Reflections on Life – Page 4 – On the Horizon Line

on the horizon line - sailing and traveling blog in mexico

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.

on the horizon line - cruising and travel blog

Reflections on Life

Finding Peace in La Paz

We just got back from a lovely meal with fellow Montanans who live here in La Paz. (I know: our recent posts make it like Montanans are rapidly colonizing Baja California). Josh Schroeder and his wife, Nieves, welcomed us into their home., and made us prawns, pasta and plenty of wine. We ate with his sister, mom and grandpa, who are down visiting. They commiserated over our losses, and shared some of their own more poignant and meaningful loss of a loved one. We laughed, broke some glasses, and heard stories of Josh and Rob catching exorbitant numbers of giant trout in Alaska.

Many folks have commented on how positive we’ve been after the rocky start to our voyage, including Josh, and his mom, Joyce. It made me realize a couple of things:

1) I haven’t shared the fact that Rob and I had many rough spots the past week. One of us gets cranky or frustrated or sad or pissed off at the situation at least once a day.

2) What brings us back from the low spots are people like the Schroeders, as well as of our other friends, near and far.

It does suck to get robbed, not because of the stuff that disappears, but because it’s an insult. It makes us feel dumb, naive, played, helpless. In fact, my morning today was one of my lowest spots yet, as I oscillated between clicking “buy now” on many of the items we just lost versus wanting to burn half the remaining 25 pounds of stuff I still have (it’s true: I packed too many clothes). I felt like La Paz and I will just never get along, as if we’re star-crossed lovers that can’t find a groove.

During the low points, I really miss my sister, and the girlfriends who know me inside and out. I wonder how, exactly, I think I can live without them for months on end. But then, hours later, I’ve found that total strangers feel almost as close as the family I ached for earlier. I’ve found that La Paz is peaceful at night, with bright stars overhead and a cool breeze that laughs away my feelings of fated doom and gloom.

If I haven’t portrayed the frustrations and pain, it’s because the low points are often overshadowed by the view from the high points. The voids fill. The troughs crest. All waves recede…and roll right on back in again.

on the horizon line travel and sailling blog - gringo in baja california - feet

Outdoor Adventures, Reflections on Life

My Body is a Shellfish

My whole body feels a like the inside of a shellfish. My skin is like an oyster, tender and supple, elastic and thin. My feet are as soft and smooshy as a snail, while my hands are as delicate and smooth as a scallop.

My shell has been pulled off, exposing me to a harsh new world. After being sheltered by walls and roofs for so many years, the buffer of buildings is suddenly gone. I have no office or house to protect me from the elements. My soft shellfish body is laid bare to sun, and uncovered for wind and sand to scour.

Rather than being swallowed whole like an oyster, I will metamorphose. My tender skin is toasting slowly in the desert sun, stretching tighter over my bones and ligaments. My soft feet, abraded daily by sand and stickers, are growing their own impenetrable barrier to protect my roots. My delicate hands are getting stronger, forming calluses that allow me to lift, carry, sift and pull.

This transformation is not a painless process. But the discomfort is a fair price to pay to make my body my new shelter.

chinese lantern wishes in baja california - on the horizon line sailing blog

Family and Friends, Reflections on Life

The Curse of the Chinese Lantern

The first five days of our trip were magical. Easy. Simple. Relaxing. Good people in a gorgeous spot, with few hassles and lots of laughter. We felt blessed.

So, on the fourth night with our current tribe of saltwater-loving friends on the beach in Pescadero, Baja California, we made a feast to celebrate the sun-filled joy. We barbecued over a wheelbarrow fire, played Yahtzee, told stories. And then we decided to light off a Chinese sky lantern to send our wishes to the heavens. These ancient floating orbs are like mini helium balloons, with a big paper body surrounding a little fire that lifts the lantern high into the night sky. Chinese holidays and celebrations often feature a lantern lift-off, a tradition reminiscent of blowing out birthday candles in the U.S.

After making sure the wind was right, we each made a wish and took pictures (not these, though, due to subsequent events) as the three-foot lantern ascended toward the stars. It started off slowly toward the north, then veered south at a fast clip as it hit winds in the stratosphere. The closer it got to the heavens, the more it looked like a star of its own. Then it faded out.

The next morning, the corpse of the blue lantern was in our driveway, about 30 feet from where we lit it off. The six of us looked at each other in complete confusion, and discussed the improbability — impossibility, almost — of the lantern landing back where it started, especially since we’d watched it cruise so far south. Bizarre, we agreed. Borderline creepy. We decided it must be good luck, because it made us feel better about the improbable return of our wishes.

Turns out, it wasn’t good luck. The very next morning, we awoke to find a trifecta of a shit-storm had descended upon our happy tribe: $3,500+ of our electronics were stolen, Katie had horrible food poisoning, and Alan and Bequia’s 16-year-old dog seemed to be heading to the heavens herself. We weathered the storms, said our goodbyes, and drove to La Paz to stay on Mark and Katie’s boat for the night. Our exhaustion had us leaving much of our gear in the car outside the marina, and heading immediately to bed. We awoke to find the shit-storm still in full swing: Katie and Mark’s car stolen, along with all of the gear inside.

Again, it seems improbable — impossible even — to have that much bad karma in a 24-hour period. The only plausible explanation is that we were cursed by the Chinese sky lantern. You’re not supposed to see your wishes return to earth when you’ve explicitly bequeathed them to the stars. Our wishes spiraled in reverse and exploded in our faces for a brief but intense reality-check.

Now for the good news: our friend Brandon gave us a kata before we left Missoula, blessed by Tibetan lamas. We broke it out last night and hung it from the boom to fight off the curse. It seems to be working. Katie and Mark will likely get insurance for the stolen goods, and already have offers of potential rides back to the States. Rob and I got an offer to go sailing for the next few days to nearby islands with a couple anchored here in La Paz.

The moral of the story? Be careful what you wish for, and always check the winds twice.

Bri in Little Blackfoot River in Montana - on the horizon line - clark fork coalition

Community and Culture, Reflections on Life

Farewell (for now) to Working for Freshwater

9 years. 5 legislative sessions. 100s of grant proposals. 28,000 miles of streams and rivers to speak up for. Dozens of floats, monitoring days, and presentations. Thousands of meetings, laughs, successes, snafus, late nights, and learning moments.

That’s just a sliver of what working for clean water means to me.

Today is my last day of work at the Clark Fork Coalition, a kick-ass high-powered conservation group that does good things for great rivers in Montana. I’ve worked for almost a decade in a variety of roles at the Coalition, and never once did I dread going to work. In fact, walking in the front doors almost always made me smile in anticipation of what the day might bring. This is due in large part to the remarkable people I was lucky enough to work with and for.

If you’ve ever worked for a small non-profit organization, you know that every employee is a jack-of-all-trades. We are writers, lobbyists, fundraisers, counselors, janitors, technicians, scientists, lawyers, explorers, tour guides, comedians and engineers — all in the same day. We are passionate and dedicated and motivated to make the world a better place. And we’re really fun, too.

The Coalition taught me a lot about how to make change happen — not just for the spectacular rivers and landscapes in Montana, but in my community, my country, my daily life. It taught me that water connects everything: big and small, urban and rural, personal and global, eating and drinking, forests and valleys, mountains and ocean.

Why, you might ask, would I quit such a fabulous job or pivot away from such an important cause? Because it’s the right time, and I can feel that deep inside. I don’t ever want to walk in the front door dreading the day, so I’m planning to leave while the smile is still on my face and the passion is still beneath my skin.

Plus, as I see it, we’re just moving downstream to explore. Granted, the Pacific is a lot bigger pond than the Clark Fork River, but I’m comforted by the fact that all of the clean water I worked to protect will be a part of the ocean that floats my boat.

I think my husband said it best in his farewell email to his co-workers at Trout Unlimited yesterday, so I’m going to let his words close out my farewell-for-now to the world of freshwater conservation:

I’m calling it quits. Not because I think there’s a better place to work or because I could make more money somewhere else, but because its just time. Its time for someone with a new perspective to take over my program, to infuse it with new ideas and enthusiasm. This track is starting to get awful familiar, and it’s time for me to find a new one.

I’ll be basically wandering for the foreseeable future, seeing some new places and people and trying to figure out what I’ll do next in my life. My wife and I have a once in a lifetime opportunity to cut ties and vanish for a couple years. We will be leaving March 26 with a couple of backpacks, some snorkeling gear and a desire to travel, sail and explore. Hitchhiking the ocean, some people have called it.

I don’t think that being unemployed will always be easy, but I’m sure it will be interesting. I want to say thank you for taking a chance on a bright-eyed idealist and giving me the opportunity, the skills and the flexibility to succeed. For that, I will be forever indebted. I feel truly blessed to have been your co-worker and part of an organization that has an excellent mission, hires good people and is just fun to work for. Keep up the good fight and remember that we’re all in that fight together. I’ll miss you.

– Rob

brianna randall at katie's wedding - on the horizon line

Reflections on Life

A Hair(y) Decision

Ok, I’m going to pause for a moment to be a bit vain. I don’t usually succumb to girly habits, but occasionally I obsess about something somewhat silly like a dress or shoes or jewelry. Today, it’s my hair.

I’m scheduled for my thrice-annual haircut tomorrow morning, and can’t decide if I should keep it long or chop it off. Part of me is itching to go short, sassy, sea-worthy. The other part of me knows that short and sassy will be a pain in the ass when I want to keep my hair braided or in a bun for days on end.

My dad and my husband both told me to just leave it long and wait to see how I feel when we get to Panama. But they’re boys, and can’t be trusted with

brianna randall on the horizon line - in british columbia — A fuzzy old pic from 1998. Check out those long braids I was rocking!

girly hair decisions … especially when the decision may result in me (or, yikes, Rob) hacking at my hair in the middle of the Pacific with some less-than-sharp scissors and no mirror.

I’ve had long hair most of my life. In fact, going through old pictures while packing last weekend made me realize I had WAY too much hair for many years. It’s never been shorter than shoulder-length.

Please help. I’d welcome some recommendations on what haircut makes the most sense for our upcoming sailing adventures (and is still girly enough to satisfy my fleeting vanity).

P.S. Thanks to SavageMama for this great post on dealing with her hair, which inspired me to share my own minor freakout.

brianna randall and cass kayaking the salmon river - on the horizon line — Here’s a pic where it’s shorter, plus it’s just a fun memory of kayaking the Salmon River with my sister.

brianna randall eating a mango - on the horizon line sailing

Family and Friends, Reflections on Life

A List of 10 Favorites – Here and There.

What I’m most looking forward to when we get there (and by “there,” I mean latitudes south of Montana and places more salty than not).

Remembering my dreams again.
Mangos and avocados.
Watching the stars and sun move across the sky.
Counting birds and dolphins.
Bioluminescence.
Time to meditate.
Humidity.
New cuisines, new cultures, new friends.
Having time to really listen.
Dancing on the bow of the sailboat.

What I’ll miss most about being here (and by “here,” I mean our home in the beautiful Rocky Mountain town of MisSOULa, Montucky).

My sister. And my parents. Cassidy and I have never been apart longer than 6 months, and I imagine the hole left in my heart without her nearby will ache often.
Girlfriends.
Mountains, and the crystal-clear creeks that flow from them.
Our dog.
Family dinners, followed by hilarious music jam sessions.
Baths.
Our couch (it’s seriously awesome) and king-sized bed.
The lack of bugs and infectious diseases.
Biking.
Watching the kids we love grow up.

full moon brianna randall on the horizon line blog

Reflections on Life

Full Moon Tears

The tears just keep on rolling. I could blame it on the full moon or hormones, both of which are certainly affecting my mood. But I’d be lying if I didn’t give credit to the fact I’m just plain sad to say goodbye to my loved ones.

I cry when I see our doggie bounding up to lick my face. I cry when my sister leaves to go back to her house. I cry when Kipper calls to tell me it’ll be hard to say goodbye. I cry when Margi gives me a hug and refuses to say goodbye. I cry when I bike across the creek and along the river that I’ve followed every day for a decade.

And I’ll probably keep crying for the next month, as the moon wanes then waxes again until it is just shy of full on the morning we fly away from my home.

saltwater cures with tears, sweat and sea

Family and Friends, Reflections on Life

Saltwater Cures All?

We’re flying home from Philly tonight. As this dark and quiet plane starts to settle down toward Montana, my thoughts are full of family left behind. It struck me during this visit how different we seem to the rest of Rob’s family (and maybe to lots of other friends and family, too). Along with the many exclamations of “wow,” “good luck,” and “really?”, many mentioned that they would never want to do what we’re doing.

Voyages into the unknown aren’t appealing to many people, when you get right down to it. That part doesn’t surprise or bother me. What does, though, is the fact that our less-than-normal desire to spend 2 years without a job, an itinerary or a destination incites worried heartache in our loved ones.

This trip made me appreciate the irony of our voyage — setting sail will reduce stress for us, but will increase stress for many of those left behind. There’s no such thing as a free lunch, my dad always said. And liberation comes with a price.

Today, the price was tears. We hugged goodbye Rob’s mom, step-dad, grandpa, brother, aunts, step-sisters, cousins. These hugs must last for at least a year, or — in most cases — several years. Sure, it’s hard to leave people behind. But it’s a lot harder to be left. Both take strength and faith. Being left also demands a sort of zen-like patience, as you must wait at the whim of impulsive explorers for word of safe passages.

Like anyone, I don’t like leaving those we love in tears. It’s been said that saltwater cures all, whether it’s tears, sweat or the sea. I bet I’ll need all 3 to get me through the coming changes. And I imagine our family will need a healthy dose of healing saltwater, too.

Reflections on Life

The Pinch Point

I don’t run, usually. Occasionally, though, tension builds up in my body and pushes toward my throat. Right about when it’s starting to choke me, I put on some shoes and start running.

It’s rare. Maybe 3-4 times a year. Today was one of those occasions.

About 2pm at the office, I ignored the multiple programs open on my computer and put on an ancient pair of tennis shoes. I started running downriver on the Kim Williams Trail near my office. The cold wrapped under my thin shirt, around my neck, snaking down my arms and chest. My feet started aching almost immediately, unused to the pounding.

My head didn’t clear, and it seemed to fill faster in rhythm to my stride. These days, it’s full of 70% work, 30% details surrounding leaving, and 30% social logistics geared to eeking out the most of my remaining time with friends and family. Yes, I know this adds up to more than 100. And that’s why I was running. It’s also why I’m writing this blog post at 11:25pm after finishing one last work task this evening. Writing and running provide a release.

Most days, it feels like my brain is just a reflection of my computer screen or iPhone: toggling every few seconds from program to program, task to task, call to call.

This is not a healthy way to live.

This is not a healthy way to leave.

This is not something that is going to change in the next 6 weeks.

I reached the California Street footbridge over the icy Clark Fork River. I looked down to see the whole river funneling into one very tight, narrow opening between the icy banks. My brain stopped toggling, and came to rest on this one spot. It reflected exactly how I felt this afternoon: a river of water moving toward me, pinching and dragging and towing me under … to what?

I walked to the other side of the bridge to see. The whole river went under a shelf of ice after that pinch point. It was a start contrast: fast, frenzied, loud as water funneled through the last ice-free section, then it went quietly under the ice. Still. Calm. Peaceful.

I breathed in the peace for a moment. But then I turned back to the chaotic pinch point, because that part of the river resonated more with me in this time of 130% brain-toggling tension. I turned back because it was comforting to see the tension dissipate into stillness, and because it renewed my faith that — just like the river — I will soon be through the pinch point and have room to spread and flow, quietly and calmly.