Holding My Breath

Maybe I’m nervous because it would feel disingenuous to be too optimistic.  Maybe the manta ray sized butterfly in my stomach is a good thing.  Maybe I put too much pressure on myself to validate this weird need to sometimes be uncomfortable.  Maybe it’s because I’m turning fifty and I need to remind myself of my relevance. 

When we bought our first sailboat 2.5 years ago, a 331 Beneteau, we did it with stars in our eyes and discovery in our hearts.  We did it with a bit of a “stick it to the man” attitude.  We were in the mood for a romantic affair with freedom.  

What we found hasn’t been what we would describe as a learning curve but a pro-pulsed rocket ship.  Straight up.  We’ve taken sailing courses but, most of our lessons have been served on a platter of “oh…that’s why we don’t THAT!”.   Those all hands on deck moments where a brief eye to eye glance serves as a signed and sealed agreement between Darin and I to “never do it that way again!”.   Those experiential, palpably branded snippets which mark the certain mistakes that you hope to make only once.

Someone once said that "Sailing is basically hours and hours of boredom interjected with a few moments of sheer terror”.   I think sailing is like a dance with the water but only when I can remind myself that I’m not a wrestler and even if I was, this isn’t a match I’d ever win.  It’s an omniscient reminder that being in “control” is nothing but a glassy, mouth watering illusion. 

I was up for hours last night, anticipating what could and might and may happen next week when Darin and I, along with our 19 year old son, Marco leave our current sailing home on the Columbia River, to cross the notorious Columbia River Bar, to head onto the Pacific and then north for 140 nautical miles, with an anticipated arrival to Neah Bay on the Straight of Juan de Fuca, 28 hours later.  

I realize that for a seasoned sailor, this trip may be as easy as a cup of tea.  But for us, a 28 hour non stop trip on pacific is a large morsel to digest.  Once on the pacific, we have to stay about 30 miles offshore because of the danger of crab pots.  At 30 miles offshore, you can see land if it’s a clear day but, it looks like that fake shadowy background that you think you can see clearly if you squint.  It’s close but far.  We’ll be sailing just following a new moon, making for a darkness which is very real. Let’s face it, we’re not exposed to true darkness very much,  even when we try.  This pure darkness though, should bring with it, bright bioluminescence. If there was a way to bribe the phosphorescent plankton to show up for my night shift at the helm, I might become corruptible.

For now, as I clench my teeth at night, caught up in the “what if the swell builds?”, “what if the wind changes?”, “what if something happens with the boat?”, “what if Marco doesn’t tether himself during his night shift?”, “what if we have a man overboard?”, “what if we did decide to stay home and play pickle ball instead?”, I remind myself that I am married to MacGyver, that my husband is the ultimate boy scout and that nobody else in the world makes me feel safer than he does and that my son Marco, is a born Captain Ahab and I remind myself that the alternative is to not do it.  And then what?

As for me, I’ll show up as the best first mate and ship’s cook I have in me.  I’ll be diligent about the weather, the logbook, the repetitive tasks and I’ll knock the crew’s socks off with the food I’ll serve as my love language.

I also promise myself to continue toi note that when I’m on or in or near the ocean, my hair curls, my feet soften, and my skin glows. 

And. I’ll reming myself that if mermaids do exist, they are my sisters.