Ocean Tales – Page 3 – On the Horizon Line

Ocean Tales, Reflections on Life, Sailing

We’re Halfway There on This Gyrating Merry-Go-Round

A gyrating merry-go-round,
we teeter-totter across the sea.
60,000 pounds of steel turned tiny rubber duckie at the whim of wandering waves.

The American flag whips in tatters, the stripes stripped into ragged ribbons.
Persevering. Presiding. Present.
Like the rest of us.

Each day a repeat of the next or the last
until the uneven rhythm of teeter-tottering echoes through
every cell, meal, word, step, dream.

Until — after 1,000 miles — you want to scream:
At the flogging sails snapping against your sunbaked nerves.
At your sleeping-again seasick husband leaving you to jellyfish stings in seawater dish suds.

Until — after 2,000 miles — you want to sing:
To the dolphins dancing in moonlight and the single orca that surfaces alongside.
To the power of passing squalls that bequeath gin-clear drops to drink.

Noise become your constant companion:
The goblin-growl of the groaning auto-pilot, the rattle of loose pots, the whistle of rigging.
The slide of hanging clothes, the swoosh of waves over your head as you sleep.

Back and forth, forth and back. Back. Forward.
My bones rocking, gnawing, rubbing, riding, swiveling.
My brains swishing and sloshing on the gyrating merry-go-round.

We chant to the sails: keep full.
We dance for the wind: don’t leave.
We plead to the waves: stay out.

We’re halfway there: can’t you tell?
The blue water looks bluer, the white clouds whiter.
Halfway is directly below my Montana home.

Over and up, down and around.
We circle a straight course.
I circle my own midline.

It’s all the same: a movie set of false sunsets and frothy whitecaps.
There is no middle, there is no end.
Or perhaps the middle is it’s own end.

I stare at starry skies, searching for my personal revelation.
I listen to waving seas waiting to hear the meaning of life.
I taste the salt on my shoulder, in my hair, hoping it will move me to meditate.

But revelations refuse to alight on our swinging mast.
Meaning can’t break through the noise and movement.
There’s no room for mediation amidst daily survival.

You have to stay still to receive the benefit.
You have to stay still to hear the ending.
We are never still.

Only a salty slingshot slippery sliding
rolling pitching creaking rocking flogging singing laughing
forever blue merry-go-round teeter-tottering across the endless sea.

galapagos brianna randall on the horizon line blog turtle

Ocean Tales, Outdoor Adventures, Traveling

48 Dreamy Hours in the Galapagos

We never thought we’d get to see the Galapagos on this journey. It wasn’t in the plan, mostly because it was so far out of everyone’s budget. Tourism fees are steep, and Llyr’s crew doesn’t have the time or money to fully explore these protected equatorial islands. In a twist of fate, though, our skipper decided to stop to refuel in the Galapagos and our boat was granted 48 hours in San Cristobal without having to clear in and pay the traditional fees. (Apparently, it’s usually only a 12-hour window, but the bureaucrats were taking a siesta when we arrived.)

Rob and I made the most of those 48 hours. We wandered the quaint seaside town, ate really good food like cheese-stuffed plantains and fish stews, hung out on park benches with sea lions, swam with giant sea turtles, chased big iguanas over volcanic rocks, and poked around shrubs looking at birds. While we’d love to spend a solid week or two exploring the amazing wildlife here, we both feel blessed to have been given this unexpected window to experience the Galapagos. Plus, the 2 solid nights of sleep without watches were almost as cool as the turtles. Check out some of the pictures of from our stop below.

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Ocean Tales, Sailing

The Dividing Line at the Equator

Crossing the equator is a big deal, especially in the nautical world. The event inspires all sorts of ancient rituals, traditions based in superstition, and bizarre offerings to King Neptune. In other words, it’s like all other events surrounding sailing.

Llyr crossed reached 0 degrees latitude on May 1st around 2:00pm. About an hour before we passed into the southern hemisphere, we also raised the Ecudorian flag up the boat’s maypole on this May Day, which I thought was a fun event in itself. All the ceremony inspired me to do two things: write a poem and make a strawberry cheescake. Rob was inspired to sleep on the stern (something he does a lot of at sea).

I threw a copy of my poem into the ocean, and we all devoured the no-bake cheesecake within seconds of crossing the equator. Although tradition is usually to spill some sort of liquor overboard in an offering to King Neptune, we opted for maple syrup harvested the McCutchen family farm instead. I swear I heard him burp in appreciation (or maybe that was Rob, after he ate the second piece of cheesecake).

Here’s my ode to the salty king, and my ditty to that elusive equatorial line.

The Dividing Line

Bulging, round, full to the seams;
The halfway mark. The dividing line.
She cuts across the swollen belly of the world
cinching through salty seas, lush forests, barren deserts, running rivers.

She expands just enough to harness
the energy, the life, the breath.
And no more.

Beyond this line lies space. Time. Infinity.
Moons and stars and galaxies.
Beneath this line lies one half and above it the other.

They are not identical twins, but rather separate globes
that contain different swirls and whorls and echos of patterns.
There is no physical boundary; no gate, nor wall, no fence nor skin.

Just an invisible line
bulging, round, full to the seams.
The halfway mark. The dividing line.

The swollen belly of the world
that perpetually births two halves
that make a perfect whole.

Ocean Tales, Sailing

My New Surreal World – On Night Watch

Standing watch alone tonight, my new world looks surreal. The moon isn’t up yet, and dark cloudy skies blanket the dark roily ocean. All I can see is the splash of white foam over the bowsprit, lit greenish-pink by our navigation lights as we pitch and roll up, over, down, sideways. Two white birds circle our bow, flirting with the foam.

These birds give me peace in the dark seas at 1:00am. They’re masked boobies (yes, that’s the techincal name) 400 miles from the nearest land. The pair show no signs of tiring as they ride the wind wave our bow creates. What the hell are they doing here? What the hell am I doing here? Who’s idea was this, anyway? Oh, wait…it was mine. I stifle a yawn, trying to take a cue from the tireless birds keeping me company.

My watch partner, Rob, is passed out in the forward berth, calming his seasick. The rest of the crew is below, asleep or trying to be. The creak of the sails hard against the wind and the moon rising through rain clouds makes me feel like I’m in a movie. Is this really my reality? It sure is. We’re one week into a 4-5 week ocean corssing. And this week is the toughest part — not just mentally and physically as crew members adjust to the demands of the sea, but sailing-wise, too.

From Panama to the Galapagos, we had to traverse the dreaded ITCZ (inter-tropical convergence zone), an unstable lightening and storm-prone area where northern and southern hemisphere weather patterns collide at the equator. And the wind and waves aren’t really in our favor, which means motor-sailing, rolly-queasy seas, and nights like this one with salty waves breaking over the bow as we point our nose hard against the wind. It’s not the kick-back-with-a-cocktail tradewind sailing many people associate with crossing the Pacific.

We hope to hit those easier tradewinds tomorrow, the magical and fabled winds that smooth the ride and push us 3,330 more miles across the Pacific. But the wind is a fickle mistress, no matter how much we beg, praise, cajole, threaten. She’s got her own agenda, and ours doesn’t factor in. Luckily my agenda is pretty loose: get to some cool islands sometime soon.

So far? It’s been interesting. No seasickness for me, though Rob’s been feeling not-so-hot about half the time. Not as scary as I’d thought, either: I love the waves, the ocean, the rain, the clouds. And not as sedentary as I was worried about it, since my muscles are constantly firing to adjust to the perpetual motion and keep me from falling off the boat.

But the voyage is also a little more frustrating than I’d thought, in terms of having to make constant decisions on course, sail trim, or whether to use the motor. Luckily, all of our week-long backpacks and river trips in the wilderness taught Rob and me how to live with little water, cook creatively with odd provisions, live communally with others 24/7, and deal with fluctuating emotions in demanding circumstances. The key phrase in that last sentence is “week-long,” though.

The next couple of weeks at sea will be where the rubber meets the road. Where we settle into routines, responsibilities, the roll of the boat. Where the fresh produce runs out and we start on the canned peas. Where the novelty of surreal night watches wears thin. Where the birds stop visiting our bow as we lose all scent of land. Where the salt crystals start to layer in epic proportions, crusting our clothes, pillows, eyes, senses.

I sure can’t wait to see how this story unfolds.

NOTE: We’re currently stopped in the Galapagos for a brief provisioning stop. It took 8 days to sail from Panama to San Cristobal Island here, and we expect it will take 25-35 days to reach the Marquesas when we leave here tomorrow.

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Ocean Tales, Reflections on Life

Setting Sail Today

We’re leaving shore today. No more docks, stores, or easy access to electricity and freshwater. No more walks or laundry or internet for at least a month. People asked me all the time before we left home if I was scared. I wasn’t then. Today, I’m definitely nervous. But, personally, I think it’d be pretty weird if I didn’t have any butterflies in my tummy.

The skipper asked if I could envision the vast blue space we’re about to enter. I answered that I’ve been picturing it for decades, along with the emotions and attitude that vast space will invoke within me. But these visions still don’t allow me to wrap my mind around not seeing land for 30-40 days. Around not leaving Llyr’s 800 square feet, or the company of the 6 people I’m with.

Sometimes I try and picture all of us moving around our living room and kitchen in Missoula, which is about the same size. It makes me laugh, and it makes me itchy. But it also isn’t accurate, as I can’t overlay that image with the true scene at sea. I can’t predict how the wind and salt and night watches and waves and seasickness and awe and fear and excitement and irritability will factor into sharing that vast blue space and that tiny boat space.

It’ll be an adventure, that much I know for sure.

Brooks and Janis call our trip “the expedition.” I like that term, and have started calling it such in my head. Our expedition began with the Panama Canal crossing, with a brief 2-day stop in Panama City where we finished provisioning errands. Before heading out into the very vast blue, we’ll anchor a night or two in Las Perlas, a lovely set of islands 40 miles off the coast of Panama. This will let us work the kinks out of the sails, practice emergency and safety measures like hoving-to and launching the sea anchor, and get used to the pitch and roll of a boat at sea.

After that, though, it’ll be a long time without land. We may see the Galapagos as we sail north of them, but we may not. Next stop: the Marqesas Islands. When we touch soil again, we’ll be 4,000 miles west of here, and a whole lot wiser about ocean expeditions.

We’ll be setting a track with our nifty DeLorme InReach every few days. Follow our voyage on this map.

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Ocean Tales, Sailing

Panama Canal (Take Two): Watch Us In Action Tomorrow!

After 9 days on this dock in Shelter Bay Marina, Llyr is finally ready to head to the Pacific. Our slated Panama Canal crossing is set for tomorrow, April 20th, at 3:45pm. Rob and I are the resident experts aboard after our crossing earlier this week, and are primed to avoid the monkey’s fist and keep lines tight during round two.

Want to watch us in the Canal? You can click here to see us via a live webcam in the 3 different Gatun Locks on Saturday between 3:45pm and 6:00pm. If you miss that, we’ll be in the Miraflores Lock between 11:00am and 1:00pm on Sunday. These are the local Panama times, and I believe we are in the same time zone as Chicago (honestly, though, keeping track of time zones has been a low priority for Rob and I this first month of traveling).

Just click the tabs on the website corresponding to those two lock names, and we’ll be in the lime green sailboat with 2 masts. We might be rafted up with other boats, or all on our own. Either way, we’ll definitely look small next to the giant cargo ships! Rob might moon the camera, but no promises.

After we get through the Canal, blog posts will be fewer. It doesn’t mean we aren’t writing a lot, and thinking about all of you — it just means internet gets spotty, and we have to focus on riding the wind and waves for the next month.

Rob’s favorite pre-Canal crossing project: welding the kayak to fix the giant rip in its bow. Hopefully we won’t need to fix any new holes after our Canal transit.

Fishing, Ocean Tales

Embrace the Now

Rob pulled himself into the dinghy. “Man, I sure wish I’d had our GoPro down there,” he told me, pulling off his mask. “How cool would it have been to get video of those sea lions side-swiping us?”

We’d just snorkeled off Los Islotes, a small rock outcropping north of La Partida island where we were anchored on our friend’s boat, Sea Raven. It’s famous for the sea lion colony that lives on the ammonia-scented, guano-stained rocks. And the fame is well-deserved: it was unbelievable to have humongous slippery mammals skyrocketing past us in the sea.

The lions, called lobos del mar or sea wolves in Spanish, honked and barked, blew bubbles when we got too close, and chomped on the millions of tiny bait fish shimmering like a silver wave just beneath the surface. This marine reserve looked like the Sea of Cortez must have looked a century ago – ripe with fish of all colors, shapes and sizes. It was quite a contrast to the more barren underwater scene near the rocks at our anchorage a mile south, where only a handful of smaller fish dodged hungry fishermen’s nets and lines.

We put some distance between ourselves and the clutter of tourist boats at Los Islotes, and snorkeled again at the next rock island. Rob swam around for 20 minutes, then jumped into the dinghy so I could do the same. This time, he didn’t say a word about missed opportunities behind a camera. He was full of stories of the world below: “I saw tons of trigger fish, and a huge surgeon fish! Did you see that sea lion glide in off the rock? This place is seriously awesome.”

That evening, we both stretched on the foredeck as we watched the red light of sunset roll down from the mountains and break across the sea. Rob pointed out turtles as they popped up to breathe (he’s seen approximately 43 turtles this past week, compared to my 2), and we followed a young sea lion that was playing between the catamaran’s hulls.

“You know,” Rob said, “I’ve been thinking about my time in Madagascar. I didn’t have any of that shit we just lost. I keep thinking it’s a blessing in disguise that our electronics got stolen. If I’d had the GoPro today, I would’ve been fiddling with cameras instead of just enjoying the dive, and I’d probably be inside editing the video right now instead of watching turtles swim in the sunset.”

It definitely still stings a lot that we lost all of the gear we so carefully researched and assembled. Mostly, though, it stings that we made dumb mistakes that led to that occurrence.

That sunset, Rob and I came to agreement that we don’t need to prove how cool and interesting this trip is, to ourselves or others. Sure, it’s natural to want to share our experience, and to capture remarkable moments to enjoy again later. But then you lose the now. The cost of recording those events means we’re behind a computer, camera or recorder, rather than fully experiencing how cool they are. The universe may well have been telling us that it’s our time to embrace the now.