Bright Eyes

Bright Eyes­­­­______

Hard passages generally bring many things into question. Doubt and new born wondering sneak into the dark corners of your mind. You have to ask yourself why the hell you put yourself through this shit. A fair question. And these questions lead deeper. You look at where you stand, what you have accomplished, and where you have failed or been blinded.

These last few days the introspection has been winding and swirling deeper and deeper. The thoughts, some negative, some comic, some serious—have been whirling around without tether linking them together in anyway meaningful. Well, until tonight.

After a regatta in honor of the new Tongan king Will and I went to the post party at the Mermaid bar, which is actually a restaurant overhanging the water—we climb straight from the dinghy into the restaurant. I saw a man I’ve been wanting to talk to for some time, a guy I briefly met in Western Samoa. His name is Trevor and he has a boat that is different from the rest. It’s a boat that can go and do anything. It is a boat that woke me up and reminded me of what I am supposed to be doing.

What am I doing? (One amongst the swirl.)

When I left Port Townsend I had a pretty good idea of what I wanted to do. But I was green then. My goals and dreams were idealized and theoretical. Reality always paints herself more vividly and with her colors she distracts us, mesmerizes us and we wander in a path that seems to suite us. But is this the way we wanted to go? I’m not sure.

But I am going, and that is something at least. Yet now I am standing back and looking at ground covered. My eyes have adjusted to the life here, a year has rolled past and I am not as green as I once was. I have worked; I have played, been sunburned and sick, been alone and surrounded by friends. So. . .what have I to show for it?

I have had some of the greatest experiences of my life, some of my happiest times. Diving was nearly an obsession, wonderfully so. But I see I have also been diverted; I have drifted a bit from what is more vitally important. I will admit to myself though, that I am not fully to blame.

Traveling the south pacific is like a carnival ride: Move, move, move some more. Island after island. Similar and different. Visas expire or typhoon season approaches. Move, move move. The clock always ticks. Visit a few anchorages, take some pictures—next. Choose one place over five others a hundred others. Can’t see them all. Choose well. And yet many choose the same. The coconut milk run is the standard route across the south pacific. It is good. And this is what everyone does.

And everyone knows more that I do; they have more experience. Hell, they even have a plan. They must know. And what is more is that they are all so great. This is without compare the most generous and giving and selfless community I have had the honor of being a part of. Words cannot describe. . . no amount of thanks can repay. I am at a loss. So why not follow them?

Why?

My dream is not their dream. What is in my heart may be different from what is in theirs. I have forgotten the face of my father as Childe Roland would say. But my talk with Trevor tonight has rekindled the light of my dusty plans.

I travel to learn, to experience, to grow, to push. Pleasure is a byproduct (don’t mock!). What has the south Pacific taught me? Yes, perhaps a fair deal, but it hasn’t been that way as a whole. It has been a pleasure cruise, like I said, a carnival. How much time have I spent on land? How many locals have I met? How many meals shared? How much local work / community service have I offered? The answers to these questions I am shamed by. They are feable.

I admit that it isn’t purely my fault. The south Pacific isn’t conducive to this sort of experience. There are so many islands to see and time is so short if you don’t wish to stay through til next year, which I don’t and wouldn’t—one must hurry. Then my options were limited to be true. But I still must see and recognize that this isn’t how I want to continue. I can’t allow myself the mental lassitude to simply, blindly follow the crowd. And thus far I have.

The trip to Tonga again made clear the shortcomings of my fair yacht, Araby. Instead of envying other’s, I’ve taken the position of making do with what I have. If I kept on as I am going—the milk run, the standard “easy” low latitude circumnavigation—my boat would serve me well. She is simple and fare.

But that isn’t my dream. I must push, I must work, I must grow. And for me that means cold places, high latitudes (and elevations). I need an engine. I need a boat that can carry greater amounts of supplies (food, water, and fuel). I need a boat that can sleep crew. These are mostly issues that are unresolvible with my current boat. I can’t make it bigger. I can’t make it stronger (steel). I can’t put a big engine in her and hundred gallon water tanks and food stuffs for a year. I can hardly fit one crew aboard.

Trevor has a boat called Ironbark. She is a Wylo design. Wylos are steel gaff-rigged cutters. Shallow draft, ¾ keeled centerboard, tabernacled mast. 32 or 36 footers. They are generally home built so there is some variety. They are designed as a “go anywhere cold” boat and this is rare these days, very.

They aren’t so pretty, but since first seeing the Ironbark I have become a bit enamored. It reminded me of what this is all supposed to be about. But I needed a talk with Trevor. I wanted to hear if what I was seeing was true to what I was feeling. Who is he? Where has he been? Why does he have such a boat?

We talked. Talking to Trevor was not like talking to the sailors I have met before. We didn’t talk about rigs or speed or weather patterns or the local market. We talked about freezing a boat into Antarctic ice for a winter, how, when you do this, the ice will actually pull the boat down instead of popping it up as I had thought. We talked about how to fillet a penguin (much like a duck, it seems), how you can keep warmer in Greenland because there is more snow and can pack it around the boat and make it into an igloo. And the skiing was better there. (Trevor is so far the only other sailor I’ve met who carries his skis and crampons aboard.) We talked about the preferablity to visiting the Patagonian channels in winter because of more stable winds punctuated with the few low pressure systems that slide through. Yes, it is colder, but the weather is drier and better all round. And then you find yourself at the Horn ready to head around and to Antarctica at the beginning of summer.

We talked of all things far from the cruising mainland, far, far from the coconut milk run. We were off the charts. Freezing oneself into a bay for an Antarctic winter was an idea Robin Fargason had had when I first started dreaming of sailing. I never imagined anyone else was mad enough to do it. And alone! But it is real. The dream is real. And I had almost forgotten, traded it for a bright and colorful life around the equator. Come, follow us, we know the way.

No. It’s time to remember. I won’t follow the group around the world. I likely won’t head back to the south pacific next year (though I may—the diving!!!). It is time to slow down and find my pace. I will stay in New Zealand a year if I can. I must relearn how to climb. I must participate in a community ashore once again.

Perhaps I will even sell my beloved boat and begin afresh, with a better idea of what I want and need to accomplish what I must. I feel I am back on track, the Path of the Beam leading to the Dark Tower. (I didn’t know I was lost—do we ever?)

It’s been so much fun though. Perhaps I wasn’t so much off track as slowly loosing my bearing. Either or. I feel refreshed. I once again can look forward and see clearly. I again have something I must go after and attack. I have missed it so. I will slow down I will head south sometime soon. I will work on my skills. I will participate in the world outside. To these I must be true.