WEBSITE CHANGE | ONABOAT.NET

 

 

ANNOUNCMENT  ! ! ! NEW WEBSITE ! ! !

I have created a  S H I N E Y  N E W   W E B S I T E as it looks like this whole sailing thing is really turning into the rest of my life… with my crew Luke, and sailboat Desiree, this cruising season has a lot on the itinerary and I sure am motivated to share it with you. I’ve dropped the Katie (which I nostalgically held onto as she is still my very best friend. Don’t worry she has already forgiven me) and I’ve dropped the Jessie (because you all know me, the one who has hidden behind the screen for all these years) and I’ve dropped the .com and picked up a .net (because unfortunately, it was unavailable) AND NOW WE ARE SIMPLY :

WWW.ONABOAT.NET

Luke and I have just arrived back in Portugal where we left the boat in the yard last April. After a really rough sail from England to Portugal, I never even wrote a thing down because I was too busy vomiting, reefing, sleeping, packing up the boat, and then jumping right into work for the preceding 6 months. In that a short amount of time, we managed to get thrown over board, (READ THE STORY HERE) get married in Scotland, and live in America for the first time together. Luke quit his job, moved to America, became a husband, became an uncle, and lost a father – all of these changes happening for him while I had the greatest 5 month hustle of my career. It has been a wild year. Being able to be together without having to count down the days until “goodbye” has been a game changer. Feeling energized and privileged.

For all the reasons above – I’ve gone quiet here on the sailing front. But now I’m back. We’re back. And the next 6 months is dedicated to this here boat, to the sea, to repairs and preparations as we will be sailing her back to Michigan. Most importantly, to be reminded of simplicity, sustainability, and good ole fashion hard work.

So very lucky to have made it to Lagos, Portugal after one very large wave struck us in the middle of the night off Cape Sao Vicente 6 months ago. And now we are here picking up all the pieces. All further stories and images will be posted at ONABOAT.NET so for those of you who are still enjoying this stories evolution… sign on up !

I want to take a minute to thank those of you who have been around from the beginning. From the time I didn’t understand which way the arrow on the wind indicator pointed, to the time when we got towed all the way across the Gulf Stream because Katie and I didn’t trust our ability to sail, to that other time when we had leaky freeze plugs and thought we cracked our engine block…. it’s been a long journey. I never, EVER, imagined I would be crossing oceans double handed. Let alone be able to work out a way to sustain this life. It is a huge privilege. Many of you have helped. From warm meals, cold beers, heartfelt and encouraging emails, second hand boat supplies, financial donations, and the pure enthusiasm for this lifestyle. I would have never made it this many miles if it weren’t for those things, if it weren’t for you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

Thank you.

STICK WITH US  –  WWW.ONABOAT.NET

 

FIRST . VIDEO . EVER . And possibly the last.

HEY THERE.  So here’s the deal, I made this video as a surprise for Luke Yeates at our wedding. We had a lot of footage from our Atlantic crossing, and passage from England to Portugal. He had been asking me to string it together all year, and I was avoiding it cause I was overwhelmed by the amount of (crap) footage.

Those of you who have been keeping up with us for a few years, know that I’ve never made a video like this and am a highly unqualified videographer. I put this together as a comedic take on our dynamics aboard S/V Desireé, to share with friends and family at our very small wedding in Scotland. It is unfiltered. I swear a lot. I had no intentions of sharing this publicly. I was back and fourth for the last few months on wanting to re-edit, cutting out the things I wasn’t comfortable sharing. F-bombs. A cigarette. Getting knocked down off of Portugal. The grumpy and irritable version of myself at sea. But I eventually concluded, who cares.

This is how it was, and a re-edit would be unfair. 

The brief back-story is as follows – When we got engaged, we decided we should attempt to sail across an ocean together, if we made it to the other side and still liked each other, then we would plan a wedding. And so we sailed, from Michigan to England, aboard my fathers 1962 Pearson Invicta 37′. It was my first ocean crossing. If you had asked me 5 years ago if I would have never imagined myself crossing an ocean, the answer would have been “absolutely not.”

This is A whopping 16 minute insight of our North Atlantic passage, where we crossed from Newfoundland to England summer of 2017, and England to Portugal, spring of 2018. I have not shared much information about our passage to Portugal, as it was in my opinion, much more challenging than crossing the ocean.  I haven’t quite worked out a way to put it all down. Please know, that I will eventually share it all with you. I promise. I am a retrospect kind of gal. I need time to process.

Desireé is currently on the hard, waiting for us in Portugal. We will return in November to prep her for Atlantic crossing no. 2. We promised my dad we would return his boat back to Michigan. Our tentative route home is loose. Sail south until the butter melts… and then hook a right. During the very long way home, we will be in search of “the next boat”. Our own boat. The boat that might possibly become our home until the end of time. Please send any good leads or suggestions our way, as we will be looking in the Caribbean, and along the East Coast.

At this very moment, Luke and I are at our home base in Michigan… just over here doing my thing at www.jzevalkink.com, while Luke works diligintly in the yard fixing up an old 18 foot catamaran. My head is down and I am in work mode until the fall. Come November, you can count on having us back. I miss writing. I miss being terrified on my night watches. I miss sweaty boatyard life. Friendly marina life. Exotic sea life. I never thought I’d see myself type this, but I MISS BLOGGING.

To be continued.

L a n d f a l l // PART IV

St. Agnes -16

ATLANTIC  //  PART IV

July 9 // Day 14 

Three days until landfall.

Coconut pancakes for breakfast. I spill coconut flakes all over the floor. I put more butter in the pan than any mother would allow. I think I’ve got a hold of myself until my I lose my cool and smash my hips against the knobs on the stove, again. I close the companionway and perch on the top step, my designated Captain’s chair when it rains. I crane my neck to peer over the dog house and keep watch ahead, although there is nothing to see here. Chest to stern I marvel at the large swell out of the north. I take a huge bite of my glorious breakfast, shamelessly smothered in maple syrup. All is well.

. . . . .

The moon beams brilliantly tonight, it can’t be viewed without squinting. Narrow eyes allow my pupils to adjust until I can make out its Swiss cheese surface, glowing cornices and mysterious cavities. I can see it all. I can see the odd shaped face we create out of the shadows and our imagination. He or she appears to be focused on bouncing light off the sun to brighten our ocean.  Thank you, Moon. Its glow washes out the stars and lights the deck like a stage.

Dead downwind with a full main and spinnaker, we surf. Desirée loves a strong tailwind and prefers being just a touch over-canvassed, until precarious gusts in the mid 30s threaten to explode the spinnaker. Luke asks me to come on deck and take the helm on my off watch. I’m already alert as I’ve been down below anticipating the possibility of my assistance.  He tethers in, and steps onto the moon-lit stage. He drops the spinnaker into its sock without trouble and raises the staysail, using a boat hook to pole out the clew. I devote myself to the helm and must ignore what Luke is doing, for we are in prime gybing and broaching conditions. If I lose focus for even a moment, one roller will catapult our cedar boom across the cockpit.  Full lock to full lock the following seas have us working as a diligent team.

During my moonlight watch, I struggle to hold us dead downwind as it insistently demands two hands on the helm and zen concentration. Each rolling wave fills and then snaps the staysail until our make-shift boat hook pole is flapping around ineffective. When I discover the perfect course to keep the staysail full, the main sail threatens to gybe and I see it creep astern. I correct the course before it’s too late and again the staysail looses its aerodynamics. Either I suck, or these waves suck, or this course sucks. I settle on the fact that I suck so I try harder. 

The depth sounder picks up something and starts beeping at me. The VHF picks up the coast of Ireland and I hear Irish men speaking from inside the cabin. I sail to the tune of garbled Irish with a very high pitch beeping base. The price you have got to pay to maintain 8.5 knots downwind.

JULY 10 // DAY 15

I’ve been curious about what happens to those who spend days, weeks, months at sea. My time frame will amount to 17 days at sea, and 86 days in the water from Michigan to England. With these days has come a composite of understandings. There has been a marriage of calculated decision making and luck. Luke and I have been able to cross this ocean with ease, unbuttoned, with wind at our back and manageable seas. I have felt a collection of emotions but shockingly, “scared” has not been one of them.

I walked into this a warrior, ready to face eternal rest if that’s where the ocean led us. Dramatic yes, the chances of death are slim… however, preparing for an ocean crossing forces you to imagine yourself in every blood-curdling situation. I was ready to meet god,  or some sort of divine enlightenment. Ready to redefine my idea of fear. Ready to inflate the life raft. Ready to sink into troughs of mountainous waves and feel the fire hose spray as we reached the peaks. I don’t know what I thought, but I suspected it to be far different from its reality.

I embarrassingly title my time at sea “World War Me” and I admit to the egocentricity of this title. 

A drunken brawl with my psychological self. In combat with my physical self. A dogfight with environmental wellness.  A duel with mother nature. Cyclical rounds of punishments and treats. Genuine panic and delight. Internal angst and ecstasy.

My front-line battles have been changing my socks and underwear. Nighttime nausea. Convincing myself to eat. Doing the dishes. Forcing myself to drink water. Talking myself out of irritability and exhaustion. Reminding myself to be nice to Luke, to take care of him, he is tired too. Telling myself a lot of lies in order to convince my body of warmth and happiness. Filling the silence with forced positive thoughts. Exercising patience. Working through every big decision I’ve ever made in my life. Desperately seeking motivation to do anything, to ease a sail, to adjust the Hydrovane, to fix what’s broken, to write to my family.

Mind over matter is what I’ve faced, and it’s not a particularly attractive face.  Just when I’m convinced my mind is too weak something reminds me that World War Me isn’t that hard and I need to calm the fuck down cause I’m perfectly fine. Often these reminders arrive in the form of an animal, hot meal, warm sleeping bag, cup of joe, Luke, or a message from home. When these reminders come, I promptly remove my head out of my ass and stand besides myself, recognizing that I couldn’t be any more lucky to be here. I collide with gratitude and all of the sudden I find myself tearing up at the sight of a Gannet diving for its supper. 

I haven’t needed a force 10 storm to humble me. I don’t need to come home with an un-relatable story or content for a best seller. Humbleness and I simply spent days staring into the vastness of the sea. Together we were fixed on the clouds, charmed by the swell, in incommunicable gratefulness. Completely powerless in our vicinity, yet powerful in all our decisions, for they have lead us here, to a place where we are nothing to no one. Just breathing beings in the world of feast or famine.

Speaking of feast (or shall I say famine) – we are out of beer, and chocolate. The first one to notice was my belly, it’s feeling less squishy. I hid two Budweisers in the bilge for landfall. My dry-mouth screams silently at the wooden floor boards and like Matilda, I lift the floor boards to access the bilge with my mind, and the last Budweiser soars gracefully to arms reach.

I’m losing it.

JULY 11 // DAY 16

100 miles to go.

I’m sitting on my peak, overlooking my castle which is protected from outsiders by a moat. A very large moat. Postured in my throne. What a life – I think. Proceeding to sip instant coffee mixed with carnation hot chocolate. My tummy is a bit unsettled at concluding a chapter which reads as if the words are too big for their pages. Within twenty four hours, we will reach the coast – a destination we’ve spent half a year and half our savings to get to. We could show up at the Sahara desert for all I care, whatever we see on the other side is going to be . . . perfect.

My book is moldy. Black spots dot the soggy pages. The American flag flaps flamboyantly with pride. The deck washed clean from fresh rain. The bamboo shroud covers chaf. The starboard cupboards collecting leaks. The ice box smells like litter. The cushions hide condensation. Two onions, an apple, a brown avocado, and packaged beets swing in their hammock.

Desiree slices 30 degrees into headwinds with a reefed main and staysail. Despite the much needed interior detox, she propels forwards like a well maintained aircraft. Confident. Content. Seaworthy.  If she’s anxious to get to the finish line or wants to keep going I cannot tell, this is where we harmonize. The sky glows at 3:30 am, and is sure tell tale that the earth is still spinning. No need to rush now. Almost there and suddenly I want to slow down. I think I am nervous.

 

JULY 12 // DAY 17

We are wide awake when we spot the light of Bishop Rock through the mist.

This is it. This is landfall.

We bicker about arriving in the darkness versus first light. I want to slow down and wait for daybreak. Luke wants to get there and anchor in the blackness. I let him win and hold a grudge of disappointment because I’m being a brat and because I imagined seeing land and feeling safe, versus going in blind and feeling stiff and anxious.

My superstition is telling me to be very careful. We’ve made it this far unscathed. It’s not too late to mess up. Luke is at the helm having so much fun and I’m a little jealous. We have a 20 knot breeze just off our port stern, and are flying along at 7 knots. He is a happy man, I sit aside him an anxious woman. The depth sounder is reading off 70, 60, 50, 40 feet. Through the mist and spurts of rain we make out sections of rock off our port side, I stare diligently at our GPS because I can’t see anything else, and read out course changes as we navigate the south side of the Scilly Isles.

We turn hard to port and head northwest into St. Agnes Bay. I crank over the engine and drop the sails. Luke steers us in. Half a mile into the protection of the surrounding rocks, everything goes quiet.

The wind lets us be.

The mist refrains and the clouds begin to divorce.

Patchwork of stars and a blanketed moon cast light on the anchorage.

We set the anchor twice before we are able to trust. On round two, we are rooted to the earth.

Only two other boats in the neighborhood. I want to go wake them up, and tell them what we have just done. But I don’t. Instead I go to the bilge, and retrieve our last two Budweisers.

We sit in silence and taste the joy of stillness, the pleasure of untroubled waters. Each bubble of carbonation brings with it a sigh of relief, accompanied by a grin. Nothing significant needs to be said. We are safe. We are proud. We smell the sub-tropical earth and float in a pond under the stars. I can’t wait to see where we are. We sit closely in the cockpit until first light.  By 5 am, we are for the first time in 17 days, able to lay down and sleep together.

Everything. Is. So. Still.

We black out.

JULY 13 // THE SCILLY ISLES 

One could argue that taking half a year to dedicate my life to sailing across an ocean, leaving my friends and family behind to worry, was a selfish act. I’ve been completely wrapped up. Utterly single-minded. I would have done wilder things to make sure Luke and I could sail across the Atlantic. No one was going to change our minds. I’ve taken all of my energy, all of everyone else’s energy – for this crossing.

These ventures are not intended to last forever, they are simply earnest curiousities that must be understood. Ravenous appetites for something more difficult than the life of convenience to which most of us are acclimated.

It’s all done now. We are unharmed. Clear headed and all yours. 

I take home with me the exact same woman who left 86 days ago.

I don’t want to be comfortable, I want to be a little scared. I don’t want to feel stuck, I want to wander. I don’t want to waste any time, not mine, not yours, I want to spend it wisely. I don’t care if I am a great sailor, I want to be a great partner. I don’t care if I am the best in my line of work, I care if I am an honest friend. I don’t care if I have a lot of money, I care that I use what I make in my best interest. I don’t care to toughen myself, I care to live wildly. I don’t care to impress anyone, I care to find my limits.

Above all I want to make certain the love I have for my family and friends is very, very clear to them. This I notice most when I am far removed.

Be brave.

Seek flexibility.

Avoid unfavorable influence.

Create your own opportunities.

Love. A LOT.

Have fun.

Thank you friends, family, and enthusiasts for sticking around till the end…

and to those who kindly went the extra mile :

CRUISING OUTPOST

MAZU

HYDROVANE

HYDE SAILS

EDSON MARINE

GILL NA

B&G

Desirée // Dad // Mom // Sister // Alice // Peter // Bob & Jody Lipkin // Tom & Deb Becker // Bob & Madeline Vreeland // Jason Thibodeau // Jack Gifford // Mallory Sheets // Cody Brown // Erica Weindruch // Katie Smith // Olivia Gilmore // Adam Cove // Dan Steffee // Sam Carter // Felicia Kas // The Molestas // Michelle Grantham // Ashley Bush // Anna Shrift // Jake Byers // Reid Murphy // Mark & Kerry Warehem // Pierre Laurin // Margot Hall

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ATLANTIC // PART III

A t l a n t i c -101

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.

A t l a n t i c 4th-2

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.

A t l a n t i c -36

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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