosh. Shift. Repeat.

You know you are becalmed when you start taking selfies.

This medley of swells and no wind has me pressing for mercy. I’ve come up with only one solution and unfortunately I don’t have the resources to move forward. Bubble wrap. If I would have known what it was really like to be becalmed – I would have brought an adequate supply of bubble wrap to eliminate all the spare space for things to shift around. Then we could carry on in peace packaged tightly together with plastic bubbles.

It’s exhausting to listen to all of these noises on repeat. Out of desperation I have begun to misplace things. I move around one loud thing to silence another loud thing. All of our things are playing musical chairs. Soon, I don’t know where I’ve put anything. Where’s the lighter? Asks Luke. Well I could have jammed it upright in the tapping dish cupboard, could have forced it in between the clinking hot sauces, I could put it in my sandwich and tried to eat it for lunch. Good luck Luke, I don’t know where it is.

Eventually my mind shuts it out, and my body shuts down. I accept we are going no where. I tire myself of seeking stability. I envelope my thoughts around the becalmed sea until I am holding a ball of yarn. I let the swells rock me in my chair. The noises become white. Our movement becomes equalized. Frustration fades. I power down. Rip the plug from the wall. Stop caring. Fall fast asleep. Dream of the wind, and if I’m lucky another gale.

NIGHT 6 // p h o s p h o r e s c e n c e

Luke wakes me at an unknown time. “Jess. Jess…Jess. Quickly.” Off-put by being woken, I receive his voice as something urgent, but not categorized emergency. I can tell he wants me to move faster but I don’t understand why. Rain falls softly, and arctic as it meets the skin. I crawl out the companionway and crouch in the cockpit holding my knees tight, protecting myself from the swelling shivers rising from my bare feet. “What?” I ask.

A remarkable streak of neon blue coils Desirée. I shift around my crouched torso on my tippy toes and follow the glow as it waltzes about. I am mystified. The light dives down and dims with depth. It ascends towards the surface and sets off fireworks. Aurora Borealis of the sea. Fantasia on the big screen. Mind blowing magic tricks. Drunken neon lights. Kids playing with sparklers. Contrails of phosphorescence. Humble mammals soaring through plankton. Dolphins and algae on fire. I could go on… and on. Three minutes is all we get. Jaws dropped. This is the greatest performance we have ever seen.  I let out a slow “Wooowww,”. Luke says “Wow.” I say it again, even slower this time. And he echoes it back. We fixate on the surface until the curtains close. I thank him for waking me, crawl back into the bunk and drift asleep.

When I wake I am unsure if this was reality. It was the kind of magic you only read about in books. In fact I have read it in a book and thought to myself how lucky one must be to be an eye- witness. To be the audience. The kind of spectacular you don’t dare to take your eyes off of to reach for your camera. The kind of closeness with nature only documented in National Geographic. The kind of awesome that makes you feel all the decisions you’ve made up to that point – have been the right ones. Dolphins stirring up trails of phosphoresce in the pitch black, illuminating the sea on a becalmed night never even crossed my mind as a possibility. I love surprises.

DAY 7 // j u s t  b l u e

We survived ice berg alley. Sailed passed the Labrador current. Have stayed relatively close to an ideal course. There is still nothing around. Just blue.

Our watches become less diligent. Watching less, doing more. Luke has read every book on the shelf. I am still on my first, partly because I get so lost in it I don’t want it to end. I stare westwards, backwards, analyzing the swells more often than looking ahead. I write essays and letters instead of looking at the GPS. I review the clouds. I study Luke. I listen to Desiree. There is nothing to see outside our own little world. Nothing to interrupt our path. Just blue. For a moment I understand the legendary Moitessier who created his own world at sea, and was never able to return to the one he left.

We’ve been on the same tack for 4 days. Haven’t seen a ship for 5 days. Haven’t spoken to anyone for 7 days. I’ve found my energy again, my appetite, and every once and a while my motivation. Torrential rain has us surrendered inside the cabin. Penny helms and I remain impressed. Everything is soggy. Everything.

I’m baking at 5am which sounds ambitious but I am wide awake feeling very peppy. Chris Stapleton on the stereo. I wrap asparagus in prosciutto and Pillsbury crescents and stare at the oven while they bake, breathing in its heavenly scent. I look out the ports every once and while and check the AIS. Nothing. Just blue.

Luke is fast asleep. Twitching. Having a spa day. Naked atop the bedding, he lies next to the propane heater that assists in drying out the cabin and fogging up the ports. Wet gear hangs from every hook. Moisture seeps down the bulkhead. Condensation collects in the cracks. What are you dreaming about ? I ask Luke while he is sleeping. He doesn’t respond. So I answer for him. “You, of course”. That’s nice – I think to myself.

By 7am I have cleaned, dried out, baked, written, reefed, read  downloaded the weather, emailed, plotted, un-reefed, and somehow have some energy to do some push-ups and dips. I’m not sure what triggers the good days. What triggers the bad days. I will sway in this mornings splendor for as long as it lasts.

There is only one problem today. I smell cheese. I think it’s time to take our first salt bath. Yes. It’s time to bathe. How cold could it really be? It’s just blue.

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S e v e n t e e n D a y s

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As you may have heard… W E   M A D E   I T. We made it. We made it. We made it. My enthusiasm for landfall deserves copious amounts of exclamation points, but there is something about a vertical dash and a dot that just doesn’t cut it. It’s like when you don’t know how to thank someone, because the words alone simply aren’t not enough. To hold down the shift key and “1” for ten seconds straight, is not enough. I tried it, I don’t like the way it looks.

Please trust, that we are beyond happy to have completed our Atlantic crossing safely, with a floating classic yawl in tact, and a relationship that in my opinion, has been sealed with 5200.

Landfall was made in the Isles of Scilly on July 12. We arrived to anchor in the dark hours of the night and woke to the sub-tropical western islands of England. The smell of earth, flowers and moss. High pitched dinghy engines and laughing terns. English accents echoing from animal cracker shaped rocks. Swinging in circles about a cyan bay. My life could have ended on that very morning. Full to the very top with delight. Foaming over the rim and dripping down the sides. I’ve never felt so drunk when I was so sober.

I have a lot to share with everyone. It will take a few posts to get it all out. I thought I’d start with the numbers for my sailors who understand their significance, and for my dreamers who are hungry to comprehend.

S T A T I S T I C S //

2107 nautical miles traveled

5.2 knot average boat speed (meh, ok)

11.6 knot top boat speed (YESSSS)

0 knot lowest boat speed (banging my head against the bulkhead)

45 knot highest wind velocity

38 knot highest gust with spinnaker still up (oops)

15 feet highest waves

3 days of sun

14 days of gray

8 days rain / mist (gross)

3 ice bergs

6 cargo ships

2 days headwind

3 days becalmed

16 days with Penny at the helm (self steering Hydrovane)

5 tacks / gybes

2 accidental gybes (I’ll take the blame)

10 HydeSail changes  (Luke can take the credit)

9 reefs (I got better at this)

102 watch changes (I never got better at this)

3 salt water baths (bur)

56 gallons of water (drinking /cooking only)

56 Engine hours (battery charging and becalmed nights)

21 gallons of diesel

14 lbs of propane

32 beers (ran out too quickly)

3 cartons of eggs

5 loafs of bread

5 medium size bags of rubbish

6 rolls of toilet paper

907 photos taken (less than expected)

34 pages hand written (more than expected)

1 halyard lost at sea (I blame Luke)

1 headlamp lost at sea (I blame Luke)

1 small tear in spinnaker

I can’t count how many times I shed a few tears, or laughed. I can’t count how many times I threw up, or spilled food everywhere.  I can’t count how many times I wished it was over, or how many times I never wanted it to end. I can’t count how many dolphins,  seabirds or the amount of phosphorescence. I can’t count how much I learned, or how many hours I did absolutely nothing. For 17 days we played a card game of patience and strategy. It was a long game. I’d like to think we won. Yeah. I think we won.

DAY 1 // 

The night before cast off  we shove our bodies into the starboard side berth and try to sleep for three hours. We shift around puzzle piecing ourselves until we find a fit. Neither of us sleep well. But it feels nice to be close.

At 3:45 am my alarm confirms the thing I’ve been waiting to have confirmed since February. It’s time to cross the ocean. I stand up to turn the kettle on an arms length away, scooping generous amounts of coffee into the french press. In need of a strong brew. Out of my peripheral vision I catch a shooting star which arcs so far across the morning sky that I have time to twist my head and follow all the way to the horizon. I take this in as a welcome token from the sea. I thank it, and carry on with my morning regime. By 4:09 am, we push the bow off of the Royal Newfoundland Yacht Club dock. No one is around to wave good bye. Secretly I am thankful for this.

I surprise myself in feeling nothing. As if we are departing for another day trip. I’m not necessarily excited. My tummy isn’t churning. I do not feel fear. I oddly don’t feel much. Five months of anticipation and I have exhausted myself of every emotion. I feel ready, that’s all. I am ready. I don’t cry (surprising) I don’t gaze back at the docks as if it’s the last land I will ever see (surprising) I don’t look ahead to the expanse of the sea and shit myself (very surprising) I don’t look at Luke to check on his emotional status (not surprising considering his emotions are flat lined 93% of the time) We drink coffee and listen to the local radio station. We glide forward through Conception Bay under the stars and wait for the wind. What I don’t yet know, is that the next 17 days will consist of nothing but waiting.

The sunrise back lights the rugged Newfoundland Coast. I take notes on it’s beauty but don’t linger for long in concern of experiencing any kind of land attachment. I unwind and strip off layers of clothes as the sun cultivates heat. By the time it summits I am naked. This is without question, the hottest day we have encountered. The breeze light as one could release from their own lungs. The sails snap full with air, and then fall slack, over and over again. At 2.5 knots, this could take a while. I download a weather forecast from Mazu, curious to see when the wind will come.

Three ice bergs float the horizon, and appear contradictory to the days temperatures. I check the water temp, its one degree above freezing. This confirms that yes, they are indeed going nowhere fast. They shine shockingly white. Each one appears and disappears into the swells. They are a kind reminder to keep alert. We have 300 miles until exiting the ice limit.

A duo of Puffins awkwardly skim the surface. Their geometric faces are separated by blocks of black and white, trimmed with sherbet orange beaks. They are littler than I expect, cuter than I expect, and I wish deeply that I could keep one. But they are monogamous and I couldn’t bare to take one from another so that means I will have to keep two. I wonder what Luke will think when he wakes to Puffin pets on my shoulders.

Minke whales surface as we pass Cape St. Francis in a pod of two, one dorsal fin next to another. These animals in pairs assure me that traveling in a pair is in fact, enough. That Luke and I being double handed, will be just fine, we are enough too.

I don’t notice when the coastline disappears. When I finally register that I won’t be seeing land for weeks It doesn’t bother me. I’m almost relieved. We are simply along the ride now. I see the next ice berg on the horizon, and adjust Penny to steer straight for it.

It takes 3 hours to reach the berg. We sail questionably close to it’s storybook features . Utopian in its figure. Classic in it’s coloring. Inviting in the way you envision having a picnic on it’s timeless slopes. I want to stay and explore. I want to peer under the sea to understand its entirety. At the same time it’s making me nervous. It’s beauty intimidating, the kind that makes an entire room go quiet. I feel privileged to be in it’s presence. We watch it undulate in and out of the sea, as long as we possibly can.

A hump back whale breaches 1/4 mile to port. It launches from the sea dropping my jaw and lifting my arm to point. My reaction startles Luke as he reckons something is wrong, but he sees it before crash landing the surface. It’s size immeasurable. It’s power inconceivable. It’s brief moment on stage striking.

I can’t add up the glories of one single day one. It’s doesn’t feel right to be gifted so many things in less than 24 hours. I feel a very subtle shift in my gut. I know how these things tend to balance out. As my first grave yard shift begins the subtle shift takes a sharp turn. Upwards. Outwards. Stuck in between the back of my throat, threatening to come out of my nostrils. I am sick. Again. Again. And again. I put water in. It comes back up. I put a cracker in. It comes back up. Ginger ale. Comes back up. What does it want, quarters? I prevent myself from trying this. Someone has hooked up a macerator pump to my mouth and is pressing the button. Over 4 hours I drain my body of everything that is not securely attached to the walls of my stomach. I move onto dry heaving and count down the minutes till I can wake Luke up.

Good morning Luke. Want a kiss? Your turn.

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Results of a gale while tied up to a fishing dock in Newfoundland. Depature-5Depature-7

Royal Newfoundland Yacht Club sunset. Depature-10

Getting my next lesson in mechanics. Torquing cylinder heads and spacing valves. Depature-11

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Result of drawer flying out on port tack.

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Provisions. Not including beer, juice, water, canned goods.

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DEAR NEWFOUNDLAND // I want to extend the greatest of thank you’s to the Royal Newfoundland Yacht club, one of its commodores Mark Wareham, his wife Kerri, and a handful of it’s kind members who went above and beyond to make us feel welcome. They did such a grand job of making us feel at home and helping us prepare for our crossing, that it was very difficult to sail away. I have a lot to say about Newfoundland. Luke and I fell in love with it. Kindest people I have ever met in my life. I thought I was nice. Now I’m starting to think I need to step it up. We will be back. Above every place I’ve landed since Michigan, I recommend the RNYC first. Despite Newfoundlands notorious fog, icebergs, and labrador temperatures, it’s a  m u s t. Don’t miss it.

Update from Mom

Jessie’s Mom here… providing an update for those of you who have been following her blog posts and wondering how their Atlantic crossing is going. Many many thanks to all of you who have helped her along the way – your support is much appreciated by a Mom who of course worries every nautical mile of her trip and who, after having forsaken any Divinity in the last 15 years, finds herself daily praying again!! Aaah, but all is well, as you shall see. Read on…

Since her last post coming through Iceberg Alley off the coast of Newfoundland, Jessie and Luke made it to St John’s, parked Desi in the commercial harbor for a few days then moved around the northeast end to the Royal Newfoundland Yacht Club, where they rested and prepped for their big departure day.

Early Monday morn June 26, at 3AM, the wind and weather conditions were right and they sailed out of Conception Bay up around the NE of Newfoundland and off across the north Atlantic!

A side note here to say thank god for the satellite garmin tracker, which enables us not only to track Desiree’s progress, but also provides text and email capability. It’s kept this proud but worried Mom sane!

Jessie writes:

DAY 1 text: Puffins. Breaching humpback whales. Visiting mini whales. Sunshine. 7 knots. Awesome iceberg driveby. Couldn’t have had a better send off.

DAY 2 text: Graveyard shift. Flat. Wind 6 knots. Spinnaker up. Stars incredible. Nothing around. Didn’t see any ice or boats today. Just whales and birds…it is cold! Water was about 36 degrees this morning. Air about the same. It’s warmed up a bit tonight. Probably another 200 miles till we are out of the Labrador Current. Praying it will warm up for night shifts.

Day 4 text: All is well. Had a gale since midnight, just now calming down. We saw 38 knots of wind and 10.6 knots boat speed. Making great time. Getting my sea legs.

Day 6 group email: (approx 700 miles across)  Morning. Running the engine for a while to charge things up. Typing on iPad which I suck at. Disregard errors. We have run the engine for roughly 11 hours since departing and have gone though 5 gallons of fuel. Tons to spare, almost another 40 gallons.

Day 6 and we have found a good rhythm. Finally feeling rested. Nausea is gone. Appetite is back. Have been able to take longer shifts, Luke has been letting me sleep like a princess and I do my best to return the favor. Almost once an hour he or I ( whoever is sleeping) wakes up and calls the other’s name in a slight panic to make sure the other is there. We tether in at night time, in rough weather, and when we go on deck. No on is going in the water.

We are out of the ice berg limit and passed the Labrador current. Water temps raised from 36 degrees to 56, along with the air temperature. Feels so good. We’re now riding the North Atlantic current (where the Labrador current and Gulf Stream meet) all the way to England.

We rode out our first gale on day 3/4. 38 knots of wind and surfing waves at 10.6 knots of speed. Boat was perfectly happy, forced us to hand steer for several hours each, just too much wind for Penny (self steering gear) to handle. Besides that she has helmed us over 500 miles. Best investment we made for this trip.

Following the gale there was no wind at all, but the swells remained. Spent nearly a day rocking around almost violently, sails flapping around with no wind. Haha made me want the gale to come back.

As you can imagine everything is a bit tricky. Cooking, sleeping, changing, going pee/poo, filling up water bottles, the simplest of tasks are very difficult but we tend to find it all kind of funny. I can’t manage to get food in my mouth most of the time and spill it everywhere. Luke mocks me and try’s to teach me how to eat. Luke can’t manage to fit into the bathroom in “urgent” times and I find it hysterical. All is well.

Another weather system is supposedly coming in tomorrow. We are ready for whatever at this point. More than a 1/4 of the way across, another 10 days is my guess. Until then most time is spent reading, writing, staring at wind instruments, staring at stars, staring at birds, and getting lost in phosphorescence. My mind hasn’t had much energy to travel far from water, food, sleep, and safety. It’s been basic survival mode. It took me 4 days to process that we had even left, and I finally had my moment – holy shit I am sailing across and ocean !!!!!!!!!!! And then the moment was gone and I ate and went to sleep.

Okay, more updates later. Don’t spend any time worrying back home. We are perfectly fine and Desiree is made for the ocean. Love you all.

– Captain jess & galley bitch Luke

Jessie getting organized

Night-shift notes

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JUNE 6 // En route to ILE DE LA MADALEINE 

2:35  – The moon is nearly bright enough to light the pages on my book. If I concentrate hard enough I can almost make it through a sentence.

2:45  – Silver fins slice the surface. I can’t see their details, only the shape they take as they pass through a tunnel of moonlight. My friends are back and here to keep me awake. They play around the transom just long enough to check in and make sure we’re okay. We are okay. They move on.

3:00  – I meet a painter. The artist takes a brush and walks the horizon with deep blood orange. She walks back and forth blending it into navy, and then into black. Color is added again and again warming the seam. On the opposite side of the canvas, the moon tucks beneath the covers.

3:15 – A satellite passes over head. I start to think about space. I stop thinking about space, understanding that maybe there are some things meant to be misunderstood. I set the thought down with intentions to pick it up later.

3:25 – I find a half frozen chocolate in my pocket. Better than finding crinkled cash in old blue jeans. I melt it in my mouth. It tastes like jersey junction, the local ice cream shop where I grew up. I’d roller blade there and spend all the quarters I made ironing my mother’s work clothes on candy.

4:00 – This morning’s sunrise is the greatest present. I want to unwrap it forever. I am embarrassed with myself. Everything makes me want to cry. I set up the fishing pole to distract myself.

4:17 – Staring at a fishing pole is less entertaining than staring at the wind indicator. I take my boots off, peel my socks back, and stare at my toes instead. This is interesting.

JUNE 7 // En route to ST. PIERRE & MIQUELON

21:43 – I reach my peak of anxiety as the sun sinks. Another breathtaking setting sun I find little appreciation for. I try to stop and like it, love it, try to marvel  in its hot pinks and purples. Instead I notice the steam pouring from my exhales, the instant temperature drop and the jolting shiver that shakes me from my toes up. Night time is coming again.

23:20 – I play games to stay awake. These desperate games distract me from looking at the clock.  The first game a play is called “stand up, sit down”. It’s as simple as that. I stand up and tell myself to do so out loud, “stand up.” I stand for roughly 4 seconds. And then I sit down, “sit down.” I do this again and again. Interestingly enough, the forced physical movement via vocal instruction gets difficult.

The second game I play is a balancing game. The seat that sits behind the helm is in the shape of a dome. I take my hands off the wheel and feet off of the floor grates. I balance on my ass and count how long I can do this before I have to use an appendage to break my fall. I feel my abs weak, and get discouraged quickly.

The last game comes out of my mouth. I hum. It comes out by default as “The Little Mermaid.” When I finish humming Disney I upgrade to Celine Dion “My heart will go on forever” Then I realize I am not far from ice berg alley. I stop humming this song.

1:30 – I wake Luke up 15 minutes early and am feeling awful about it. But I am a hazard behind this helm.

JUNE 8 // ST. PIERRE // FRANCE 

5:43 – We arrive at the St. Pierre Yacht Club just after sunrise. We drink wine and eat triscuits for breakfast. After 240 miles and nearly 3 days we fall into a very very deep sleep.

8:00 – Two French men (customs) knock on the hull. Puffy eyed and half asleep we welcome them aboard. We provide them our passports and documents. My hand is shaking as I sign papers because I am still cold from the night before. The empty bottle of wine sits on the counter. Luke’s zipper is wide open. The boat is a mess. We are a mess. They seem to respect that we have just sailed for 3 days and don’t ask any unnecessary questions. They leave and we fall back into a coma.

17:30 – The weather forecast is a disaster. A gale is passing through for the next 4 days. Thirty-five knots of wind has us heeled over at our dock. Exercising patience on this secret French island. We walk the streets. Hike the hills. Eat fresh bread. The list of chores and tasks aboard Desirée grows like bamboo. Every day trim it down.

JUNE 14 // AVALON PENINSULA // NEWFOUNDLAND 

21:00 – We have entered the ice berg zone. We are in the region where 7 have been reported. The sun has set…again…like it always does. Can’t see anything…again. It’s foggy and windy. We turn off our running lights to eliminate the back glow, in hopes of seeing just a few more feet ahead. We drop all canvas besides a 2nd reefed main to slow down. Lightning flashes twice a minute but there is nothing to see besides birds circling. Fog, wind, lighting, blackness, circling birds. I have a bad feeling in my tummy. We agree to take shorter shifts tonight. I go down below to try and rest.

21:35 – Laying in my bunk with the lee cloth. Waves rock us from the side. I wish I could say it feels like being rocked in a cradle, but it doesn’t. My body is flexed to stay in place. I’m doing better burning calories than I am sleeping.

22:15 – I smell ice. I think about the fact that I smell ice for another hour, maybe longer and I don’t say anything. I don’t trust that it is possible. I tell myself that it is not possible. You can’t smell ice. But I do.

12:00 – Luke goes down for a nap. My eyes are glued to blackness. We move forward under power at 3 knots. I may as well be asleep because looking ahead is completely useless. We are traveling blind. We are gambling. This is torture. A few minutes pass and I think we are really stupid. Another few minutes pass and I feel like an arctic explorer. This goes on for the next three hours.

3:00 – We switch shifts. For a moment we sit together in the companionway watching the eastern sky start to change color. My anxiety lifts for a few minutes by having Luke awake, and next to me. We stare into the darkness. I give him a detailed report of my watch.

3:15 – I squint my eyes to focus. I squeeze Luke’s arm, my fingers form a vice-grip with alarming pressure. I extend my opposite arm full length and point, “Look…….look.” My seriousness is relayed in my grip, not my voice. We pass a wall of white 1/4 of a mile away off the port side. It’s an ice berg. It’s a fucking ice berg. A chunk of glacier the size of a three story house silently drifts into sight. We stare it harder than we’ve ever stared at anything in our lives. It disappears into the fog within a minute or two.

I am just a little girl from Michigan, this is hard for me to wrap my head around. I feel the exact same way I did when I was 12 years old, in the front row seat at the movies watching “Titanic” for the first time. My eyes round as grapefruits, my arm hair standing on end.

We spend the next hour staring into the abyss. Looking for more. Looking for anything. Having a sophisticated conversation – “Wow.” “Yeah.” “Wow.” “Yup” “Wowww.” until I exhaust myself and have to leave Luke alone.

4:00 – I lay down debilitated. I never expected to have so many emotions about a piece of ice. I can’t get over it. It took my breath away. It froze me just as solid as it.  It was magnificent. It was petrifying. It put in perspective what I have been willing to risk.  I have absolutely no proof. No video. No photo. It was just a minute in time that only Luke and I will remember. I think we just shared one the most epic minutes of our lives.

So I did smell ice. Ice berg sighting no. 1 – check.

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The truth about d o u b l e – h a n d i n g :

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En route to ILE DE LA MADELEINE // JUNE 3

6:42 am // My hair is mopped under a winter hat and explodes out the bottom, it wraps around my neck like a fur scarf. I look like a lion. People pay a lot of money for these kinds of things. It attaches itself to the velcro on my jacket. A few strands secure themselves to my bottom lip. I am on the morning shift. I’ve cracked a beer-mosa (Budweiser topped off with orange juice) and am dodging lobster pots. Out of character for me to crack a beer this time of day. But there is something about wherever I am, doing whatever I am doing, that qualifies this as an appropriate moment. Miranda Lambert is singing to me and she typically only does this when Luke is asleep. I drop the back of my Gill trousers and sit indian style off the stern, holding onto the backstay. This is my new bathroom. It’s more relaxing than any other box I’ve ever sat in to do the very same thing.

Lobster pots appear out of the fog and I miss them by meters. Feeling more and more British speaking in meters not feet. I see fishing boats displayed on the B&G AIS overlay. I do not see them in real life. In fact I can see nothing in real life until it is a Desirée’s length away.  I sit in the fog. We move forward under engine over a sheet of mercury. There is no wind. Not even a breath. The circle of visibility in which we sit in the center of, is 1/8th of a mile at best. It’s thick. In every direction I see a block of the same color. White. As if I was staring at a mountain of snow. The sun penetrates just enough to assist my body in heating up. The condensation drips from every surface facing downward. It rolls off of the boom and onto my head. I type words but do not look at the computer screen. Women are so great at multi-tasking. Pardon any typos.

I day-dream of what I will make for breakfast when Luke wakes. I only have one hour left of my four, but I am perfectly happy and wouldn’t mind sitting here for longer than required. A McGriddle. That’s what I will make. Mcdonalds at sea. I do feel the need to step up my game. Luke has prepared the most impressive boat meals I have ever tasted. I have been eating like a queen. He’s prepared Tournedos Rossini, Croque Monsieur, and Scallop Mac’n cheese. I place my breakfast ingredients on the counter in my head, and I like how they look. Pumpkin spice pancakes, with grilled ham and and a fried egg. Christmas at sea. Any diet I have ever considered is completely gone – out the window. My body is changing I can feel it. I don’t care. I am in survival mode. Give my carbs. Give me sugar. Give me a beer for breakfast. What my body wants is what I will give it.

33 miles ahead is  Ile De La Madeleine, an island situated on it’s own in between Nova Scotia and Newfoundland. 130 miles behind sits Gaspe, Quebec, the mainland that we have finally left behind. People say Ile De Le Madelaine is where people eat lobster, make babies, and never leave. I’m not opposed to the trio. I’d happily take the first and the last, the second might not be the wisest of decisions. We are just miles away from reaching the Atlantic Ocean now. Sometimes I just want to scream, to shout, the celebrate “Do you have any idea how long it has taken me to get here?”

The fog lifts and I can finally separate sea from sky. There is no land in sight. The idea of being completely alone out here does not scare me. I know that people are out there, they are everywhere, everywhere but here. We have found a place where they do not go. Most of them not a clue we are here. Some of them anxiously awaiting our safe arrival. But right now there is no one. Just the birds. They fly parallel Desirée with curiosity. My curiosity is stronger than their’s because they move on too quickly, while I sit here wishing I could keep up.  Their company alone is almost enough. I know that disconnecting from people for a short while is okay. I know it is important. I know that in my normal land life, I am connected beyond explanation. I do find safety in people. It would be nice to find safety in solitude, but it’s not easiest of tasks.

The truth I have learned about double-handing, is that you are alone more often then not. I sleep. You sleep. I am on watch for 4 hours. You are on watch for 4 hours. I sleep. You sleep.  And so it goes. We do our best to cook and enjoy meals together, and when we do get to hang out for an hour it becomes the quickest hour of the day. The rest of the time we chit-chat in passing.  We speak in wind speeds and headings. I count down 240 minutes until I can wake him up.

We might be only 6 feet apart, which is mutually preferred over an ocean apart. But the word “solitude” continues to cliff note our current state of existence. Do not let this take away from the opposite, in which teamwork is every reason we are able to carry on. But this kind of teamwork requires one to be working while the other recovers.  You never want to wake the other up, even when you feel desperate. You understand how important it is for the other to rest. You understand how important it is to maintain your watch. It is in fact, exhausting and quite lonely.  And being the incredibly social person that I am, this is difficult. When I see something – anything – a bird, a seal, a dolphin, a bug, a fishing boat… I am instantly comforted by the existence of something else. These little things have become my greatest joy. I have become an emotional old lady, hunched over in her chair, who writes letters and waits for visitors.

Grandma over and out – onwards to Ile de la Madelaine.

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Chewed us up and spat us out

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Luke arrives with one large sail bag. In it are some shorts, t-shirts, one fleece, a smock, two pairs of socks, three pair of underwear and Sperry Topsiders. I’m unsure where he thinks he is going. When he is not paying attention I start a list : Socks. Underwear. On top of his fair weather packing is a back up VHF, GPS, a hand bearing compass, weather disc, charts, and a GoPro. My mind shifts from “bad job” to “good job”. Shoved in-between the bad packing and the good packing are 8 glass jars of Bovril (salty beef broth he considers heaven on earth) and packaged beets (per my request). Just when I begin to think “good job” again, he discovers one of the Bovril jars has shattered. All contents inside are stuck together with salty beef. Bad job.

We take 24 hours getting organized in Montreal, and take the following 24 to motor sail 138 miles into light headwinds and bewildering tides towards Quebec City. Our list of projects is extensive. I knowingly left Michigan with things undone. It is now time to complete them. We started with the most exciting project by swapping out old sails with 6 new bombproof HydeSails. Silicone coated woven polyester, pro-radial main, mizzen, and genoa. Cross-cut 10 ounce woven Dacron stay sail. Woven nylon mizzen stay-sail, fiber max asymmetric spinnaker. Fancy language that I am just beginning to understand. And then we tackle the rest of the list :

  • Change all hardware from old main sail to new
  • Fit 3rd reef
  • Finish fitting inner-forestay
  • Put on stack-pack and lazy jacks
  • Install inverter
  • Organize ballast
  • Raise Hydrovane rudder and finish installation
  • Put together a better ditch-kit
  • Find fishing gear
  • Set-up jack-lines and tethers
  • Do something about the 440 pounds of loose lead in the bilge
  • Register EPIRB
  • Connect second solar panel
  • Calculate water and diesel usage
  • Calculate battery usage
  • Find more charts
  • Fix the dodger
  • Top off water /diesel
  • Engine check
  • Go grocery shopping

Three days are gone. No breaks. The weather is not ready for us to go. But we are ready to go. We are eager despite the forecast, and choose to disregard it all together. Ready to test ourselves. Test our teamwork. Test the boat. We depart Quebec City with the tide into a romantic sunset and live happily ever after, for one hour.

The wind rips out of the north-east on the nose. Honeymoon shifts to hurricane. Light chop turns to standing waves. I am at the helm riding a bull. Luke is on the bow reefing the main and raising the stay sail. The standing waves break over the bow. Luke is in the center of a washing machine and I am on the sidelines getting sprinkled on. For the first time I understand how difficult it is to watch the person you care most for getting thrashed around. I want to close my eyes. I tell myself to relax and get used to it because this is the new normal. I focus on holding a steady course because I fall off every time I focus on Luke. We tack back and forth into 25 knot headwind and white water. The channel narrows, and the earth becomes black. For 5 hours we tack 35 plus times in-between ships, a mountain, and shallows with only a 1/4 mile of space. Exhilaration shifts to exhaustion.

We both sleep for 2 out of the last 24. The wind forecast is expected to build out of the same direction.  It requires all hands on deck to make it through the night. We turn left up the Saguenay River after 110 miles into a 7 knot ebb tide ripping out towards the St. Lawrence. Don’t ask why, but we try it anyway. Two hours later, with full main, genoa and high engine rpm, we make it two miles up the river.

It takes another full day to “get our shit together”. I make a list of everything that needs to be secured better. Luke sorts out the stay sail reef, all of the rigging, and drills holes in the 44 pound bars of lead that sit loosely in the bilge so we can tie them down.  We wander town with empty jerry cans in search of diesel. We gather more fresh food. I ask Luke to be in charge of meat and cheese, I’d take care of fruit and veg. I was expecting some chicken, maybe some lunch meat. We left the market with horse patties, liver pate, and filets. He would have bought the market out of Foi Gras if they had it. I didn’t expect horse (cheval) to be on the menu, but I won’t turn down a local delicacy.

Everything takes longer than we think. Nothing is convenient. Chores are endless. Boat life requires strong effort from both of us. No time to think about home. No time to miss anyone. No time to spend scrolling the internet. No time to pay attention to everything that’s wrong with the world. By the time each days’ list is checked off, I am exhausted again. It sounds kind of horrible, but it’s not. I love to bitch about it, even though… I love it. Everything requires more work than I have ever put in on land.

May 27, 6:45 am, departing Tadousaac. This time out with the tide and the sunrise.  Fog settles in thick on the river, visibility drops to 1/2 a mile at best. We plug in our AIS/VHF as we skirt the shipping channel. It doesn’t work. I start to pull things apart. The metal prongs on the cockpit repeater are smashed together. I disconnect the repeater from the hard wired unit. The unit itself seems to be fried. I check all connections. Fuses. Nothing. I make a few phone calls. Nothing. It’s broken. Luke gets out the fog horn and makes our presence known. We hear ships’ horns in return, and stay as far out of the channel as possible.

Fog lifts like a stage curtain. Someone switches on the sun. I wear a t-shirt for the first time in days, and enjoy the ride with the possibility of freckles. Luke tests out the new sails. All of them. Spinnaker flying. Full main. Mizzen. Mizzen stay-sail. Then he tinkers with the genoa. Then the stay sail. We are sailing in every combination one could create. I send photos to my the Wizard. He would love this. We sail along leisurely for hours. We see Beluga whales. We have a curious finch passenger. I name him / her Sarah. Sarah lands on my head. She’s not shy. She doesn’t sit still. She lands on everything bright – hence my head not Luke’s. We try to feed her bread but she wants bugs. I feel sad when she doesn’t come back. I continue my desperate search for whale friends. We set up the fishing pole, neither of us know a thing about fishing. I take a nap. Luke reads. The Auto-pilot drives. We catch no fish. We settle for pig and horse from the market and Luke whips up a delicious snack. Both of us are on toddler nap schedules. We try to settle into 4 hour shifts. By 7pm it’s Lukes turn to nap.

Four hours later and everything has changed. The nighttime brings with it the nightmare, the one I’ve been anticipating. Without providing the detailed weather report, let’s just say…the mouth of the St. Lawrence seaway is chewing us up and spitting us out. More of a regurgitation than a spit. We are receiving neon rejection signs and starting to think we should read them. The 20 knot headwind predicted, is substituted with a force 9 gale. It’s raining. It’s black. It’s building. The waves grow into hills. The hills push us back in the river. The wind becomes an impenetrable force. We tack back and forth. We cover no ground. Second reef in main, and stay sail have Desirée pleasant to helm. The wave chop treats us like a rocking horse, we are stationary. Teeter- tottering on springs. We tack for a few hours with the engine on so we can point just a few degrees higher. The engine shuts off after it sucked in air instead of fuel on a starboard tack. Rookie mistake. I go down below to bleed fuel in a gale. Diesel is everywhere. She starts running. I start to feel sick.

1:00 am we agree to turn around. Luke drops the main. We oscillate between the rolling hills and run downwind with just the stay sail. The closest port is 33 miles backwards. I am shaking, almost violently. I can’t get my body temperature up. I don’t know if I am shaking from adrenaline. Shaking from exhaustion maybe. I feel weak. On the edge of hurling. My mind and body are not working together. The engine shuts off again. I can’t deal with it now, and we don’t need to deal with it now. Why can’t I stop shaking. I am fatiguing myself.

We surf double over head downwind and take turns between 20 minute naps and helming. We pass through upbound and down bound shipping channels. No VHF. No AIS. No engine. Ten foot waves and 40 knots of wind. I throw up. I still can’t stop shaking. But I seem to be functioning.  Luke is okay, he might even be perfectly fine. I need him right now more than ever. I see tired in his blood shot eyes. He is serious. A light smile here and there. He stares at the sunrise and appreciates it fully, while I can’t seem to find space to appreciate. Focus takes all of me.

I bleed more fuel from the engine when we near port. Tons and tons of it. So much that I pour it back into a jerry can. I spill diesel everywhere. All over the floor. All over my boots, legs, hands. The inside of Desirée looks like it’s rolled over a time or three. Shit is everywhere. Even my underwear drawer came hurling off the wall.  I pass Luke the can of diesel, and he tops off the tank. He too spills everywhere. All over his sperry’s, legs, hands. All over the cockpit floor. The engine starts and stays on. We keep the boat flat as possible upon approach.

We tried. I believe we tried really hard. We had to turn around and there is no shame in that. The only thing I am disappointed in is my physical self. I just couldn’t get it together. Couldn’t warm up. Couldn’t stop shaking. Couldn’t get past nausea which I so rarely experience. Could barely stay awake at the helm.  Frustrated by the way my mind was perfectly fine, even comfortable, but my physical self was not. I think it’s the first time I was unable to talk myself out of being cold, tired, and sick. I thought I could do that. But I couldn’t. As a result I felt un-fit for the job. Wanted to give up. Luke thinks I managed perfectly fine. So maybe I did, I honestly couldn’t tell you. I remind myself there is always tomorrow. We will try again tomorrow.

This was an accurate trial run of what’s lies ahead. A blunt grasp on how challenging this whole exhaustion thing is going to be. I am not worried about how Luke and I operate together,  if I am impressed by anything it is by our team work. He is an animal up on deck, a legend. agile, quick footed, and precise. He can raise, drop, reef, untangle anything in seconds. He knows exactly what to do and when to do it. And as for me… well, I know how to get the engine started.

Tomorrow. We will try again. And we will keep trying. We will make it out of the St. Lawrence River. Past the sadistic tides. Through these ruthless headwinds. Into the Gulf of St. Lawrence where the next set of elements will demand our persistence.  Even when I’ve had my ass handed to me, I always feel ready to go the next day. I don’t know why it takes these kind of extremes to stir up fervent motivation, but it’s addicting. And the thought of going back to light switches, thermostats, stability and shelter is in a far-away corner of my mind.

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