Armored and Floating

 

This armor is heavy. I struggle to stay afloat. The salt tarnishes the brilliant metal, the hinges rust and seize. I have trouble navigating the deep waters immersed in this heaviness. The sharks circle beneath- they know I am inside trying to breath, speak, dream. They push at my feet, buoying me when I begin to sink. My legs are heavy with the thick barrier and my toes are numb. My arms want to reach beyond my confines and embrace all in sight and in mind but they are stuck straight out and only pivot to keep Others away- defense defense defense! My thoughts are floating at the surface- the edge of two worlds colliding in Hs and Os. I want to open my mouth and scream into the water and wind but my voice is trapped behind an armored smile.

Good morning how did you sleep can I get you anything how would you like your coffee are you finished with this plate would you like lunch after your swim another Pellegrino is it time for cocktails boys will you be dining in the cockpit tonight would anybody like tea with desert can I get you anything else this evening?

The sun is setting and my skin seeps into the saltwater. For a moment my suit of armor dissolves. The ocean absorbs me and breathes me in, each wave inspiration. I reach out tired arms to embrace the water and the wind and I end up holding myself, whispering love to the elements, to my own heart. The sharks nibble at my wriggling toes and are patient, waiting for the future feast.

The sun melts green into the sea.
I know that with each rung up the ladder onto the boat into the job, the armor will return and the sharks will go hungry for one more day. But with each stroke of my legs through the water, each breath thick with the scent of seaweed, a chink in the defenses lets the universe in. It is only a matter of time before the armor naturally corrodes and returns as dust into the depths, to swirl among the vortexes of sharks, to become the soft bed for a ray.

But how can I unpeel this shell I’ve cast around myself in this moment?
How to be open and genuinely smile amidst the would you like another Pellegrinos and anything else this evenings?
How to love in every breath even when the atmosphere is far from hospitable?
How do I nourish and serve without looking for anything in return (praise, gratitude, respect, safety) on this boat, in life?

My hair dries salty and I remember the sea in my veins.
I name my anxieties and face the blank ones who receive my volley of questions sunrise to sunset.
I don’t try to smile all the time, but I do laugh loudly when it bubbles from the depths.
I do try to peel off layers when I can, when I sense I won’t damage the tender wildness nestled within.
Slowly slowly I undress and reveal emotions and humanness that I have tried to shield.
I seek to glimpse the wounded animal hiding inside each Others manipulation.
I practice giving (open heart, help, kind words) when I am feeling threatened. It doesn’t always work as the anger roils through and the armor expands to mask my growl. I breathe into my belly and vow to try again the next time a gift of expansion is presented (and hope that I don't strangle someone in the meantime).

And the sharks circle…

A reminder from the Universe

 

“Shit,” I heard her say through the open hatch. She wasn’t talking to me but I could hear her from my bunk, gusts of wind blowing cool mountain air and the captain’s mutterings into my cabin. I thought maybe her sarong blew off the helm station where she’d tied the gossamer pink fabric or she’d forgotten to write something on her never-ending To-Do list. It was 11pm in Prince Rupert Bay, Dominica. We’d dropped anchor earlier that day after an overnight sail from the Grenadines 175 miles to the south. Well, actually, we dropped it, dragged, pulled it up, dropped it, dragged, pulled it up, dropped it- HELD!- on the rocky bottom.

She knocked rapidly on my door and said, “Jenny?”
I immediately knew something was wrong.
“There’s a boat REALLY close to the bow.”
I rolled up my pajama pants and climbed up on deck. Betelgeuse and Sirius blinked through the rainclouds scurrying across the sky. Fierce gusts of wind rattled the halyards and whipped strands of salty hair into my squinting eyes. “Shit,” I said as I charged up to the bow. The cruising boat that had been two boat lengths away earlier that night was now within arms reach. I yelled into their dark companionway. Someone must be on board: their dinghy is up, their hatches are open, the anchor light is on. Were they the boat that came in at sunset? We had anchored relatively far leeward of the other boats in the anchorage. Now we had a 40 foot, 20 ton hunk of fiberglass and metal inches from our bow. And then on our bow as the wind swung to the north. Shit. Fuck. Shit.

“HELLO?! WAKE UP!! YOU'RE DRAGGING!”
A man appears through the companionway accompanied by a young girl. They are both in their underwear. They are both staring at us, then at our anchor chain, then at their hoisted dinghy and solar panel and wind generator now colliding with our bow, then back at us.

Their boat is now on our anchor chain. I can feel it rumbling at my feet. We need to let it out. They need to pull up on their dragging anchor, winch themselves as best they can off of us. With all the pressure of two boats, our anchor will certainly drag and we will be a tangled mess of masts and chains and people hurtling towards the cruise ship dock behind us.
“Take up on your chain,” the captain yells to them. The man is still staring at us. Shit. They’re French. I don’t speak French. At least not middle of the night dragging boat technical French. Sure I can ask for a baguette and figure out the numbers, but I have no idea how to say Chain. I start yelling Prochaine but then realize that means Next and I am probably confusing the hell out of them by my horrible language skills. Now their anchor is totally dragging and the bow of their boat is careening towards the side of our boat while their stern is still trapped on our anchor chain. We are an unintentional aquatic centipede.

“Fend off!” I tell our guests who are now on deck, barely awake, perhaps still a little drunk, and definitely confused. They look around, grab big rubber fenders, and just stare at the boat as it swings towards us. OK, nevermind delegation. Fuck the paint job, its shot anyway, I need to deal with this chain that is now stuck under their rudder. The guy on the other boat wants to use their engine but can’t with the chain at their prop. We slide back when I let chain out, they slide with us as the wind sandwiches us together.  Not good.

We fend. We wonder how this will end.
A lull. The wind calms for a moment and we let out more chain. Their rudder is free but now the stern and all the shit clinging to it (dinghy, solar panel, wind generator) is about to scrape down the side of our boat. We fend off with rubber and flesh. The man is telling the Captain to mind her “tete” and I can just imagine dodging the fate of dragging with this boat only to have the English captain be decapitated by the blades of a Frenchman’s spinning wind generator.  Centuries old feuds realized in the West Indies.

The stern is clear of us! There is still a chance of them swinging back into us as they pick up their fouled anchor on this dark night, but it looks like we might be in the clear. My heart is racing and for a second I think, “This is insane! This boating thing. Night watches, anchors dragging. I mean, people on land don’t need to worry about other peoples houses crashing down on theirs in the middle of the night.” Well, unless there’s a tornado. But that is a natural event whereas anchor dragging is preventable and you are essentially trusting others to know how to do it for your own personal safety. It would be like if houses floated in the air like balloons and everyone had to tie down their house and if you don’t know the special knots or you just kind of toss a line over a branch without really pulling on it to make sure its secure your house could float away or bump into other houses when the wind gets crazy.
Of course, we all drag anchor at some point in our boating lives. Its like riding a motorcycle: if you do it long enough its not a matter of IF you will crash but WHEN.

An hour later, after the Captain and I sat in the cockpit anxiously laughing about middle of the night issues, then watching the Navigation screen to make sure we weren’t dragging ourselves, we were in our bunks when the anchor drag alarm went off (yay technology). I crane my head to look up at the screen. The alarm had been going off all day as we swung in the wind, but now it was clear we had lurched back over 100 feet. Right towards where the dragging boat had reanchored. Great.
Now we’re going to drag onto his bow. I leap into the cockpit and fumble to start the engine. The Captain takes the helm and I run up to the anchor. We’re holding again, but we let out more chain to better secure us.

We swing, we stretch the chain in the gusts, we seem to hold. The drag alarm is set at 100 feet so it goes off about every 20 minutes for hours as we swing. I cannot sleep, ready to jump into the cockpit again.

This is boating.
It sometimes involves no sleep on windy nights in crowded anchorages. Or out a sea. But out at sea feels safer. There is room to maneuver and you don’t have all this Stuff (anchored boats, land, docks) to hit.
I sleep and dream of farming.

The previous night when I was staring up at Orion, scanning the horizon for traffic, eyes drifting up to Siruis, I didn’t want to adjust the sails. I wanted everything to stay constant. I didn’t want to take responsibility for doing something not quite right. Making the sails luff and shake. Making the boat heel too much. I wanted someone else to make the call. I didn't trust myself to feel what the boat needed even though I knew that I knew what to do. I know- this is a deeper issue. With sailing it is simply amplified. But I was alone on deck, only the loom of St. Lucia and the peaks of the Pitons to keep me company. As my watch wore on, the wind shifted. I had to take action because it was an hour before the next person on watch. I adjusted the sails, lines screaming against stainless winches with the tension. After 20 minutes of glorious close reach sailing, the wind died. Furl the jib, turn on the engine. I can do this. I am doing this. I have done this before. Remember when I was competent and confident on Wyntje? Remember when Walter would say, “That’s our girl!” as I scurried up the mast or docked the 64 foot boat without a word of assistance? Remember? Where did that confidence go? Sure things aren’t as second nature now, but I still know my shit. I don’t have to be perfect. And all this adjusting is kind of fun. The main may luff a little, the jib may be a touch too tight, but we are getting there. And I am capable. What's my fear? If something goes wrong, say if the wind gusts to 35 as it screams down the mountains, what will I do? Will I make the boat sink because I freeze up? No, I'll take action. Then take action again. Just like in "real life."

So I believe the Universe decided to give me a little challenge. I knew that it would. As much as I dreaded it, I asked for it. Bring it on, I whispered into the dark water. So when that boat was on our bow and I stepped up and took charge (working with the Captain), it reminded me that in emergency situations, I actually keep pretty calm. I take in the scene and delegate (or attempt to) and I am actually pretty effective.

I can handle this. Meaning, I can handle a boat dragging onto us. I can handle our own boat dragging. I can handle sailing the boat on my own. I can handle 35 knot winds (and more). I can handle this life I lead. I can’t necessarily control it- the circumstances or the outcomes, but I can trust the process and know that as long as I stay grounded (or moored) in my gut, I will know what to do.

(and hey Universe, I got the lesson so no need for any more boats on the bow, OK?)

Before I go...

My stomach tightens and churns.
I am going to sea.
I pull my hood over tangled hair, wrap my neck and feet with wool, pull on rubber deck boots and worn purple gloves.

My heart tingles and leaps.
I am going to sea.
I am in love with the idea, the action, the motion, the creatures, the deep dark mystery. I am elated and terrified. This happens each time I pack my sea bags and stumble down the dock. I imagine all those things you don’t want to imagine: the ship sinking in a storm; falling overboard on a night watch; knocked in the head by the boom; appendicitis 1000 miles out; fingers, arm, leg yanked off wrestling a line. These are things I should not think on, should not say or write lest they come true (knock on wood, spit over your shoulder, turn around three times).

Death follows me as flying fish skimming over the waves and swallows fluttering above the boom. That is why I sail. Not because I want to die, but because I want to live more fully, experience each breath with gratitude, savor each step on land or boat. I feel death’s whispers mingling with salty air and I respond with a quiet reevaluation of my life. What are my deepest longings? Who would I want to talk to as the ship was going down? What dreams have I neglected? What haven’t I done that I would like to do? Who are my people?

I have time out here to think and process and dream. Sometimes it hurts as scenes are played and replayed and no matter how much I try I can’t change the script. Sometimes I come up with ideas that make perfect sense 500 miles off shore but seem ludicrous back on land. Sometimes on dark nights I create strings of words and the stars help me garland the heavens with my stories.

I am a mere inch of fiberglass away from the dark and murky depths of the sea. I can feel her breath casting the boat over her back. I want to explore the depths of my own dark and murky soul, to meet her at the edge of dreams and tumble through the world together.

I don’t want to conquer mother ocean, or the wind, or death: it is not possible. I want to explore the things that frighten me down in my core because I know it will cause me to love them, the world, myself, more deeply than the deepest grains of sand at the bottom of the most remote canyons in the sea.

We motor into the river and the fear drops away. We raise the sails and I whoop in joy. I catch myself smiling and laughing and dancing across the deck. The wild dark waters swim across the hull and welcome us in a frothing confluence of salt and fresh. My belly is calm. My heart is light. With this movement forward, with this action of raising cloth to the wind, I find a piece of my wild self raised to the sky.


We have not left the river, we are not in danger yet, these waters are swirling but calm. On the ocean we will face bigger waves, bigger winds, bigger challenges, but we will be held by the seas that shake us. We will be exactly where we all need to be, reaching or close hauled or running on the perfect course, as crooked as our wind-dictated path may seem. Death will holler through the rigging during squalls and tuck us into our bunks, our eyes red and fluttering after four hours on watch.

Death and life, night and day will dance with the dolphins and whales off the bow. They will sing with us to the stars. They will steer us to the islands through our salty hands.

We will be wild, we will be peace, we will be alive as we are cradled in all that is and was and will be.

The moon and deep dark sea

The moon is a silvery dress floating over the sand to the sea.

Her light creates shadows among the dark damp grains, tendrils of seaweed wrapping around strong ankles.
Witch castles, dried and forgotten, crumble under sure steps.
She whispers to her frothing companion, the thunder of his answers echoing over salty skin.

Her light reflects in the rolling water, the waves storied with different lands and the same fiercely speaking stars.
Her feet sink into shifting earth, creatures wriggle and draw her deeper in.
Knees wet and trembling she kisses the drops against pale hands, tastes the damp comfort of home.
Thighs drift in an ocean of silk and thread, the moon meeting its horizon in the velvety night.

A wall of white foam approaches.

Her lover has come to embrace her in liquid tentacles, icy edges caressing her arched back as she dives in.
She smiles as her heavenly bodice floats around her belly full of breath, corsets of bone returned to the sea.

Tumbled and torn open, her heart sinks into the shell strewn ocean floor where it sighs and weeps,
 “I am here. I am ready.”

Her fins meet solid ground, her gills fill with droplets of air.

The moon emerges from the sea, as it has every night for eternity, seen or felt or not, the loom of possibilities blinding those waiting for her on shore.

Her shape has changed, as it always has, and the myths to be told of the marriage of moon to deep dark sea
have been told,
are being told,
will forever be told
in this drenched and luminous moment.

Whole

The storm clouds cast shadows on deep blues and sullen whites.
The sun slips around them and touches the water with wispy streams of light. The confused tomato plant shakes and shivers with the reminder of winter dancing through its leaves. The horizon is misty gray behind soft outlines of palms and stern concrete buildings.
The sand is still.


I am in the last throes of what I have known.
I am preparing to shed this skin and become something new. My heart is heavy for this loss of self, loss of what I think I should be. My heart is alight with possibilities, with love, with all that could be filled in this space I am leaving. It is a death of complacency, a rebirth into magic and wildness.
I am ready for this journey.


I walk to my horizon.
The sun is descending fierce orange, lighting those storm clouds tender pink. I walk into the icy water, my body bracing against the cold until it fails to feel. I fall into waves and surrender…for a moment. Until I rise shivering and smiling at the sun that has set, at the sliver of moon which now shines the brightest behind this shadow of earth.
Strands of salty wet hair slither down my bare back and I am whole.

Layers

I sink my teeth into the layers.
Flakes of fragile white and slabs of dense darkness fall onto my tongue.
The lightness melts instantly, the cloying shadow lingers.

I try to remember the last time I have allowed myself this treat. I try to remember the last time he brought me here after the zoo or Sea World, Balboa Park or the Bay. It is not a secret place but back then it was a warehouse full of mystery at the edge of downtown.

The shelves of Cost Plus held biscuits and soups and spices with foreign writing and cute little bears on the wrappers. My dad would wander around, past the kitchen displays, picking up little bells or bamboo whisks. He would browse through the coffee section then head straight for the only thing he would buy: the hazelnut wafers. It became a ritual. We would share a few packages, my sisters, my dad and I, as we drove home in the stationwagon smelling of dogs and wet carpet on lazy Sunday afternoons, sun slanting through the Eucalyptus on the 163.

Did he find comfort in the escape into sweetness? Or was it the recognition of labels on spices from Africa, cookies from Europe, reminding him of travel, of freedom?

I know it sounds silly, but now I wander through Cost Plus when I'm in a funk and feel a sense of relief and excitement. It feels familiar. I pick up candles and mugs, sit on ottomans, flip through rugs I will never buy.

And I know exactly where those cookies are, even though most of the time I pass them by.

But I am wandering a lot these days, maybe not for the same reasons as he did, but wandering just the same.  And I am willing to explore what I used to know. So when I let those layers of wheat and chocolate dissolve into nothingness between teeth that contain his DNA, I smile. I savor both sweet and dark. I forgive.

From the edge of a chair

I am sitting in a chair, fabric stinking of brine and age, head craned, staring out into what was once a sea.
Tiny fragments of swimmers, fins and rings of vertebrae and jawbones no longer glubbing, poke into my bare feet, my toes attempting to find the sand underneath.
Pink and gray haze swallows the sky and I duck my head as if I could avoid the blanket of silence (save the screaming of birds! save the rumble of semis barreling past on a two lane highway!) smothering the valley.
The tides once ebbed and flowed here, the sharks swam above my head, the eels burrowed into ancient mud where the houses now crumble.
I am sitting in a chair, staring out at the water table of time.