Reality blows

The wind came to my rescue. Howling down the shrouds in through my hatch, across my day worn face, over my clenched fists and turbulent thoughts. I hear you wind!

Dinner is just now over. It is 10:30pm.
I am tired. I am losing my patience. I am making up scenarios in my head about rude responses I would have to annoying requests I'm hearing for the 21st or 49th time on the 21st day. My patience in wearing thin and I know it is time to regroup. Be quiet and inward. (Or scream and yell and beat the shit out of pillows- but I am surrounded by those who may take this as a sign of instability or mutiny, so this is not an option)

The wind taught me about quiet this morning. (how quickly I forget) I woke at 6:45am, rolled out of bed over bottles of tonic and rotting papayas, bruised guavas, yellowing limes in bins on the cabin sole. I grabbed a grapefruit and orange to add to the morning fruit plate.
But my heart wasn't in it. I wanted it to be, I did. It was another morning on a boat, another morning in Cuba (Cuba!), another morning cooking and sailing and maybe even swimming. But I was hitting the three week wall. Three weeks of serving and cooking and cleaning and being on deck on endlessly hot afternoons. Three weeks of smiling and asking time after time, "Can I get you anything?" but never having anyone ask me the same. Three weeks of long days on someone else's schedule. With six weeks to go.
Sure, I still have moments of "This is my job? Fuck yeah!" but they come with less regularity and I wonder how to recapture that excitement between cleaning guest vomit off the formica and pouring the 10th rum and tonic (with lime) of the evening (not for myself). How to recognize how lucky I am to have this job when I work 16+ hour days and I am never more than a few meters from the five other people on this floating castle, the moat being the entire Caribbean Sea. How to convince myself that the next month (another month!) of playing cook/stew/deckie is manageable and will be good for my soul and emotional well being when all I want in this challenging moment is have the other version of my life back (even though in that version, feet on land, hands in the dirt, I dream and talk of the sea. I know this.)
So this morning I poured myself a cup of tea after setting out fruit and yogurt, banana bread and coffee for them. I sat on the aft deck looking out over Cayo Breton. The water was glassy, clouds reflecting in perfect symmetry. Not a whisper of air stirred up waves. The silence was thick, pierced now and then by a bird trilling or fish jumping. I could feel the peace and light of the rising sun enrobing me.
The wind was holding its breath, allowing me to breathe.
My darkness lifted. This is why I do this! This is why I'm here. For moments like these! I thought. The silence carried me through the morning and afternoon.

This evening the wind picked up as I eased myself into the water. Waves toppled onto my face, nose sunburnt and freckled and hot. I could feel the water supporting me, washing away bits and pieces of that perceived stress. Until I could sense the need for cocktails to be made and served, towels to be folded, appetizers to be whipped up. Out of the water, onto the job.
The wind shrieked louder and louder over dinner, competing with raucous conversation and the scraping of forks on china. Bottles of wine and rum nary to be left on canting table tops as we bobbed and rolled were drained. Demands were made, minds were changed, to all I consented with a smile (sometimes forced).
My mind and mouth twist and turn. I breathe in and attempt to let go of the little perceived jabs I feel deflating my confidence.
These are the constantly recurring lessons of this lifetime: Let go of control, let go of ego, don't take anything personally. I am here to resolve these patterns. I know this but damn it is still hard!

That is when the wind and the moon called me out. Up to the bow I go, hoodie donned and pants considered. Under the full moon, chanting into the screaming wind, I start to laugh and cry. I throw my worries to the wind. I let him take them from me to shake them off of his airy fingers crests and troughs away, feeding the fish with the flakes of my mental dramas.

I am thankful for all that I have, all that is learned, all that this thing called nature teaches me every day. I am thankful for this job, even when I am tired and frustrated and lonely and learning lessons that historically have been hard for me to learn on this rocking island of fiberglass. But I am here, I am learning, I just am.

And the wind the waves the sun and moon (and my soul (myself)) are my favorite teachers.

If only they could help me with the dishes.

Up in smoke

He was at least two spliffs in and I didn't want to look out the window. We were traversing up narrow, broken-asphalt roads and I was afraid that if I looked down over the precipice only feet from my seat, he would look over too (perhaps to point out a quaint English style cottage across the valley or a tall tree with flaming red flowers clinging to the verdant hillside) and off we would go. We would drop thousands of feet, perhaps taking out some banana trees and coffee shrubs on the way down, before settling in a tangled metal heap next to the cool clear river snaking through the valley from Catherine's Peak. Why didn't I smoke the ganja too? I'd be able to look out the open window past the colorful flowers lining the shoulderless road, up at the billowy masses of white clouds mingling with gray smoke from cook fires and trash heaps, down at the terraced hillsides covered with modest houses built from the mahogany and other hardwoods of the island. I may even giggle as the wheels careened off the pavement onto the crumbling dirt for a moment before regaining traction on the curves and dips of this mountainside path. Only in Jamaica would I get into a car after watching the driver smoke two joints, just like the song, knowing that that ain't nothing in a day and probably helped his driving. If nothing else, the conversation flowed punctuated with deep belly laughs and the slightly pungent smell that clung to the carseats was mildly comforting.
"This used to be the only way to get to Kingston," my tour guide David said. "Can you imagine those old buses making this journey?" I pictured the old 60s diesel buses chugging up and whipping down these mountain roads scattering goats and dogs, villagers with baskets of vegetables, kids playing in the street. I thought of a long ago trip I had on a bus exactly like the one I saw down by the water, like the one David is talking about, but instead of Jamaica it was Nepal and I rode on the top screaming and laughing down switch backs, the Himalayas reaching up behind me.
"Yes," I said, smiling. "That must of been pretty intense."

He honked his horn as we rounded another blind corner.
The air was cooler and damp the farther up the mountain we went. My hands were sticky from the soursop we had shared, bumpy green misshapen mass ripped in half, honeyed white flesh dripping down my chin, seeds spit out the window into the valley below. I wish we had eaten this before the waterfall stop, I thought, but I was still quite happy, residual stickiness reminding me of the sweet.

At the top of the ridge we stopped and got out. My legs were shaky from hours in the car but I was soon wandering ably above the coffee beans and brassicas growing on the steep slopes. Camera clicking, fingers rubbing together coffee cherries and mustard flowers, I was close to heaven. The clouds below the level of my feet confirmed this.

On the late afternoon when I visit, the village of Section consisted of a few visible houses, a coffee tasting room, and a truck loaded with enormous black speakers blaring reggae and dancehall next to a DJ table. A quiet mountain village it was not, but the mood was festive. David leads me to a small open shack on the edge of the ridge. Here a tall coffee farmer with dreads and an everlasting doobie stokes a fire where a kettle full of home roasted coffee resides. We sip at our brew, my guide has another spliff or two, we talk about the progression of fruit into beverage, I buy two bags of beans to take home.
We walk around the town (street) talking farming. "It's the only way out [of economic crisis and back to self-sufficiency," David says. He and the coffee farmer lead me up a hill where we pick Old Mans's Beard and Leaf of Life (herbs), uglies (bumpy lemons), and limes. David pulls off a pineapple sucker to transplant at his own farm down by the sea.
He snuffs out his joint, stuffs the fruit and herbs into the backseat, we shuffle back into the car.
Down the mountain we go, darkness descending as we do.

Back at sea level I marvel at the magical day in the blue haze of the mountains: smoke, smoke, steam, and clouds.

The police told me to tell you...

It was 11pm and the police wouldn't let me go.
Slumped in a broken office chair, head pressed up again the hard plastic of the backrest, I waited for the officer to return to the room. I was being held until I told them what happened.
I wasn't sure what was going on. Two young men sat in the front of the office. They had obviously been there for hours. Three officers paced, tapped computer keys, printed out documents, signed forms in triplicate. The officer taking my statement wanted me to tell him the story first, then I would repeat it as he typed it in on his ancient laptop. He entered my name and address with two fingers, stopping often to delete misspellings.

This was going to take all night.

I asked if I could just write my story out and they could copy it. In a thick Jamaican accent Detective Wilson explained that all procedures must be followed exactly in order for me to get my wallet back and retire to the boat.
"OK," I said, rubbing my eyes, "I'm just trying to expedite the process so I can go home. Can the guys just go home?"
He glanced out at the tired men and said, "We need your statement, we need to question them."
"Alright. Here's what happened."

I was at the weekly street party aptly named Roadblock on Thursday night. Music blared, a DJ screamed encouragement to those sipping rum and beer along the edge of the street. Motorcycles raced through the quickly parting crowd, cars occasionally braved the gauntlet. I was with a few friends. We had been hanging out, playing pool, talking about life over Dragon Stout.
"What did they look like?" The officer asked.
"My friends?"
"Yes, your friends."
"Um, well, M. is 26, blondish hair, blue eyes..." I wanted to add "hot" but I wasn't sure if the officer would find that funny so I just smirked and kept it to myself.
"And the others?"
I wasn't sure why he wanted to know the complexion and build of my friends, but I told him about my new acquaintances A. and T. and how we all hung out on the street together watching the spectacle unfold. I went to go buy us all beers from the small bar across the street. The guys wanted to let me have my space (they said later) so I was on my own. No problem. Except that I took my wallet out at the bar. I wouldn't say 'flashed' exactly but just acted like I was home in the States paying for a few brewskies. When I left a small tip the bartender asked, "What this for?" "For you!" I said and put the wallet back in my purse, and returned with four beers and a big smile on my face. Nice? Sure. Amateur traveler move? For sure.

The music was really pumping now, the motorbikes were getting crazy, people swayed back and forth under the influence of liquor, ganja, beats.
That's when he came at me. A little old rasta guy- long dreads, knit cap, raggedy clothes, and torn up shoes. He streamed towards me, fist raised. I'd learned the secret handshake (or the many variations) so a fist bump signifying Peace, Love, Unity, Respect didn't startle me. It was his determination and apparent inebriation that did. My friends stepped in front of me, trying to get him to back off. He did for a moment but then made one final effort. His hand reached for my chest where locks of my hair hung loose over the strap of my purse. My hand instinctively shot up from resting on my bag and grabbed his arm. Was he going for my hair, my boobs? My friends grabbed him and forcibly moved him away. I was startled but chalked it up to the perils of a late night street party- you're going to run into crazies, and being one of the only white girls in the crowd, well, I'm a moving target right? If only I had checked my purse then I would have known how much of a target I really was.

"Did you see anyone take it?" The officer asked, his fingers still picking out keys. He was not recording my story verbatim. He was taking bits and putting them in his own words, even though I was the one to sign the bottom stating what was written was what I said. The whole truth.
"No, I didn't see anyone take it, but I assume someone was behind me and when I grabbed the guys arm when he reached for my chest, they reached into my bag..."
"But you don't know for sure?"
"No. I guess I could have lost it but it is highly unlikely."
"OK. Go on."

My friends and I moved through the crowd to get closer to the live freestyling happening on stage. It was loud, boisterous, fun. A real sense of community. This happens every Thursday night? I asked my friends. They grinned and nodded. I was having a blast. My hips swayed, feet tapped, I was feeling the peace, love, unity, and joy of this town.
The cops came through at midnight, signaling the end of Roadblock. The crowd dissipated as some headed towards cars to go home and others headed to Crystal's Night Club down the street.
The guards patted down my bag as we walked in the door. But I didn't reach my hand into my bag until I was walking through the VIP area with my local friends.
Fuck. My wallet. My wallet is gone. Shit. Fuck.
(that last part was not reported to the police)

There went the night. We searched A.'s car, the streets, went back to the bar where the bartender said I definitely did not leave it there, she saw me put it back in my purse. Damn!
As awful as I felt, my friends felt even worse. "We should have protected you. They shouldn't steal from a lady! Criminals!"
I assured them it wasn't so big a deal. It's just stuff right? I never felt unsafe, I wasn't hurt in the process. There was nothing sentimental in my wallet (other than a fortune cookie fortune that read "Don't expect romantic relationships to be strictly logical or rational!" that I'd carried around for a few years. Both that and my driver's license with the awful photo I knew I could do without. It would be good to start over.) and I could cancel cards.
We went back to the boat and sat on deck calling credit card companies til the wee hours. I knew I had to but was a little hesitant as I had the strong feeling I would see my wallet again, bad photo ID, outdated fortune, and all.

"Then what?"

I reported the lost wallet to the police on Saturday as I left early Friday morning to drive to Kingston for supplies. I received an email from someone on Sunday saying that he was contacting me on behalf of the person who found my wallet!
(See, intuition prevails! But it was still smart to cancel the cards.)
I had the harbormaster call the number provided but we didn't get a hold of the guy so he said it was best to let the police handle it just in case it was shady. Ahh. I guess that is a possibility isn't it?
After several days and a few trips to the police station, here I was sitting with my wallet in hand. But I was disconcerted: when I walked in a man approached me and said, "You got it all wrong. I found your wallet on the street. There was no money and I was just trying to return it to you!" I thanked him profusely then walked inside to see his friend whom he had had email me sitting in custody too.
Jesus.
This was not my intention! My good samaritans in custody. Great. Now they are never going to want to do the right thing again if this is the payback!
And here we all are.

The officer read his story back to me, gave me a copy of the report. It was nearing midnight, I had been working on the boat from 7am-10pm and could barely keep my eyes open. They led me into another room where the chief detective told me that we were done and that I should tell all my friends this story as Jamaica gets a bad rap for crime. I gushed about how much I love Jamaica (I really truly do) and that I would spread the word that the police are very helpful in such situations. But it would be hard to leave out that whole I-got-pickpocketed thing. Nonetheless, he seemed satisfied that I would disseminate the tale of justice served.
Except that my good samaritans were still in custody.
"You're going to let them go home soon right?"
"Yes, their story seems to be true. They will go soon. You can say thank you on the way out."
If only I could do more. What can I do? I don't have any money. I can't get any money right now. Maybe I'll make them something? Offer them a beer if they get to California? What an awkward situation.
I walk to the corner where they are sitting. I thank them, apologize for the misunderstanding, thank them again.
"You going to Roadblock?" one if the men says.
"Ha! I wish! I have to go and sleep. I'm on duty all the time!"
How Un-Jamaican my response is! As I have been told many time since coming here, Jamaicans are always in search of the next party, after work or apparently after wrongful interrogation. He smiles and says for the tenth time, "You are welcome. No problem." to my constant awkward thank yous.
Bowing in gratitude, I leave the station, wallet in purse (to be left hidden on the boat from here on out), and with the feeling that all is right with the world if you let it be, lessons learned, intentions misunderstood, gratitude given, and all.

the raft & bucket

The raft glides along the water, sifting through flotsam and burrowing broken bamboo through the tiny ripples of the bay. He is showing off now, split reed paddle in hands, flipping it around like a baton and then side to side as he approaches the boat. His long dreaded hair is covered by a cap with FIRST MATE embroidered on it, a toothy smile forming as he sees me on deck.

On the back of his homemade raft he has a bucket.
That is where the treasures lay.
Grapefruits, oranges, mangoes. Today a water coconut (a jelly), yesterday a piece of brain coral as big as his fist, tomorrow maybe some parrotfish.
"How you doin?" he asks, his eyes shining with possibilities.
"Hey Clive. I'm doing alright. Good day to you."
"Almost good evening!" he says. I glance up at the sun diving towards the lush green hills and agree.
I sit on deck and he shows me his wares, tells me the rain is done, asks me if I eat mushrooms. "No man, I'm living the straight life on board," I say. He tells me they are dangerous and make you act pfffttt. I laugh and agree. I wonder what sort of trouble he got into the night before when I saw him on the road. I was nibbling on jerk chicken, he was tripping, street dogs were barking, music was blaring from the bar across the street. Laughing maniacally, drool pooling on his long beard, he was obviously in another state of mind as he demanded, "Give me money." I told him I already had that day and didn't have more but gave him my festival (fried dough) to chew on. He went back to the bar. I went back to eating spicy chicken, never feeling threatened, just put off- drool is not pretty on anyone.
Strong mushrooms, he said. Indeed.

He was back to (his) normal today.

I wasn't planning to buy anything more from Clive. I have a fridge full of veggies and my cabin has become the boat pantry with mangoes, papaya, grapefruit, and sweet potatoes in bags and crates on the narrow sole. I can't fit anything more into the freezer and I'm already wondering what is rotting at the bottom of bins, in ziplocs or loose in the veritable chaos.

He placed the coconut on deck.
"I don't have a machete!" I told him. Knives don't work so hot on green coconuts. He dropped it back in the boat.

He pulled a string of white and red from his bucket. "I made this today. Dem from de mountain," he said, motioning to the pale line of Job's tears seeds streaming from his hand.
"Clive! I have earrings to match! They're from Belize. How did you know?"
He just smiled up at me.
"I pulled the shell from the sea," he said, handing me the necklace. I hesitated taking it, knowing once you take something like that in your hands it is hard to not keep it. Clive knew this too.
"How much do you want?" I had a feeling I was going to end up with it no matter the cost.
"500." About $5. He was overcharging me, for sure.
"OK." I paid without haggling, wrapping the strands twice over my bare neck.

There is always that dilemma for me: to haggle or not. Sometimes it's necessary. With Clive, it is definitely necessary most of the time. Except that I know Clive lives in the mangroves, that he is very thin, that the banana trees from which he gets his fruit to sell were damaged by Hurricane Sandy, and that he says his fishing license has been suspended until he does the paperwork and pays the fees. So I only haggle when I know he's going way above and beyond whats reasonable. Or when he's tripping and can hardly give me a price without laughing for minutes at a time.

But eventually he gets what he wants, I get what I want, and off he paddles into the mangroves, collecting supplies for another day of sales in his cornered market in the West Harbor of Port Antonio.

Jamaica

I've been in Jamaica for a week. It feels like longer in the most comfortable way. I walk down the streets and know faces. I know where to buy my pumpkin and mangoes and that Judith will be at the fresh market on Monday to sell me gorgeous tomatoes. Clive brings me bananas from the mangroves where he lives. John will try to give me another tour and Scadu will suggest a smoke with just his deep brown eyes. I cannot sit at the marina without getting into a conversation with a local, a cruiser, a fellow yacht crew.
Ting and Red Stripe are in the cooler, ackee and saltfish leftovers in a container in the fridge. Callaloo and okra grace my frying pan sizzling with local curry spices. I know what Jackfruit tastes like.

I have been to sprawling, music-thumping Kingston. I have driven around the remnants of Port Royal far out on the peninsula, 500 years ago the richest city in Caribbean. I can picture it thriving under the lush peaks of the Blue Mountains, the azure blue water of the bay full of privateers and cargo ships from Europe. The history of the island written in stone walls and large plantations, fields of sugarcane and pineapple.

I have been warmly welcomed and sometimes teased and have danced at the "roadblock" weekly street party. People call to me Hey California or Hey New York (how do they know where I live? Just kidding- more Jamaicans live in Queens than in Jamaica. The same might be true for LA) or hey White Girl. As I am the only white girl on the street I know who they are talking to- it is a more a description than a slur. Or that is what I choose to think.

I know that Jamaica is not all rosy. I have met the old and starving, the disturbed, and I walked for a while with a young man slashed with a machete at school. I have also (unfortunately) been stolen from. But this does not define my experience here. These are the truths of the world. There is darkness but there is also much light.

Last night I had dinner with the harbormaster at a house overlooking the Caribbean Sea, a rum and 7-up in hand, a job offer on my plate next to homemade spiced chicken and rice. I have been invited to see a nearby farm in the morning owned by a Rastafarian Empress who has the intention of healing women in her community and who wants to welcome like minded travelers to join the sacred space.

Is this the water and dirt I am looking for? Maybe it is because I am living in the moment more than I have been able to do in the past, or maybe it is this place (or the Blue Mountain coffee) but I have been in Jamaica for a week and it feels a little like home.

Songs next to the Sea

A brown glass bottle sits sweating on the table next to crumpled napkins and a plate with a clean picked fish skeleton swimming in a coconut cream sauce. My fingers absently flip a bottlecap, the serrated edge catching under my salty fingernails, the metal creasing between the words Red and Stripe. Eyes nearly at half mast, legs shaky after a week at sea, I sit with my chin in my hand grinning at the bizarre gargoyles on interior columns and through the glassless windows overlooking the East Harbor of Port Antonio. The place was empty when we arrived but the music is getting louder with each new patron crossing the threshold. Young women in short colorful dresses and sandals, men with thin muscled frames under athletic shirts fill the bar.
The TV screen above the DJ flashes pictures of sunsets and smiling blond women superimposed with flowing letters. It is time to sing.
A man steps up to the microphone. Long dreads, a floppy knit cap, a worn but warm face, he opens his mouth and I drop my jaw.
"Oh baby I love your way...Every day." I have to giggle for the memories of middleschool that come to mind whenever I hear that song (standing against the wall hoping Brandon will ask me to dance, sitting smug in the office eating candy with my other ASBers, doing the butterfly and running man when the fast songs finally come back on) but I am soon back in the present in a weird gothic building and I can think nothing else but DAMN! as this man belts out the lyrics.
Instantly I am in love with his voice and the gargoyles and the young crowd swaying and clapping around me.
I am in love with the notion that I am sitting listening to karaoke in a bar called Ambiance on my first night in Jamaica with a Red Stripe in my hand and head full of welcomes from throughout the day.
I am in love with the fact that I sailed here on a boat, threading the Bahamas, running past a very dark Cuba by moonlight, ending the journey through a mangrove and coconut lined passage into a calm lagoon. The water was still but the air was not. It was filled with music from every angle. Welcome to the Caribbean where songs drift over green hills and cut through the narrow streets of small but bustling port towns. Where the music fills every day of life in church hymns sung on street corners or hummed by shopkeepers, dance tunes blasted from cars on the beach, reggae as a religious and political movement, and of course, that new worldwide religion: karaoke.

Color, sound, sun, movement. The Caribbean as I see, hear, feel it.

"Oh baby I love your way... every day."

Comforting Zone

"Life begins at the end of your comfort zone."

I have that quote taped up on my fridge in San Diego. I thought it was clever. A self-dare. A mantra.
But what does that mean, "your comfort zone?"
I always thought it meant to do things you are scared of doing because that is exactly what you should be doing- like what the actors always tell John Lipton in the Actor's Studio interviews:  "I took the role cause it scared the shit out of me!"

For me it is going to a party or meeting where I don't know anyone, approaching a group, and saying 'hey whats up' in my least terrified voice but being scared of everyone turning their backs in unison and screaming 'loser!' (OK, my fear isn't that bad. OK, only sometimes.)
It is packing up my surfboard and heading to the beach to relearn an old passion (melting sunset, feet dangling in the water, peace tingling in my heart) but being scared of getting tumbled (waves below, sand overhead, surfboard in face).
It is asking that interesting stranger if they would like to get coffee but being scared they will say no and hurt my ego or say yes and then I actually have to engage with someone with whom I don't know how things will turn out. (Do we ever? Relationships are scary things but I want them. Hell, I want a lot of em: platonic, romantic, occasionally somewhere in-between. Connection is connection and I've been blessed with a lot of that beautiful stuff in my life.)
It is sitting down to write but being scared to write badly or scared of the emotions that need to be released in order to write as well as I want, need, can.

But I'm also scared of falling off cliffs and I don't think that that is what I should be doing, right?
And what if, say, you do something that contains a fairly well known quantity of fear and anxiety, like, oh, using a piece of plastic and metal to hurl you into the ocean at a pace slower than your grandmother would drive in a school zone but fast enough that hitting something is a very, very bad deal? Being thrown around the frothy liquid surface by wind and waves that don't care that you have a delicate stomach and/or have lentil sprouts growing on the galley counter? Jettisoning yourself from a cozy little community you've built with handshakes, hugs, and occasional (reusable) shopping bags of dandelion greens?
Is that me leaving my comfort zone or simply returning to an anxiety that I know and crave? We sailors are funny like that: we return to that anxiety with open arms. We say our dramatic goodbyes so that the future homecomings are that much more sweet. We go into the unknown because our land life has either become too pleasantly comfortable or there is palpable discomfort in the mundane routine.

I am excited about the excitement of being at sea even though it is one of the most basic and strangely calming journeys to take. Sure, storms can rip through, winds change, waves build and flatten, systems may go awry. But it is you and the sea. You are not contending with thousands of other drivers on a highway. You do not have to wonder if your dinner reservation will be kept when you are 15 minutes late. You do not have to rush home to feed the dog or juggle three jobs, two cats, and a growing To-Do list. You are surrounded by the same ever mutating ocean day in and day out.
And it is literally life or death.
Basic.

Of course you are watching, waiting, thinking, anticipating, doing, eating, sleeping while doing this one thing: sailing. There is not so much a comfort zone out there as much as you are suddenly in a comforted zone when you are a few days out and the wind shifts and you're not puking over the side or into a sink anymore. Or even if you are still pounding into the waves and saltwater is your new hairspray, there is still a sense of normalcy to it all. It is no longer out of your comfort zone. It is just Who and Where you are.
It is all you have ever known and all you will ever see.
It is the Now in its rawest form.

Yet at some point, I gotta get off the boat. Then it is land that becomes the tangible edge of my comfort zone and I am anxious to step foot onto a still mass, to listen through accents, to be in a country in which I've never been, to leave the ship that has cradled me through 1100 nautical miles of deep blue.

So is the comfort zone thing about always moving forward, taking steps, taking action? In the simplest way it is getting out of bed in the morning. I think on the opposite end of the spectrum at this point in my life would be having a child. (Talk about changing your life, leaving your comfort zone while creating a comfort (until they are 13 at least) all in one tiny magenta-tinged package. That is an action beyond the scope of my comprehension at this point as well as one that that requires many steps in between (see paragraph two: Relationships).)

Somewhere in the middle is sailing.

So here I am, leaving my comfort zone to be comforted by the wind and waves and memories of all those people on land I miss and love. And I am anxious. And I am excited. Wherever that edge may fall, whether it is the sharp crest of a wave, the golden ribbon of distant shoreline, or the fork tined border of a newly planted garden bed, stepping over that threshold is exactly where I need to be in this very moment.