Re-membering the Gears

The gears are blackened with old grease, flecked white with deck paint, crusty with remnants of salt. Springs broken, plastic collars worn. I lift metal off metal and bathe it all in paint thinner. My lungs burn. I can feel the brain cells dissolving with the grime.

Along with the tension.

When I was asked to clean the winch, I froze, heart pounding. I haven’t done that in years…if ever (by myself). Is this something I can do? But I’m not detail oriented. I might lose a pawl spring, forget to put that gear thing back into the gear holder thing, neglect getting all those paint chips out of crucial crevices. 

We need these to work. Without these, we can’t control the sails. If we can’t control the sails we can't sail to Alaska. If I don’t sail to Alaska I’m not sure what else I can control in my life, not like I can control what happens there. 

This tiny winch feels like so big right now, all these levers and springs and gears in motion. 

Or not. Why is this winch seized?

A moment later in my head, gears cracking into motion: This is bullshit. I've sailed tens of thousands of miles offshore. I can fix a goddamn winch. 

Yes. Bring it.

The metal feels good in my hands. Smooth and circular on the outside, sharp edges of screws and springs inside. I retrieve bits from the stripping liquid and brush off old uselessness. I swipe on fresh grease, a promise of motion in tiny slippery particles. Help me out here, OK? I whisper to the solid teeth of gears and the forgiving push of springs. You are not lost. You go into your places and I reassemble your body into a clean new you. 

Reborn.

Circular clips over shiny metal plates. In place. It (I) feels secure when I fit the handle into its grooved home and spin. My arm knows what to do. The lightness that fills my body is unmistakable. This is home, this feeling. With each revolution I am revitalized, spinning in memories of oceans and wind, trimming in energy and making fast this knowing. 

I know. My body knows. My heart knows. Revolution. 

No fear, just spinning and motion and yes.

Remembered.

Down the Shadowy Hatch

“Adjustable wrench. And ¾ socket. Fuck those guys.”

I hand Captain L. the tools and nod in agreement. “Those guys” from the boatyard are now 700 miles south of our stern and are the reason we are tossing about the ocean without the ability to steer. They repaired the rudder this winter but weren’t necessarily the most fastidious of workers. Fuck em. But cursing them doesn’t help our situation now. So L. is crammed in the stern compartment of the boat where the rudder post and steering cables do their magic. Or in this instant, don’t, because something slipped out of place and now has to be jacked up and tightened. But even with loosening and tightening, hammering and shivving, something’s still wrong and the steering quadrant is hitting a bolt and preventing the rudder from going to port so here we are doing circles to starboard 100 miles off the coast of Jersey. 

Our autopilot quit working on the second stormy night and the navigation instruments keep shutting off at crucial moments. Half of the navigation lights shorted out. We lost the dinghy that was being towed behind. I lost my favorite hat overboard. L. continually tells stories about the last delivery where the engine crapped out. What else can go wrong? He wonders if the rudder has slipped down (if it slips all the way down and out of the boat it means we start sinking) but quickly abandons that thought at closer inspection. 

My first thought is: I am so glad this didn’t happen last night when the wind was blowing 35 knots and the seas were choppy 10 footers and the squalls dumped rain on us for hours straight and if we had been spun around in circles it would have been a Very Bad Scene. 

My second thought is: SeaTow! If we can’t get this fixed then we can get towed into port. I’m pretty sure they come out this far.

“Crow bar. Hammer. This better fucking work.”

I am looking down into the compartment full of sturdy metal plates and tubes and cables. The aluminum hull of the boat curves to meet the deck where I sit, a pile of tools next to me glinting in the sun. The breeze is light rendering our sails useless, the swells are gentle but still cause the boat to sway with every glassy crest, the smell of the briny water of the North Atlantic teases us about how close to port we have come. We are just below the shipping channels of New York Harbor and the chatter of cargo ships and fishing boats dominates the radio. 

And here we float. 

I want to help somehow so I hand down tools and give words of encouragement. I don’t talk of sinking or SeaTow. I ask questions about the mechanisms in the shadows and try to absorb as much as I can about fixing quadrants. I want this to be fixed quickly but I know that these things take time. The old “hit it with a hammer” or “just caulk it” or “just wait and see if it fixes itself” solutions aren’t usually actual solutions. They are ways to put off the inevitable repair or replacement or abandonment of something that isn’t working. 

In my own personal life I often avoid the real work of sitting down with the parts and pieces, taking the time to tune into the true damage at hand. Like my experience with a broken transmission whose insides were decimated by vibration: it wasn’t because of a faulty transmission but due to the engine mounts not being secured properly to the boat. It was a foundational problem, not a defect in mechanics. No matter how many times the transmission is replaced, if you don’t get to the core problem, the health of the whole system is compromised. 

“It’s not perfect, but hopefully it will get us in.” 

L. climbs out through the hatch and wipes sweat from his sunburned forehead. He’s grumbling but I can tell he’s proud of his repair. I carry the tools over the deck and down below to the canvas bag where they will wait patiently for another breakdown. This being a boat, that won’t be long. 

I step out on deck, look out to the blue sky empty horizon, and decide that I don’t want to jury rig my life anymore. I don’t want to immediately call for someone to come and save me when there is really no danger, no need to be saved. I am ready to break out the tool box and sit with the problem until I can truly see what is broken. I am ready to tinker and try different angles, different tools and call in the experts for help if need be. Storming away from my problems hasn’t worked so far, so I’m ready to turn around, lower myself into that shadowy hatch, and get to work. I am ready to roll up my sleeves and get greasy in this life.

I take the helm and steer us north. Back towards land, back towards “real life” where I will get a chance to pull out my tools one by one and tinker and try.  

And steer this life of mine. I cannot rely on Autopilot anymore.  

Perspective

.

There is a tug in my belly to go up, out.

Sometimes I forget there is an outside (this stove, fridge, bunk).   

I emerge from the galley into the blackness of night. The boat heaves and rolls as each swell barrels past the invisible reef and sways the hull, the mast swinging the anchor light like a pendulous comet. 

I climb onto teak and peeling rubber, glass and metal. I feel my way forward, steel guidelines in my hands, salt crusting on my fingertips as I go. At the bow I sit near the anchor chain, where it has disgorged itself from the boat and leads forward into murky water. The chain speaks with the passing of every wave, every gust of wind pulling it taut against rope and metal. I speak to the anchor, that little lump holding us in the middle of this dark bay, off the reefs, off the island. How much we depend on something so small and fierce! Dig in deep little one! 

My eyes adjust to the surrounding black, to the pinpoints of light overhead. I still don’t understand the Milky Way: how can we see it so clearly up there if we are a part of it down here? How can it be a sprinkled band across the sky if we are encompassed by it? Where does it begin and end? The stars don’t answer my questions, the Milky Way blushes at my ignorance and throws a worn stream of light my way. I make a wish, tear at my ribcage to open it to courage and love. 

I sway with the swells, the mast, the comets in all their forms. The darkness embraces me, the wind lustily kisses my neck, the water flashes silver with mystery. I want to capture this feeling, to jar it for the next day when the heat and this relentless cough and oftentimes meaningless work overwhelm my spirit. 

The wind shifts and the southern swells are less noticeable as they approach the bow and we ride into them. They are still there, still stroking the hull with salty memories of deeper water, but I cannot feel their influence in this moment and forget (exactly) how it felt to sway and heave in the past. 

It is all about perspective. 

I jar that thought, full of gratitude, and head down below to sleep.