113 | This ridiculous human spirit
113 | This ridiculous human spirit
Reading time: 6 minutes
WHAT’S HAPPENING NOW
We’re on the second day of our six- or seven-day passage from Tonga to Tuvalu.
Miles to go: 680
Air temp: Very warm but comfortable. Probably 77F. (Our thermostat inside the cabin quit working. Add this to the list of small things, below.)
Conditions: Variable winds from about 5 knots to 14, on the beam. 10-14 is enough to move our big boat; 5 is not. We are alternating motor-sailing with straight up sailing as the winds shift. Seas are friendly.
Listening to: Ludovico Einaudi. Harry’s listening to the Pacific War podcast.
Reading: “Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow” by Gabrielle Zevin.
Watching: Nothing yet. We’ve been mildly see-sick so haven’t been watching screens.
Recent meals: Fried eggs with toast for breakfast, homemade yogurt with bananas, apples and a little granola for lunch. Spaghetti (my Mom’s recipe) for dinner. I made a big batch before we left NZ and froze it so we could have spaghetti, our favorite, for the first night of each passage.
I’m amazed we were able to get all our fixes done in just two weeks in Tonga. There are always bonus projects on top of regularly scheduled projects, the kind that take trip after trip to the hardware store for exactly the right bolt. This did indeed happen for us but somehow (Olini) we are still hitting our timeline so we can be crossing the Northern Pacific Ocean from the Marshall Islands to Sitka, Alaska at the ideal time: June and July. After a brief rest in Tuvalu we sail to the Marshall Islands. When we get to the Marshall Islands I’ll feel like we’re actually going to be able to do this sprint home in the narrow window between cyclone season in the southern hemisphere and hurricane season in the northern hemisphere.
THIS RIDICULOUS HUMAN SPIRIT
I’ve been marveling over the ragged emotional landscape we’ve been navigating the last few weeks. It’s fair to say that the mishaps both big and small that we encountered on our passage from New Zealand and afterward led us both to the lowest point of this two-year adventure. We were overwhelmed by the struggle bus day after day. The cascade of things requiring immediate attention seemed to have no end. Big things you already know about, like replacing the freshwater pump on the diesel engine so we could use it again. But I think it was the litany of small things that broke these camels’ backs.
A small thing like visiting three different hardware stores to find a bolt for the new alternator, then getting back to the boat with the new bolt and realizing we’d left our Ziploc bag with a part for the alternator at one of the stores. Or needing to follow the harbor rules and tie the boat stern-to (called “Mediterranean mooring” or “Med-moor”), but winds are high, the dinghy engine doesn’t work and there’s nothing on shore to tie the lines to because the rules don’t always have the infrastructure required for compliance. It’s like we were on a roller coaster with only the downslide available. We just kept seeing problem problem problem as we coasted down down down. These were tough, tough days for both of us.
But I don’t want to talk about all the hard. I want to talk about what happens after the hard, when things start going better. We get the package with the replacement freshwater pump from DHL. We find the right size bolt for the alternator bonus project. We don’t drop any tools in the bilge. We complete the freshwater pump installation and trade the old alternator for the spare (we had a spare!) and everything works! The roller coaster is slowly ratcheting back up the hill. I see fewer problems because there are actually fewer problems.
This is where it gets complicated. At first I keep reminding myself about the drop that’s sure to come. We’re on the upswing now but something will break. We don’t know what it’ll be. Something will go wrong. We don’t know when. We only know it’s a sure thing. Life on the ocean is brutal and punishing because the winds and the sea are exactly that. Nothing mitigates their force. It’s impossible to understand the destructive nature of the ocean unless you’ve spent days in her clutch. Anything can happen.
I’m reminding myself this even as we’re on the rise, clacketing clicketing upward in our fragile spirit. I’m kind of annoying about it. I won’t let up. I can’t let it go, this idea that just because things are going well now doesn’t mean this positive spin will continue. I can’t let joy seep in. Every time my spirit tries to become lighter, I strong-arm it with “anything can happen.” Don’t you dare get out of line and be merry. Don’t you dare start trusting the universe again. See where that got us?
I know why I’m doing this. It’s because I can’t take the hits anymore. I can’t take the emotional wallop of disappointment, despair, worry and stress. I’ve taken all I can and now I’m closed. Done. Nothing left. And obviously the key to protecting myself from disappointment, despair, worry and stress is to remain as vigilant as possible. Do. Not. Let. Your. Guard. Down.
Then something righteous happens. I get weary of constantly looking over my shoulder. I’m not used to that. My guard is unexpectedly heavy and keeping it up is uncomfortable. It’s tiring to be so vigilant. I haven’t behaved quite like this before. I’m becoming unrecognizable to myself, and I don’t like this version of me that’s showing up. I can see that my fear for the future is robbing me of joy in the present. It’s such an Instagram meme thing to say but as I’m living inside it I know it’s true.
I think for a while about how to move on from the vigilance. I can only come up with one reasonable option: I just have to ignore what might happen. I have to pretend “what might happen” doesn’t exist. There’s a time and a place for anticipating what might go wrong and this isn’t it anymore. Mainly because nothing’s going wrong *right now*.
I feel a lightness when I realize how easy it is to make this shift from “anything can happen” to “nothing’s happening right now.” This is who I am with my relentless optimism. This is the me who helped handle the boat in the dead of night with no navigation instruments. This is the version of me Harry knows and loves. But. There’s a small part of that other person, the one who’s a little jaded, a little distrusting of the universe now, a teensy bit pessimistic, who maybe should join me for a conversation from time to time. Short conversations, meant to be helpful, not harmful. Just gentle reminders. I’m not sure yet if these two parts can live in harmony. It seems like that depends on what happens next.
WHAT’S NEXT
The first few days of a passage are full of cat naps as we get used to our night watch schedule. That’s what we’re doing, in between staring vacantly into the middle distance as we adjust to the motion of the seas. We were a little unsteady on day one but now my appetite has returned and I’m constantly daydreaming about what to cook next.
Love always,
Joy