If you wanna work in exotic places...

Newport, Narragansett, Bermuda, Cape May.

The street signs of Ocean Beach blur past as I pedal through potholes and puddles from last night's storm. It is sunny and crisp and Saturday. The smell of barbeque and salt and incense and weed (it is OB) drift through the air. I peel off layers one by one.

Santa Cruz, Pescadaro, Alhambra.

They are not just street signs to me but names of towns, bays, islands, castles where I have wandered cobblestoned streets, sailed to or past or into, drank bottles of cheap Spanish wine on ramparts. But today as I pass those signs and lay my bike to rest on the side of Sunset Cliffs Blvd, I am present in this time and place. A rare occurrence especially with my home strewn with foul weather gear and duffel bags, bikinis and khaki pants. My sunscreen and water warped passport zipped into plastic bags, my piles of books waxing and waning with changing priorities and the compact ease of my electronic bookshelf.
But I am here, overlooking the kelp and waves, the surfers like black seals bobbing in the undulating green. I don't remember the last time I sat on these cliffs but I vow to do it more often, to take in this beauty I often cross the globe to see. In this moment, I love where I was born, where I grew up, where I came back to after almost two decades away, much of it spent on this watery world into which I stare.

I am here.

But not for long! Next week the wind and waves and sun will greet me on another coast.
I am ready for the adventure, the beauty, the work. I am ready to stow and sail and cook and swim. When I tell people about my gigs on yachts many ask me how to do it. So... here goes.

Here's a little list of resources to become a yachtie. It helps quite a bit if you have restaurant service background and/or chef skills. Of course boating knowledge helps too, especially if you want to work on deck. Feel free to contact me if you have more specific questions, but start visiting these websites and googling and go for it!

Most of the hotspots for getting jobs are in Southern Florida (fall/winter) and New England (summer) or Antibes, France and Mallorca, Spain (spring/summer). It's best to go to these ports, stay at a "crew house" (hostel for people looking for yacht jobs), register with an agent, and start walking the docks and talking to people if you're really serious about getting a job and you don't have experience yet. Get your resume (CV) together and be sure to put your smiling face on it. (Whether you like it or not appearances matter in the yachting world.)
You can also take some courses but I guess it depends on how much experience you have. It can also be a great way to network with currently employed crew.

Crew Agencies-
www.CrewUnlimited.com
www.LuxYachts.com
www.lacassemaritime.com - this one is west coast based- one of the few as there aren't as many jobs out here.
www.handsomcrew.com - if you are a yoga instructor or masseuse- my friend Denise is awesome!
www.crewnetwork.com

Crew houses in Florida:
www.handsomcrew.com - my friend Denise also has a small, super chill crew house in FL if you want something a little more mature than some of the young and rowdy crew houses.
www.maryscrewhouse.com - I stayed here for a month while I did some courses. Clean and convenient. Usually a bit more chill than some of the rest.
www.theneptunegroup.com - I've heard mixed reviews about this one but if you want to meet people and party a bit, have at it. You can check out Floyds and Crewfinders too.

www.daywork123.com - lots of temp jobs, some permanent. Mostly in Florida.

Yachtie rags (with job posting sections):
http://www.dockwalk.com/
http://www.the-triton.com/

Schools:
If you want to get some certificates. A lot of boats require that you have a safety course called STCW 95. It just depends on where the boat is flagged and whether or not it does charters. Then there are licensing courses for all sorts of things.
Check out this school in San Diego if you want to get some basic safety courses, STCW 95 or even your captains license: www.maritimeinstitute.com
I went to Maritime Professional Training in Ft. Lauderdale for my courses and had a great time. It's more "yachtie" than schools elsewhere: www.mptusa.com
Then there are the service oriented classes for stewardesses. I personally think they are overpriced but if you have absolutely no service training they will give you a basic primer. Look for "silver service" and "interior" classes. www.yachtmaster.com

I've probably forgotten to include a few things as these days I get my jobs through word of mouth but this is a start to the wonderful and addictive world of yachting. Get ready to pop that collar and get some sun on your face while slaving away in gorgeous places! Fair winds!

In Waves

It happens in waves.
The ocean is calm out there but the waves crushing pebbles on the shore don't know this. It foams and leaps and dissolves into the cracks between the grains, it drains into the depths and remembers itself among the fish and kelp. 

Old patterns twist and turn and snake through my head and sink through my shoulders into my lungs, absorbed into my heart. They slip through fluttering aortic valves and shimmy through capillary walls down into my gut where the truth lies. I digest or vomit them out, depending on the taste and time.

It happens in waves.
The fog rolls in skipping over ripples, over seagulls, over sunburnt children playing tag with the surf. The fog envelops us all and blankets us in quiet and hope and giddy melancholy.
I can't see all of you next to me. Could I see all of you before?
The fog makes us doubt who we are, who we were, but makes us want to run headlong into crashing froth of salt and water and life and be blanketed by water crystals above and below the surface.
You evaporate into the dimming mist and the who you were is unclear.


My heart jumps into my dirty-cuffed sleeve. I smile into the absence around me. The nothing filled with everything. I am reaching into my heart to pull out the sound of love, of peace, of gratitude. I know the hand I really need to hold is my own.

It happens in wind and sand and fog.
It happens above the surface and below in the depths.
It happens when I stop to scribble a note about a sunset and a stranger starts a conversation about words art connection faith karma.
It happens when I am quiet and break my heart open to listen to myself.
It happens in waves.  

Antiquated warriors

The art gallery was cold and dimly lit. Smudged charcoal drawings of warriors on horses, darkened shields and swords, hung below words in feathery Arabic. We approached the booth, a screen hung at the far end. A man with a beanie and sun-worn face stood staring at footage of young skateboarders careening off of stairs, skidding off of handrails. He smiled wistfully over the empty seating area, flinching at courageous attempts on the screen. My friend and I caught his attention. “Hi. My name’s Steven,” he said. He looked like a skater, whatever that means, in that typically Southern California skater-for-life sort of way. His face was a clay colored beige, lined with cracks like trampled asphalt. Did he listen to Sublime and smoke weed? Or was it NOFX and meth? Little judgments and assumptions flickered through my mind as he explained his project. “This was filmed in 1994 but the local skate shops said they will carry the DVD when I make it. That’s what I’m doing with the footage.” 

He picked up a small stack of papers and I braced for a pitch. “Here’s a little bit about the project.” He handed me two pieces of notebook paper. “I believe in communicating with handwriting. Here’s a print one, and here’s one in script.” He handed another copy to my friend. The block printing on my copy was rounded and clear. I looked up at him, down at the stack in his hand.

The fact that he wrote out all these information sheets was an art project in itself. Like the monks of old. Have we become that disconnected from the handwritten word with all of our emails and text that this was such an amazing feat? I remember when I could recognize handwriting of friends and family just by the way they swirled the J in my name. Now, unless I spy a friend’s To-Do list or happen to get a birthday card, I rarely ever see someone else’s “hand.

Or was this handwritten sheaf simply an extension of his passion for these urban skateboarding warriors?

Steven put the stack back down on the table and thanked us for stopping by. No pitch for money, he wanted nothing more than to talk about his art 20 years in the making summarized in a two-paged, beautifully crafted antiquated form of communication. 

Why I farm

We sat on barstools eating tabasco-soggy popcorn and sipping briny bloody marys. Rain threatened to invade the outside patio prompting plastic curtains and glowing heat lamps.
We talked about the fiscal cliff.
We talked about taxes and social safety nets.
We talked about financial security and quality of life.

A guy I went to high school with, same face, filled out frame, nice suit and flushed cheeks, approached me. I haven't seen him in 17 years. He shook my hand, I gave him a hug. I think it startled him because we weren't friends in high school but I figured we still go way back. And I like giving hugs, especially mid-bloody mary. He looked like he pays taxes and has financial security, I thought. I tried to engage him in conversation but he had a wedding to catch (or be in). It's strange to get reminders that I grew up in this town- the community I am immersed in now wasn't even on my radar when I left almost two  decades ago.

We sipped, rattled our ice cubes, spat curses at the injustices of the current system (wherever your political beliefs may lie, you're still spitting curses). Then R. asked me, So why farming? What's the point? And I had to think for several moments before answering because I am not often asked that question by someone who is not at the farm, someone who is not on the same bandwagon.

So why do I farm? What is the point of farming, especially in the desert of San Diego? Here are the reasons I think organic, local farming is important and some of the reasons I do it myself and teach others:

To be more self sufficient.
To take a stand in our own healthcare since our country has a long way to go in that department.
To know where our food comes from. Hopefully down to the name of the person (or group of people) who grows it.
To be a little better off when the oil stops/zombies come/name-your-own-disaster hits.
To avoid shipping veggies 1500 miles across the country or around the world.
To improve the soil, improve water absorption, improve the air, the earth, etc etc etc
To dispel the idea that lawns are pretty. They aren't. They are boring. Food is much prettier!
To use water in a better, if not truly sustainable (we are in a desert and get 90% of our water from other places), way.
To provide food for people who can't grow their own right now and don't have access to organics on a regular basis.
To empower people with knowledge, skills, hope. I swear knowing you can sprout a seed changes your life.
To play in the dirt.
To let people discover that carrots come out of the ground and peas in a pod hang off a vine.
To eat delicious, nutritious food.
To stop complaining about our food system and do something about it.
To have a real reason to wear boots in the city. And get them nice and muddy.
To make sure I'm not eating chemicals and genetically modified bullshit.
To be in sun, soil, water with the butterflies and hummingbirds.
To be working with my hands.
To cook for my friends and family with the veggies I plant, nurture, harvest.

Stepping out, stepping in

I'm getting a little Ishmael these days, if you know what I mean. Maybe it's the conclusion of this tumultuous year or perhaps the possibilities enshrined in the year to come: all the people to meet who will change my life in bits and pieces or great chunks, all the art (paint, food, love) to create with friends, all of those words to pour onto pages I haven't opened yet. Maybe it's my heart cracking open, flailing shut with each passing day, each vulnerable moment. Maybe it's this motion of the sun and stars and sea and all these humans pretending we are not the same carbon hydrogen oxygen, the same dust, that we are something separate and we must fight our elements, ourselves. Maybe it's all the dandelion greens I ate tonight.

But something is unsettling, unearthing, ready to emerge from the deep. I am peering over an icy cliff about to jump into a bottomless crevasse or my fingers are stretching up a wall of stone crevices and I am ready to climb. I don't see the bottom or the top. I just have to trust. Like the invisible bridge in Indiana Jones. As a kid that always made me anxious. How could you step out into the abyss into/onto something you couldn't see? I wanted to fast forward to the part where he scatters the pebbles across so the others could see the path. But Indiana just lifts his leg high, holds his breath, shuts his eyes, and steps forward. And he is safe.

This anxious excitement, this need for movement and air, this Ishmaelean impulse to shrink into heart-sick sadness on dark November (December) nights, to want everyone to know how it feels to be salty and bare... It waits. I propel myself forward and try to hold my hat in my hands so those who can't go to sea (paint their picture, climb their mountain, sit with themselves in meditation) won't be able to knock it off my skull.

It's soon time to chase my whale, to re-evaluate wave by wave what it is I'm truly seeking.

Solstice

I choose the steeper trail. Rocky, washed out from recent rains, pebbles sliding beneath my soles, chaparral clinging to broken boulders. My breath pushes through my scarf into the predawn morning, a cloud of warmth clinging to my eyelashes. The hoary frost blankets the moors of Mission Trails Park (I've always wanted to use that phrase but never thought it would apply to Santee, so far from Thomas Hardy's dark romantic landscapes) I gasp in, puff out until I reach the top of the grade, a glow emmanating from the eastern slope. I squint my eyes, pull off my scarf, my gloves, my red knitted cap.
I want to feel the solstice sun square on my face, my freckles dancing in their little baths of overstimulated pigment.
If it is the end of the world, it will end on a beautiful morning: the birds belt exhalations, the oaks whispering ancient truths to one another. The creek burbles, the freeway hums (urban white noise), the hawks circle the powerlines. I look over the valley below. Santee never looked so pretty. Mist nestles itself into the craters in the earth where people wake to another Friday, cold and clear. Bacon and Pop-tarts, bowls of cereal and glasses of juice are filled and emptied on kitchen tables in ranch style houses with brown lawns and American flags in little brass holders. They probably aren't celebrating anything other than there being enough milk left in the carton to moisten their Cheerios. Or that it's the Friday before Christmas. Or that it is almost 2013 and they get a whole new round of  sick days to play hooky from work. Or that an asteroid didn't hit the earth this morning. Or maybe they are celebrating a whole lot- I just can't see that far into windows and backyards.

 I am celebrating quietly on the top of a hill. And I know my friends are on other hills around the city celebrating the shift in consciousness everyone's been buzzing about. We are celebrating the darkest of days as it just gets lighter from here on out. We are celebrating being who we are and who we are around. We are celebrating.
So what have I done just in case it was the last day on earth? What if we got it all wrong and the Mayans actually did mean that it was the end of days but they actually predicted it for tomorrow? Or next week? Or in 2013? Is there anything I would do differently? Shouldn't we always act like it is our last day? Hour? Minute? Or not even think about it because there is in fact a last day hour minute for all of us despite our deepest mental protestations and denial?

I sit on top of the crest. I can no longer see my breath. The sun has warmed my aching fingers and frosted nose. My heart stops racing and falls back into the comfort of my chest.

I chose the steep way for this sunrise view.
I am doing it differently.
I chose the steep way this year  through storied talks, long letters, emotions pouring onto pillows and floors, dreams woven and noticed, heart cracking and opening.
The steep path may take all I have, challenge me, leave me breathless and teary on the way up but, damn, will the view be worth it.

Fennel brings us together

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He skidded his bike to a stop and kicked down the stand. Hands on hips, long gray beard scruffy and thick but not tangled enough to hide a smile, he waited for me to huff and puff my way up B Street. “The hill defeated me!” I said as I passed this grinning stranger. “Naw! This hill doesn’t defeat nobody. Whatcha got there?” he said, eying my bike. He approached quickly and took a handful of green strands emerging from the big basket of veggies strapped to the rack. “Fennel,” I said. I stared with surprised joy (and a little twinge of OCD dismay) as he shoved his face into the fragrant fronds. “They smell so good! It grows all along the streets here. If you want anymore, I know where to find them!” His smile was plastered onto his weathered face. I couldn’t help but smile back at this connection spurred by a mutual love of fennel, thanking him and wishing him a good day as I trudged up the hill, the sun setting over the skyscrapers behind us. “Hey, what are you going to do with that? Plant it?” “Eat it!” I yelled back. “You’re. A. Beast!” he laughed, legs spread wide, eyes lit up, arms in the air in mock surprise. I giggled the rest of my bike ride home.

My new home. In the city. (Or at least in a more urban neighborhood than down by the beach) Where I can bike and walk and meet and dream. There are five coffeehouses within a mile. There are shops with handmade pillows and soy candles and repurposed clothing. There is a nursery and farm stand just down the street. There are a dozen restaurants that source from local farms. Because it always comes back to the veggies…

Whenever I have vegetables visible on my person (or bike) as I traverse the city, people ask me questions, want to touch smell taste the bright green or red or orange poking out of my bag. I tell them I work at a farm in the middle of downtown. I work on a farm where philosophical conversations about the meaning of life and the value of death take place over the compost pile, where boys go barefoot watering the plants and weeding (it may be the only dirt they will have under their feet this week, month, maybe year), where a CSA member brings back a caterpillar she found on her lettuce so it can turn into a butterfly, where a young student tells me that if he chooses to get a degree in sustainable agriculture his father will disown him and he will lose his garden at home so can he work in our soil? Where we sprinkle seaweed and beet pulp onto the soil instead of chemicals. Where we grow food that tastes like food. Or just tastes. Period.

I went to the North Park Farmers Market after I offloaded the fennelful bag, refilling my basket with carrots, my mouth with tamales, my ears with the music of a brassy blues band. Back at home I turned up my tunes and roasted them carrots and sautéed the greens from my urban farm, I danced on hardwood floors and sang into the gray cupboards of the 50-esque kitchen. This is what I have wanted for years. I intend to nurture this life.

Plant a seed, let it grow, let it go. It may just spread through the streets like fennel, spur conversations with strangers, make you smile for the rest of the day.