Fiji-New Zealand, Hakura

I am so far away from the blogs that remain, the last few I should write, at least to get you to where I am now. Those stories are like an old black and white movie where I am the hero and the story is adventurous. Where anything could yet happen. The internal dialog dubbed over each of the actual moments I lived is gone, and even the hard scenes seem lighter in retrospect. In them I am the star, the fearless sunny me, who is social and exciting; who can sail the world and make it all happen.

Maybe that’s why writing these last few blogs is such a chore. Because that me is so far away from the me I am now. I have woven myself into a completely different story line. But still I have committed to this blog, even if writing has gotten really hard and the dream of publishing my adventures as a book comes and goes like the tide. I’ve been faithful to this undertaking for more than a year and a half. Okay, I admit I haven’t been very attentive since I moved ashore. But . . I . . will. . . . finish this story.

Well, at least up until the start of my next phase, the child rearing years.

So. Where were we? My last post had us leaving Fiji, heading south towards New Zealand, into a big sea at night. After a few days of tantrum, the ocean finally wore itself out and lay down like a tired child and my nausea disappeared.

Without a sunshade tent obscuring the sky, a center console blaring circus lights in my face, or the autopilot running the show (like the other yachts I’d been on) I was forced into a more active role and to being fully aware of the subtler, timeless performance taking place all around me. At first it was hard to stand and steer for three hours straight without even the distraction of my iPod for fear of a wet slap. But soon I was riveted by the way the elusive air contours perfectly to the undulating body of the ocean, and I wondered who was leading who in this endless and intimate dance of sea and sky.

Having to actually work while on duty made my six hours off feel like I’d earned them, and since I paid my way I was relieved of the nagging obligation to be more useful. I love when the rules, timetables, and expectations of normal life are thrown out the window, like after a natural disaster; and the only remaining rhythm is created as you go. Here we were, finally, Doug, John and I, with nothing left to do but sail this little ship to New Zealand. Eat, sleep, and steer. And the nine days it took us to accomplish this goal were exactly what a sailor would want them to be: uneventful.

The first three or four days were cold and after ten months in the tropics I was glad I had purchased one of the few existing sweatshirts in Fiji. Doug’s girlfriend had left boots aboard that fit me and just to demonstrate how little land-based hygiene applies on a 36-foot boat at sea, after I was all suited up but still barefoot, I’d perch in the companionway ready for my watch. John, while still at the wheel, would remove his boots and strip off his one pair of slightly moist, overly ripe but warm socks for me to put on before I crawled out into the chilly night.

One day, unbeknownst to us, a big bull mahi-mahi took the bait we were trawling. We weren’t very attentive or enthusiastic fisherman and by the time we realized we’d caught something, he had been dragged to death. If he had been alive we would have let him go, he was nearly four feet long, enough to feed us for a week but without refrigeration there was no way the meat would last that long. We all lamented this beautiful shimmering loss and Doug chopped off a sizable chunk of his tail before letting the rest slip overboard. We only skinned enough for that night’s dinner, leaving the end bit with the impressive tail wrapped in a burlap sack in the cockpit for breakfast the following morning.

By now the weather was heating up. Being from the northern hemisphere, where equating south with sun is normal, I took it for granted that even though we were heading away from the tropics, each day got warmer and required less layers. At about halfway Doug had a birthday and to celebrate we all put on clean clothes. In the cockpit we set up the table and lay out one of the cherished rounds of cheese, a packet of crackers, sliced tomato, fresh mango, and a packet of peanut cookies. But the real treat: it was time to decant the ginger beer.  In Tonga I had met a great couple from Tasmania. We were just clearing in and they were clearing out, so our respective boats were alongside the immigration dock. We got to chatting and they invited me aboard their cozy floating abode for a glass of their home brewed ginger beer. I checked out the boat while she poured me a little of the starter and instructions on how to brew it as a gift. I’d been feeding it with fresh ginger and sugar, had bottled it with water and lemon juice and after weeks of fermentation it was finally ready to try.

Since Hakura didn’t have a water maker, fresh water showers weren’t an option. By about the end of a week we were feeling pretty ripe, and John, who liked the idea of keeping up with these sorts of things, instigated a seawater wash down for the crew. I was at the wheel when he appeared in his Speedo with the soap. After catching a bucketful of water, yanking it up quick before it dragged under with the weight, he squatted down in front of the wheel and began slowly scooping it over himself. I sped up the process by dowsing him with the whole icy bucket load, which made him squeal with shocked delight. This inspired me and soon I was in my skivvies screaming with laughter as we soaked each other with pails of the bracingly cold south pacific.

After nine days Aotearoa, which means “the land of the long white cloud” in Maori, appeared as a long dark smudge. That day as we approached New Zealand the sun was so warm we sunbathed in nothing but togs (kiwi for swimsuits) as if we had magically carried the tropics with us. We passed a few seals that had the same idea; they lay on the surface, each with a fin extended skyward. ”Whadda you looking at?” they seemed to be thinking, as we circled them gawking.

The sun went down in a fiery glow and in the remaining purple twilight the silhouette of a dragonhead stood guard over the Bay of Whangarei (pronounced fung-ga-rey.) As we passed this sentry, the mystical bubble of our sunshine voyage popped and we were enveloped in the heavy clouds and rain of a typical early spring in New Zealand.

That night we tied up to a cement floating dock at a deserted marina within what looked like a brand new housing complex and slept the deep, watch-less sleep of the safely landed sailor. The next morning the immigration guy came aboard like an old friend, “Hey Doug, how was your trip?” and stamped my passport even though I had no ticket to leave or money to stay, though I did have my job offer [see blog: Trusting the River.]

It was one day’s motor up the bay where Doug’s slip was and the rolling green hills, quaint looking villages, and colorful boats bobbing at anchor charmed me. Doug pointed out the terraced hills and explained that these were called Pa, where the fierce Maori warriors defended themselves from the British. The waterway narrowed and filled with boats until it finally ended near a low bridge; his slip was a tight squeeze among neighbors surrounded by touristy cafés and nautical restaurants. The first thing we did, once securely tied up, was walk across the street (where the cars came from the wrong direction) to the dairy (Kiwi for convenience store) where Doug shouted us (bought us) an ice cream cone dipped in chocolate. I had Hokey Pokey, vanilla with crunchy little bits of teeth aching toffee, since according to him it was the New Zealand favorite. While wandering around the small downtown we came across an opening at an art gallery and I got my first experience with the native culture. The three Maori artists greeted each other with the hongi, mindfully touching foreheads and noses and taking in a deep breath, then welcomed the crowd with a small ceremony in English and Maori. There was food and drink, beautiful pieces of tribal art in carved stone, flax, and feathers and an eclectic crowd. Lorraine and Sharron had joined us, Doug and John’s partners, and Doug shouted us a nice Italian dinner. Afterwards they went off in pairs, leaving me the luxury of the boat all to myself for the night.

I fell asleep thinking of this beautiful green land. Though the native people had had to fight for their rights, and there was still plenty of injustice, they had retained much more of their culture than the natives had where I came from. In New Zealand nuclear power was nonexistent, the government supported single moms, and medical care was everyone’s birthright.

After ten months my head was spinning from all the traveling I’d done, crewing on other peoples boats was the opposite of what sailing had always represented for me; freedom. I didn’t know what my future held but I didn’t think it was more of that. I felt like laying facedown, arms spread, to hug and kiss this spacious mass of solid earth. It might be a tiny island nation but it was a lot bigger than all the other islands I had visited and it had all the luxuries of the U.S. I didn’t have to jump on another boat or leave anytime soon. They spoke my language and couldn’t tell I was a stranger just by looking at me. Doug declared, during our crossing, that he thought my destiny was in New Zealand. So far it seemed like a storybook place and whether I could feel a whispered premonition, or it was just the fact that I didn’t want to go anywhere, I could imagine my story weaving itself somewhere within its pages.

The race was on. Doug, the captain, had the motor running at 22 rpm’s, as hard as he wanted to push it. Hakura, his 36-foot sloop, was gliding over glassy calm water towards a white line of waves smashing against the reef that protected the island of Viti Levu, Fiji from the churned up sea. Somewhere in that tumult was a channel, the illusive eye of the needle that would take us through a wall of coral; we had to thread the needle before the light was gone completely.

Dark purple was spreading from the eastern horizon, washing out the brilliant orange and red light like spilled ink, to where the sun had already sunk into the monstrous sea. We looked back at the hillside and searched through binoculars for the two markers that, once in alignment, would tell us we were on the right course. But we could only find one. The calm water between heavy breakers was the obvious choice, and we took it.

There had been a gigantic storm in New Zealand that was pushing massive swells our way. I was at the helm in the small open cockpit, my legs braced in a wide stance, my hands firmly gripping the wheel. Hakura didn’t have an autopilot, or any other fancy stuff (no refrigeration, water maker, radar, SSB), so it would be hand steering, three hours on, six hours off, for the approximate 10 days it would take us to reach Aotearoa, New Zealand: the land of the long white cloud.

Just as the purple sky was deepening into black, we cleared the last of the submerged dangers, and left the safe waters. A monster wave nailed us, stalling the boat for a split second with a loud thud. My feet slid to the low side as I braced myself, and all three of us were drenched with a wall of cold green water. Fuck. What an ominous way to start a voyage, these were the worst conditions I’d been in and I couldn’t even see them, plus Hakura was the smallest boat yet. And for the first time in ten months of sailing, my stomach began to churn. At least puking was easy, a slight lean over the lifeline and the ocean was nearly in my face. Nevertheless I was confident with my choice, Doug and John were competent sailors and good, solid people.

After getting the job offer in New Zealand at a water park, [see last blog] I spent two days searching for a boat. But my energy and the feeling of endless possibilities had drained. The bubbly, “Maybe I’ll just hang out in Fiji for awhile,” was reduced to, “Just get me to New Zealand, quick.” Lounging in paradise gets old, especially without much money and a heavy backpack to haul around. Everyone I talked to at the modern marina at Port Denerau pointed to Hakura first, the small sloop tied up directly in front of the office. They needed crew, but no one had been aboard all day. I kept chatting with sailors on the docks, looking for more leads.

I ran into a couple with whom I’d crossed paths a few times during my travels in the Pacific. After a pep talk from them, I confronted my previous captain. His boat was hauled out in the tiny boatyard beside the marina. He still owed me money, had my passport, and was responsible for me until I signed onto another boat, or had a ticket out of the country. We attempted to negotiate, but I was sick of his incessant negativity and his passive-aggressive refusal to take any responsibility for the situation. When he told me to calm down, I turned up the volume for the entire boatyard to hear, and stomped off in tears.

Later that night I had dinner with a prospective captain, Brian, who I had met in Tonga. He wanted me as a mate, but not merely the nautical kind. I made it clear that I was only interested in a platonic relationship, and left the possibility open as a last resort. One problem was his powerboat. Modern yachts are boring enough with all their electrical conveniences, but at least they still have sails to tend. Also, he wasn’t leaving for another month, and he was going to Australia by way of Vanuatu. After 10 months of crewing on other peoples’ boats, I was so ready to be autonomous, to live in one place, and have my own engaging life. The thought of hanging around Fiji and then slowly cruising yet another tropical paradise sounded like hell. All I wanted was to get to New Zealand.

Stupidly, I had the made the assumption that I’d crash on his boat for the night, but after dinner I found out that he had a girlfriend flying in at 4 am. It was too late to go knocking on the few boats that had offered a bunk and I didn’t want to blow a bunch of money on a hotel. Brian was taking his usual taxi back to Vuda Marina (pronounced Vunda) and his Indian driver told me to get in, he’d help me figure something out. I was too exhausted to think, I shoved my pack in the back seat and slumped in beside it. After we dropped of Brian, the sympathetic driver made me an offer, I could stay at his house free of charge but I’d have to cook for him. Or I could stay alone, also free, at his vacant house next door.

“That’s very kind of you,” I responded, thinking he seemed harmless enough, “I’ll take the empty place.”

Slightly surprised he asked, “Why don’t you want to stay with me?” with a little Indian head bobble.

I shrugged off answering but when I answered his other questions, “I am American and yes, I am single,” and he giggled to himself, “I am a lucky man.”

I quickly responded, “That is why I want to stay alone.” I made sure to lock the door behind me.

It was the next morning that I found Doug on Hakura. He popped his head out the companionway: a hefty, round man with a bushy grey beard and long fading brown hair tied back under a bandana. He invited me aboard for a cup of tea. His bare torso was decorated with various tattoos, including a parrot on his shoulder, and he immediately struck me as a down-to-earth person, a pirate type that I could relate to. His boat was obviously his home and he wasn’t a wealthy world cruiser, but a Kiwi on his first sail abroad. In its size and simplicity, Hakura reminded me of my boat, Azurlite, and as a captain I could appreciate the enormity of the feat he had accomplished, making the 10-day sail from New Zealand to Fiji.

I hefted my pack into the cockpit and ducked below out of the sun, settling into the cozy saloon. I offhandedly rattled out my considerable sailing experience. Doug busied himself with the ritual of preparing a proper pot of loose-leafed tea, and then explained his situation. He and his best friend, John, who he had known since college, had enjoyed a few months cruising Tonga and Fiji. Their respective partners had joined them for a few weeks and other crew had helped with the passages. Now it was time for the big trip home and John refused to go without help since they didn’t have an autopilot. Doug figured $30 a day as each person’s share of the expenses. I countered with a lower price for the whole journey. “I know how sailing is,” I said, “and I can’t afford to pay by the day if we have bad weather or are becalmed.”

Doug agreed to this. “But there’s one rule,” he added solemnly. “There are no put downs, and that includes the one we put down the most: ourselves.” I nodded knowingly. “Okay,” I consented with a smile. “That’s a rule I can definitely agree to.”

There were still a few prospects I wanted to check out, and Doug magnanimously offered me a bunk for a few nights, and the use of Hakura as home base, whether I sailed with them or not. He even said I could use his computer. I hesitated, not wanting to take advantage of his generosity by using his laptop to check on other crewing options, but he read my mind and assured me, “Use it, even to find another boat,” before leaving me in his floating sanctuary in blessed solitude.

With the knowledge that such a genuinely kind person had me covered for a few days, my whole body relaxed. Doug’s offer not only released me from the burden of lugging my oversized bag around in the tropical heat, wondering where I would sleep, but also  from the considerable weight of the single-woman-traveling-alone guard I’d been holding up.

When Doug returned, he invited me to join him on what had become his daily afternoon outing. We walked through the westernized complex that made up the posh outdoor shopping mall and marina, and through the surrounding high-end suburb, a pocket of white man’s vacationland, to the Hilton Hotel, with its luxurious oversized swimming pool. Our white skin was the only ticket we needed to enter this opulent resort, and we swam and sunbathed on cushioned lounge chairs. Since I didn’t have to hold up my tough, independent guard anymore, my feelings from the past week of unresolved drama welled up. Doug listened sympathetically and coached me through it. He was thoughtful and easygoing, and treated me like a niece. By the time we made it back to Hakura I felt totally at ease.

We met John at their usual picnic bench in front of a café on the mall, overlooking the water and all the vessels. Doug and John didn’t drink, a bonus since I was still abstaining, and we all ordered fruit smoothies. John was good-looking, tall and broad chested, with the unbreakable confidence and happy go lucky nature I associated with younger guys. I was not up to proving myself as good crew or good company, but they didn’t make me feel like I had to. Their relaxed, unassuming vibe made it clear they were old friends with no power trips or ulterior motives.

When I returned from the toilet, Doug announced that I passed the test; they both agreed they’d love to have me as crew for the passage to New Zealand. “Cool,” I nodded, relieved to be signed on and moving forward, “lets do it.”

While we sat there, my previous, stingy old captain and his wife wandered by, and stopped to exchange superficial pleasantries. These two big fatherly men sat on either side of me like sentries, and I felt protected from the miasma of negativity and bad communication that plagued Mistress 3. These guys were a much better match.

It was good we came to our agreement that evening, because the next morning a cute young surfer boy named Rob came by, looking for a boat. Doug told Rob he already had me, but invited him aboard anyway. He wasn’t experienced, just a kid in Fiji on a solo surfing trip who thought sailing home would be a cool adventure to end on. He was positive and energetic, and we all found his laid back persistence endearing. But, there wasn’t room for one more. Once we were at sea our sleeping arrangements would be “hot bunks.” When someone came off their three-hour watch, they would take the vacated bunk of the person leaving it for a turn at the helm. We had a few days to wait out the weather, however, so Doug invited Rob to hang out till then.

I made one last visit to my previous captain Ivan and made a deal. He was adamant I pay for the radar, since my attempt to fix it had made it worse, finally forcing him to pay a professional. I reminded him it had been broken long before I came into the picture, and maybe he should be thanking me, but to avoid full on battle I offered to pay 100$ out of what he owed me. The fact that I found a boat was a huge relief for him and he agreed, he would pay me 900$ and be free and clear of any further responsibility. “900?” “900$.” We both repeated it a few times, and shook hands, planning to meet at immigration to do the final exchange.

The next morning the three guys and me moved Hakura the few hours to Latoka, with its big ships dock and paper mill factory spewing smoke. Doug accompanied me to the dusty and eclectic city to sign me off Mistress 3 and onto Hakura and get my money and passport. I cordially shook Ivan and his wife’s hand, saying goodbye and wishing them luck and they handed me an envelope. As we walked away I realized it only contained 720$, they had subtracted my original air fair to Bora Bora. Ah well, at least it was over and done with, finally.

We spent the rest of the day provisioning and then pulled anchor. The murky green water around the city port cleared slowly to blue as we left the dry brown hillside of Viti Levu, the main island, in the distance.  Rob and I perched up in the spreaders and guided Doug between bommies (the Kiwi term for coral heads) to anchor in crystalline waters. We snorkeled around colorful coral outcroppings, and challenged ourselves to swim the distance to a tiny uninhabited island of white sandy beach. We took turns cooking and enjoyed meals together in the cockpit. Though most of our two days of exploring was under motor power, we even got a little sail in for Robby’s sake, since he never had before. With all the drama Fiji had been for me, it was a blessing to end it with these few days of laid back fun and mellow camaraderie.

By now we were all looking forward to getting underway. Doug was of the mind to just  tough out whatever conditions we encountered, so I was glad John was adamant about making sure the weather was auspicious for our 10-day sail. He subscribed to a guy in New Zealand who made detailed predictions and even chartered the optimum course for sailors through the changing weather patterns, according to him this was our window. We spent the morning doing our final clearance from customs back at Latoka and fueled up one last time, before barely making it through the reef as the light faded.

While being sea sick and puking wasn’t fun, at least I liked and trusted Doug and John. Sleep, eat, and steer; the ten days would pass. We were on our way to New Zealand.

Normally when I found myself between ships I felt aimless and lost. I would cast about desperately for a plan and deal with my anxiety by drinking and smoking. But now, after being kicked off of Mistress 3 so abruptly, somehow the precarious position of being stranded in Fiji without much money didn’t feel so bad. I am a firm believer in the law of attraction and in their discussions about this topic, Abraham—as channeled by Esther Hicks—describes life as going down a river in a canoe. Most people fight it, spending their lives paddling upstream, with the belief that they have to struggle to get what they want. But according to Abraham, we are attracting what we want and the trick is to surrender and let the current take you there. Well, I was in white water now. Like a river winding through a canyon my future was around the next bend, I just couldn’t see it yet. And there was nothing to do but let go and see where this river would lead.

While mingling at the pirate party, [see blog: Pirate Party] telling my story, I was offered a temporary bunk on a luxury catamaran, which was on the dock. The following night I took advantage of the invite and slept in a private cabin, though the stifling heat and blaring music from the bar made it hard to sleep. I still woke long before the guys, the owner and the captain, and sat in the spacious saloon to meditate. Then after making myself a cup of tea I settled at a the table in the cockpit, legs stretched out in the sun, and caught my journal up with all the new twists, while Musket Cove, the paradise isle, stirred. People on nearby boats began to emerge into their cockpits like ground hogs, stretching in the bright morning sun and rubbing their eyes, while a few Fijians, in flowered shirts and white shorts, made their way down the dock to the sand spit where the tiki bar perched among picnic tables and palm trees, to begin another day of service in this white man’s fantasy land.

I took a long walk away from the marina and bay where all the boats were anchored, past the hut with all the water toys for rent; Hobie Cats, kayaks and the volleyball net and beside that the bathhouse for the sailors. The calm turquoise water was at high tide leaving only a thin strip of white sand dotted with lounge chairs and rimmed with short palm trees. Here the beach went right up to the tiled floors of a few posh open-aired restaurants and a saltwater pool with a little sailboat in it for decoration. Further down, I passed resorts hidden tastefully among the palms and strolled up onto a sandy path that wound through manicured lawns, hammocks strung between trees and little bungalows for rent. Finally, I made my way past the last of the restaurants and hotels, around a rocky outcropping to where the beach was untouched and raw.

On my way back I stopped at an office to buy a ticket for the ferry to Latoka, where I still had to sort out matters with Mistress 3. Ivan, the captain, owed me money and still had my passport. [see blog: Musket Cove and the Aligning of Stars.] After that I didn’t know what I would do and since I had a few hours to kill I began looking for an empty lounge chair to sit and ponder. I was just wandering past the restaurants when I heard,

“Hey Davina!” It was someone up by the saltwater pool.

“Oh hey girl, how’s it going?” I had met Inger and her family two days before at the pirate party. They sailed on the same boat and I had bonded with her 10-year old son, had gotten funky on the dance floor with her husband, and had a good conversation with her on Wind Borne during our sail back.

“Hey, we were talking and Paul wanted to ask you if you want a job. You were so great on the boat the other day the way you got everyone involved. That’s just what he needs, someone with good leadership skills. If you just wait here, Paul will be back in a minute to tell you more.”

It turned out that Paul ran a kiddy swimming pool franchise in Auckland, New Zealand, and needed someone to run a crew of Brazilian lifeguards.  He assured me that the work permit wouldn’t be a problem.

Though for the past few months I had believed my future was leading me to Australia, I had much more interest in New Zealand. Plus it was a lot closer.

“That’s sounds awesome,” I told them, a huge smile slowly growing across my face, not only did I have a job, but a job where I could hang out by a pool, with kids and be the manager of Brazilian lifeguards, ha!

And just like that, without having to struggle against the current or stress out about what I was going to do, my vista suddenly opened as if from the top of a canyon, giving me a glimpse of the river up ahead. Now that I knew New Zealand was where I was heading, all I had to do was figure out how to get there.

After a full day of pirate festivities, with Wind Borne safely anchored back in Musket Cove, all the sails covered, and everything put away, a heavy exhaustion came over me. While the others were making a move to shore, the velocity of the past few days finally caught up with me. Like a wake overtaking a quickly decelerating speedboat, I felt swamped with fatigue. The thought of more partying on shore, the inevitability of craving Steven’s attention, hanging out with people who were increasingly sloshed, all without a place to sleep, sounded like pure hell. I quietly asked Avon for permission to stay onboard Wind Borne just for the night; I’d figure out what my next move was in the morning.

Once everyone had left and I was finally alone on the old wooden schooner, sleep didn’t come as easily as I’d expected. My body was still coursing with energy and I was in a romantic mood. Not romantic like the fall in love, hello Mr. Right, Hollywood. This was a more enduring, personal romance, one that had withstood ten years of the harsh reality of owning my own boat and the past year of ups but more downs traveling on other peoples’ boats. I was feeling empowered and dreamy, sensations that characterized my romance with the sea. Here, on this old classic ship in Fiji, my future was like the endless ocean, touching all continents, all possibilities. I climbed out of bed and up the ladder to the foredeck and stretched out on the massive bowsprit, like a languid cat over the inky black water, under a round yellow moon.

Despite this self-possessed mood, thoughts of Steven were running like Tom and Jerry round and round my head [see blog: Musket Cove and the Aligning of Stars]. We had motored past his boat on the way back to Wind Borne, and there was Melanie, in the cockpit. I had expected her at the party, but the fact that she was still with him afterwards made it clear he wasn’t as “over her” as he had declared to me the night before. But the mental cat and mouse chase I was engaged in with him was more out of habit than anything. I’d been fantasying about “love” since I was a preteen: “Please God, let him like me.” Old habits die-hard.

Then I realized this mental pattern was not consistent with my beliefs. We create our reality and creation starts with a thought. By picturing future scenarios between Steven and I over and over, always with the same theme: me wanting him to want me, I was only creating more wanting.

“If I believe so much in positivity,” I wondered to myself, “why am I letting these dark thoughts about love run helter-skelter through my brain?” So I gave myself a pep talk. “It is impossible to rehearse the future, Davina. When I see Steven again, I will know what to do. And though things probably won’t work out between us, it doesn’t mean I can’t think of him in a loving way. We had an amazing connection and that was a blessing in itself. Just because it doesn’t lead to some movie star romance doesn’t mean that I am not good enough for him or that there isn’t a great guy out there for me.”

And because my brain wasn’t going to drop the habit just like that, I began to imagine all those fears like insidious vines strangling my heart, and I began pulling them out as they sprang up. I weeded my heart until its soil was clean and fertile, abloom with vibrant flowers. “I am amazing, I feel great. My future is exciting and wide open and anything can happen.” I told myself, “ My heart is fresh and receptive and ready for love. And if its not with Steven, then its because he’s not the one for me. Not every guy can fly like I can.”

The next morning I felt wonderful, though quiet; pirate girl had used up her voice the day before. Avon, who was relieved that the loud, brash character was gone, made Renee and I a beautiful breakfast of yogurt, crunchy granola, and fresh papaya, then dropped me onshore with my gear. I stashed it on Joao’s boat at the dock and wandered across to the Sand Bar, the center of all activity. On my way I stopped to chat with Samantha and an American guy. Out of the blue he brought up EFT tapping; an energy technique my mom had taught me as a way to clear out old negativities and worn out thought patterns. Inspired by how the Universe seemed to be supporting me, I began tapping on my wrist to clear away old Tom and Jerry, who though slower, were still making their frenetic rounds in my mind.  I settled at a picnic table under some palm trees, where a small crowd was gathered to watch and participate in dinghy sailing races. Mary, an attractive Australian woman with whom I’d danced the day before, was at the same table, and I formally introduced myself. She immediately began talking about the power of positive thinking and how we create our own reality. With all of these like-minded people around, and the way this adventure was playing out, her words rang through me with the high vibrational frequency of a bell.

Just then Steven walked up, hung-over and hurting from the night before.

“Hey you,” I cheerfully greeted him. He sat beside me and came right to the point, “ Hey, I don’t think I’m really ready to take on crew.”

“I know,” I said.

I entered the woman’s kayak race, which, turned out, only had two contestants. Me and the other woman dashed down the beach and hurdeled ourselves into the awaiting plastic boats, each held in a foot of water by an attending Fijian man. They both gave us a strong push and we paddled evenly out towards the buoy. But once there, she paddled wide and I cut it close around the floating mark. Later she admitted she hadn’t wanted to be rude by bumping into me. I won the race.

Then I had an inspiration. Steven had gone back to his boat, so I borrowed Joao’s inflatable and motored out to see him. I found him in the middle of straightening up.

“I’m here to give you a massage,” I informed him. He had been complaining about a chronic pain in his shoulder that had been getting worse. I sat patiently in the cockpit while he finished cleaning.

When he offered me something to drink, I raised my water bottle and said, “I come complete.” I meant it in the deepest sense.

Then, after he had tidied up his space, smoked his bowl, and lay down on his belly, I hooked my iPod to his stereo and let the relaxingly intricate layers of BTribe unfold in the small cabin. I took a few deep, centering breaths. Then I lay my hands on his shoulders. I’ve never been into massage, and I don’t think I’m that good at it, but somehow, when I pictured my root chakra connecting to the earth’s center, I could feel Gaia’s power flowing up through me and into my hands. And while I was working on his shoulder, an image, like a subliminal message on a TV ad, flashed behind my eyes. I shared it.

“The reason your shoulder is hurting,” I informed him in the confident voice of a doctor, “is because your wings are trying to grow.”

Steven murmured in a stoned and deeply relaxed voice, “I have been having this recurring dream. It’s of me standing at a bar,” his voice barely a whisper, “but I keep falling down because I have these huge heavy wings and I can’t handle them.”

“You can Steven. Nature knows what we can handle; she wouldn’t give you wings that are too big. Let your wings grow Steven,” I whispered, “let them grow,”

I slipped off the boat. My wings, in their enormous feathery glory, were completely intact.

I jumped out of bed at the crack of dawn. It was Pirate Day for the Musket Cove Regatta in Fiji and I was free; released from the commitment of sailing to Australia with a captain I didn’t like. I was ready to take this party by storm.

Sailors are into pirates. You’ll often see the skull and crossbones waving among rigging, decorating someone’s bandana, or brazenly printed across a tee-shirt. But what is this fascination with pirates? Why are these vicious and violent thieves so popular?

To understand sailors’ current fascination with the pirates of old, you first have to understand the context in which they lived. During the late 1700s there were naval ships from various countries (England, Spain, France, ect.) roaming the seas in constant bloody battle. There were privateers, who were basically pirates, only they were sponsored by kings and queens, paid to loot the merchant ships of opposing countries to fill the royal coffers, (often after being outfitted by royalty, privateers would turn pirate and keep the booty for themselves.) There were public hangings and beatings. Slavery was in full swing. It was a dangerous time and like sovereign powers pirates used violent means, only they were self-employed. Instead of accepting a life of servitude, they were the infamous and often respected entrepreneurs of the deep.

Because of their refusal to be enslaved in the system, pirates remain in the collective consciousness as symbols of freedom and self-reliance. A pirate is an archetype for someone who takes control of their own destiny despite the odds.

No sailor throws herself more whole-heartedly into the pirate theme than me. I was stoked I’d been kicked off Mistress 3 the night before, just in time for the festivities. After filling my pack with all my belongings, playing music louder than was considerate, I dressed in my skull and cross bones bikini top, cut-off jeans, thick leather belt with my knife in its sheath, and a three strand line wrapped around me for extra effect. The rowdy, “I don’t give a shit what you think,” pirate spirit was upon me and I felt ready to cut loose for the day and charge into my future without doubt or fear. Of course I was excited to see Steven again [see last blog: Musket Cove and the Aligning of Stars], but my happiness and power lay buried, like a treasure, deep within myself. And no matter how it panned out with him, I wasn’t going to give it away or let anyone steal it.

The crew Ivan found the night before to replace me came around in an inflatable to see his new boat. His skin looked rubbery grey and sweaty with a hangover; a cigarette hung between his lips. He couldn’t be a poorer choice for Ivan and Mary’s “healthy lifestyle.” They might eat clean and not drink, but their negativity and lack of appreciation was toxic. The poor kid didn’t know what he was getting himself into. He agreed to take me to shore and I threw my overstuffed backpack into the dinghy and hopped aboard.

We spotted Wind Borne at the marina and headed her way. Her captain, Avon, had invited me to join them for the party, and we approached the beautiful old ship just as they were pulling away from the dock, all loaded up with pirate-clad partiers. As we swept alongside, I stood in the prow with my arms up and screamed in my gravely pirate voice, “Arghh! Lets get this fucking party started!!!!”

We swooped around the stern and pulled up on the port side, I hoisted my pack into waiting arms and grabbed the proffered hand up over the hip high bulwarks (railing.)

“No swearing; we have kids aboard” cracked the captain, putting me in my place as soon as I was on deck.

“Aye sir, what ever ye say Cap’em.” I barked back, “You’re the only man by whose word I’ll abide.” I bared my teeth, wrinkled my nose, and growled at the two kids who, like everyone else, welcomed my enthusiastic theatrics.

“Don’t worry about the swearing,” one of the mom’s, Inger, lasciviously dressed in a black bustier, assured me. “They’re used to it.”

There were several familiar faces aboard, sailors I’d met the night before, along with some landlubbers on vacation. I greeted everyone in my cocky manner, and in the process I coaxed out some ruffian personas for my camera.

Wind Borne was a magnificent and proper pirate ship. I had noticed her in the anchorage, the way her bow dropped straight into the sea with her long proud bow sprit, the way her stern swept back, her classic wooden elegance tempered by her beamy hefty strength. She was a 62-foot gaff rigged schooner built in 1928 and Avon had done a huge amount of restorative work to her, including replacing her keel stem (the backbone of her hull.) Now that I had a chance to really check her out I loved her even more. On deck she was simple, with no winches or electric conveniences except for the hundreds of lines it took to maneuver all her canvas. She was built in the day when mariners were tough and sailing was work. Down below had a homey, lived-in feel. She had a comfortable wooden interior with a big open salon complete with a wood-burning oven, a relic Avon couldn’t part with.

We were off to a slow start; all the other regatta boats were spread out before us. To get us through the reef, Avon perched in the rigging for a bird’s eye view, and shouted out directions to Renee, his beautiful partner, who was new to sailing and nervous about being at the helm. The sailors aboard, not trusting Avon’s alternate and daring route, added to her anxiety with their conflicting directions. Avon screamed at them,  “Shut the fuck up!” and I stood as a barrier between them and her, quietly cheering her on. “You got it girl,” I assured, “it means a lot that he’s making you do this; it’s not every man who will empower you like this. You got it girl.” I whispered.

She got us through unscathed and we motor-sailed the rest of the way. An hour later we approached Beach Comber Isle, which was a tiny island. Its white sugary beach barely broke the ocean surface, and I imagined without the palm trees that covered it and the protective reefs around it, it would have dissolved into the sea like sugar in my coffee. The only thing on the island was a resort with a bar and restaurant, and if the resort guests weren’t into pirates they best get off the island today because there was literally nowhere to hide. Boats of all sizes and models were anchored in the clear blue water off this tiny bit of land, and a taxi service was ferrying people to shore.

Once on land we funneled through a roped-off walkway, across fake hot coals towards the crowd, and were handed a shot of rum before entering the open-air bar. I was still not drinking and was probably the only sober adult there, but my brash, obnoxious manner didn’t give me away. I elbowed through the throng in a swagger, knocking people out of my path. One guy, getting in the spirit, growled, “Watch out wench, I’ll throw you in the dungeon.”

“Argh, ye wanna fight do ya?” I growled back, leaning into him and spitting my words in his face “I’ll have yur balls.” He loved it.

I didn’t win the limbo context, though I hammed it up and had everyone thinking I would. The kids didn’t know whether to fear me or love me, but either way they enjoyed the show. I caroused around, loud and engaging, got crazy on the dance floor with Inger and her fun-loving husband Paul, joked and played and felt completely free from all social restraints.

After awhile of coolly ignoring Steven who was coolly ignoring me back, I burst out of the crowd, practically tackling him. My buccaneer persona was done with playing such stupid games. He half-heartedly threatened me with his sword, and I twisted it out of his grasp. “Oh,” he murmured, when I forced it against his neck. His eyes lit up seductively.

Later, I advanced on the quiet table where he sat with a few people, all nursing their hangovers with more alcohol.

“Argh, cutie, who might you be?” I winked at the girl I knew was Melanie, and offered her my hand. He had told me all about her and their destructive relationship [see last blog] and I could see that Steven was enjoying getting attention from both of us. He whipped out his camera and I indulged him by grabbing her from behind and posing for the shot with my plastic knife at her throat, my tongue out and nose wrinkled in a Polynesian warrior grimace.

“That hurts,” she whined meekly.

“Oh, sorry honey,” I smiled, biting into a piece of fish I’d grabbed off Steve’s plate.

“It’d mean a lot to me if you watch the performance I’m about to do,” I told Steven and wandered away.

I had been rehearsing my pirate monologue on the sail over and now my window of opportunity opened; the band had quit and the DJ was setting up his gear. I jumped up, grabbed the mic, and bellowed, “I am a pirate of a new age.”

Instantly the crowd gathered around the stage to watch the impromptu show.

“I sail a pirate ship,” I roared, “I am a free agent, a citizen of the world.” My prepared words flowed naturally and I finally felt like they were true.

“I am not owned by government or state! I am not controlled by corporate powers or influenced by public opinion!” I declared vehemently,” I navigate by an internal compass. I am a high seas revolutionary!”

The crowd hollered their approval, which apparently annoyed the DJ because he unplugged the mic.

This only raised my fervor and I passionately declared, “I do not rape, pillage, and plunder! The power I possess I do not count in gold,” emphasizing my point by throwing a handful of plastic gold coins into the horde, who scurried like beggars to collect them.

“I know the value of true power, Source Power,” I divulged in a lower voice, “to which we all have access.”

“I capture the imagination of women . . . and the hearts of men,” I smiled, striking a pin-up pose. “But not by force! For it is always . . . more powerful . . . to seduce than to conquer!” When I paused to let that sink in, the DJ began trying to push me off stage. I stood my ground to finish.

“I know where the treasure is buried; I have the map,” I pushed back, uncrumpling a piece of paper from my pocket to prove it.

“Our fortune is universal,” I poked the map at the DJ, and then turned my attention to the crowd.

“The same X marks the spot for us all!” I pronounced before slipping into the swarm of people, escaping the DJ who by now was angry at my audacity and popularity.

By the afternoon, an onshore breeze kicked up and the captains began gathering their crew like ducklings, pulling us away from dancing and posing for exaggerated photos at the hangman’s rope. Steven, who saw I was leaving, came to say he would catch me later that night at Musket Cove for the after-party.

Once back on Wind Borne, Avon started barking orders in the forceful vernacular of a scoundrel captain whose crew lagged out of laziness and not just complete lack of experience.

“Haul the main sail! Make fast the sheets! Quick with it ya scurvy dogs!” After sailing with such an indecisive captain, I found myself loving Avon’s vigorous commands. And though I’d never sailed a square-rigged schooner before, I jumped to as first mate, translating his barked orders by visually tracing the lines and then divvying out duties to the green hands who wanted to take part but didn’t follow the lingo.

Avon, who remarkably could sail this beast of a ship by himself, fit the pirate role perfectly, and after an entertaining slur of vocal floggings, winked at me and confided under his breath, “I don’t actually believe in yelling and insulting crew, but the charter guests love this shit!”

We flew all the sails: the main, the stay’sl, forestay, and yankee, the fisherman, the course, and the grandy. Wind Borne eased over as all of her glorious canvas caught the wind. Her bulk sliced through the sea with grace and power, moving toward the horizon with a determination I wanted to emulate.

My future was a complete unknown; it could even be aboard this same ship to New Zealand. Whatever it was, I stood facing it at the prow, my feet firmly planted on the solid wooden decks, and my knees soft and bending to the rhythm of Wind Borne’s flight. We moved as one then, towards my destiny. I felt Wind Borne’s raw strength through me, melting away any fear or doubt that remained.

Malolo, island, Fiji  September 12, 2010

I felt great that morning, alive and anticipating the day. I stretched awake in the sunny cockpit and surveyed the tropical scene. Musket Cove was full of cruising boats for the week long regatta. The regatta was an excuse to get together and party in this white man’s version of paradise: tastefully hidden bungalows among the palm trees, open-air restaurants, white sand beaches, and clear, warm water, with no need for shoes. Even the Fijians who worked there seemed genuinely happy to find themselves in this man made land of leisure.

We didn’t tarry over breakfast; all four of us climbed into the dinghy to spend the day on shore. Both factions, owners and crew, were more than ready for time apart. Peter and I set up camp for the day, plopping the computer at a big table on the café/market’s shady deck. We ordered flat whites in bowls (steamed milk and coffee) and leisurely sipped while our laundry washed in the facilities across the sandy path. Samantha, a Polish girl who’d hitched a ride to shore with us the night before, joined us. She was an adventurous sailor who, it turns out, was also an aspiring writer, so I showed her my blog and read my pirate girl manifesto out loud. This filled me with inspiration. When I sashayed over to check our clothes, I had that tingly heart sensation that I get before doing something thrilling, like jumping off a bridge. It’s a butterfly flutter I associate with new love potential, but this time no man came to mind. This was the pure stuff; I was totally stoked on my own life and buzzing with possibilities.

After I’d had my chance with the Internet, I left Peter to it and strolled across to the beach.

“BU~LA,” sang the cute blond guy who had whizzed by earlier in a Zodiak full of surfboards.

“How were the waves?” I asked, passing him by a few steps.

“Good. Hey, where are you from; do I detect an American accent?” he cast his bait, luring me back to him.

“California,” I smiled.

“I spent sometime in San Francisco. I’m from Milwaukee. I’m Steven.”

In just board shorts and a wide-brimmed sombrero, he had the golden tan and muscular broad shoulders of a surfer. Hot damn. His eyes gleamed blue and his blond beard, braided to an elfin point, framed the grin of a fisherman who was used to catching.

“Are you on a boat?” I asked.

“Yeah I have my own boat. But things have been crazy; there’s this girl I’ve been seeing, its been a whirlwind,” he confided.

“You mean like a good, in love, whirlwind?” I asked, forewarned.

“No, bad, it started just casual but it turns out she’s totally insane. She’s a drunk. I feel like I’ve been falling down a well. Its funny how miserable you can be in paradise.”

“Yeah, well, I can totally relate. I actually quit drinking and smoking like a month ago. It’s so easy to fall into the daily habit, and it can suck you down. I finally feel like I’ve clawed my way out; I’ve just passed the lip.” I mimed climbing out of a well and landed as if on a surfboard riding a wave. “I feel so good, finally. But I know it can be hard.”

“It’s bad to say, but I’m ashamed to be associated with her.”

We chatted for another few minutes, remarkably open, as if old friends, before he had to run. He was signed up to be a judge for the sailing race that was going on. I was delighted to meet him, but knew our encounter was only a cherry on top of my already sweet mood.

I hitched a ride back to the boat and made Mary and Ivan a crunchy salad with apples and nuts. Though the beautiful atmosphere seemed to relax them a little, we all sat in different parts of the boat to eat. Steven zipped by in a dinghy and I did a little wiggle with my wave, and could hear him telling his friend about meeting me. Before heading back to shore, I donned my short parrot-green skirt. And, for the first time since the Galapagos, I felt like sporting my Pirate Girl t-shirt. Tonight was going to be a good night.

Onshore, I planned to meet up with my shipmates for the barbecue at the yacht club, which was providing a big fire pit so all the cruisers could bring their own food to grill. Just as the sun was setting I started to make my way down the dock lined with boats. There was a young guy with cinnamon skin and fluffy sun-bleached brown hair on a boat that looked like a charter. It had “destinocanela.com” in big letters down the side and a pile of surfboards on deck.  He greeted me in a Latin accent and asked, “Do you like a beer?”

“She doesn’t drink,” another voice chimed in from the center cockpit. It was Steven. “We just use that as an excuse anyway; just trying to get some feminine company. Why don’t you come aboard?”

“I’d be happy to,” I said, giving him my backpack and accepting a hand for the big step up onto the boat. “I know how it is, feminine company can be hard to come by on boats.”

“Are you chartering?” I asked, joining the four guys in the cockpit. I found out that Joao and three other Brazilian guys were being sponsored to sail the boat around the world. It took me a few tries to get his name right. “I’ll just call you “Ja Wow, ” I said coquettishly, finding it hard to pronounce the nasal O sound.

I made myself at home as Steven started playing the guitar. “I’m serious,” he sang, Joao accompanying him on the bongos. The lyrics were creative, intelligent, and funny and I assumed it was someone else’s song until he started ad libbing. The few times he stumbled, the rhyme magically came out of my mouth as if I was channeling the words from the same source. It was an awesome song and we all laughed and sang together. I had just been writing in my journal that I wanted young, fun, and artistic people in my life and here they were! I snapped a few photos and then handed the camera to one of the guys to take one with me in it. On a whim I splayed out across two cuties for the shot, surprising and endearing myself to them with my spontaneity. I’m sure the handful of breast helped too.

Steven’s next offering was called “Cheese Dick Love Song.” It painted such a clear picture of the game between guys and girls—how guys will say anything and how girls eat it up—that I had to laugh. It reminded me of how addicted to the idea of love I had been, how clingy and needy. And I marveled at how different I felt now: self-possessed and stoked on myself. I was enjoying flirting with these guys, but it didn’t come with the fantasy of anything more. And the song prompted me to make a mental note to leave it at that.

I left the boys and walked across the dock to the yacht club, which was on its own little spit of sand at the end of the floating metal dock lined with sailboats. It had a small circular bar with a palm frond roof and picnic tables scattered around in the sand. I sat with the Mistress 3 crew for a bit and chatted with Avon, Renee, and Samantha from Wind Borne, a classic wooden schooner that I had fallen in love with. They invited me to join them for the Pirate Regatta the following morning, but alas, Mistress 3 would be leaving and I would miss the best part of the festivities.

Samantha, the Polish girl crewing for Avon, had waved Peter and I down from the square-rigged antique the night before and we’d given her and a guy a lift to shore. This morning she shared her story with us. The guy was twice her age and not attractive in the least, but had wooed her with promises of love. Then Samantha found out he was married and his wife had just arrived to vacation with him. Now he was attempting to play her on the side, buying her drinks when his wife went to the bathroom. Samantha was love struck and heartbroken and didn’t know what to do. It completely baffled me since she was such a great girl but was a great example of how pathetic all of us girls can be when it comes to the fantasy of love, how quickly we are willing to give up our power for the promise of a man. I know I’d done it a million times.

Steven joined us at the small table, and tried to help in my attempts at uplifting Samantha, but we quickly tired of the effort and began talking boats. He told me the story of how he’d gotten his: it had belonged to an unmotivated friend and was withering away in a boat yard. Steven helped the guy finish the work and pushed him to follow his dream to sail across the Pacific. They succeeded in getting the boat to Hawaii and spent many months there, but his friend finally bailed out and left the boat to Steven. He had sailed it to Fiji with his girlfriend as crew, but they had since broken up. Now, after ten months of hanging out in Fiji, he was struck with the realization; he had been laying on his surfboard at what had become his home break, the world class wave that most people only dream about, and was surprised to actually find himself bored. It was time for him to move on, but the thought of sailing to Australia alone, where he planned to sell the boat, intimidated him.

“It’s really crazy how you dream of cruising your whole life and then when you’re actually doing it, it can be so depressing. So many retired cruisers remind me how lucky I am to do this while I’m still young, and I know I am, but it doesn’t make it any easier. I’m still stuck with myself.”

“I know exactly what you mean,” I laughed, glad to be talking about this truth so openly. I told him my story: how I had bought my boat at 21, how she sank, and how I had rebuilt her. I could relate about being intimidated to sail alone, too. I’d done it, though not across oceans, and it was damn hard work. “I always wanted a partner to do it with,” I admitted.

“Yeah, it was great sailing with my girlfriend for a while there, though in the end it wasn’t her thing. But I imagine if both people were really into it, it could be amazing,” he said. By now Samantha had left and we had scooted in closer to each other.

“It’s too bad you are already on a boat,” he said, overly casual, as if we weren’t both tuning in to what was happening.

“Yeah, and that I have no money. Otherwise. . . .”

“Who needs money, I got cans of tuna, we could make it to Australia.”

My grin broadened. I wasn’t seriously considering leaving Mistress 3. I had committed and I would stand by my word, but now that we had gotten this close, we clicked together like the magnetic plug on my MacBook.

We spent the next few hours talking about a whole world of ideas. We both listened intently, as if we had known each other in a past life and were now catching up on everything that had happened since. He had studied product development in school, which he only completed for his father’s sake, and we began to brainstorm ideas for inventions, tickling each other with what we came up with. Vissie* Smokes, his idea, were make-believe cigarettes for people trying to quit. I nonchalantly mimed putting a Vissie between my lips and began frisking myself for a light. Catching on, he produced a pretend lighter and shielded it from the wind while I leaned in and inhaled deeply. We came up with a whole marketing strategy—Vissies* a satisfyingly social breathing awareness exercise—as I continued pulling drags on the non-existent smoke.

He told me about his group of friends in San Francisco. They were into costumes, traveling, and music, and called themselves moisies, a term meaning anyone with moisture. The people with no moisture, the dry, uncool, fearful people, just didn’t get it.

“And as moisies, you know how it is, you always connect with cool people, the other moisies.” Then he initiated me into the tribe by their ceremonial greeting: each of us placed one hand on the others’ forehead and one on our own stomach, looking deep into each other’s eyes and slowly, like a guttural OM chant mouthed the word, “mmmooooossseee.”

We told each other about our families and their patterns, of our dreams and philosophies. Each detail and all the ways it connected to the rest of our lives seemed important, as if we were painstakingly routing maps of each other, so that each new bit could be sketched in and linked and referenced to the rest. The more we shared and laughed and explained, the more the world around us—the bar and the drunken patrons—became just a blur of color, as if we were grasping each other hard by the wrists, leaning way back against gravity, and spinning with abandon.

Eventually I got up to find the bathroom, and as I sauntered down the gangway, I did a systems’ check, making sure that any little tentacles of hope or expectation that had grown from our obvious connection were cleanly severed. Our conversation was exciting and fun, but it was only talk. Regardless of what happened, my happiness still lay centered within myself.

When I got back he asked me to re-do his beard in a French braid. We sat facing each other, straddling a bench, our knees overlapping. As I divided tufts of his blond facial hair, tugging and plaiting, I told him about a vivid dream I had recently had. It now seemed like a premonition of meeting him, especially since he had been an extreme skier, though I didn’t tell him that. The dream featured a young guy who I’d watched swoop theatrically down an impossibly steep incline on a skateboard. I saw him a few times and introduced him to friends with open admiration. Then the guy grabbed me and dipped me in an elegant salsa dance maneuver.

“Do you dance?” I interrupted myself to ask Steven, happy to know he did.

“Then the guy had to go study and I made sure not to cling to him, going happily on my way. But it turned out we were heading in the same direction. Then we were waltzing around this huge hall, flying up and around the corners. Then there was this colorful firework explosion thing, which was part of a performance piece that his friends had created, and I felt like I had found the community of artists  I wanted in my life. Then I wondered if we were going to be a sexual match. He was young and I didn’t know if he was man enough. I lay on top of him and asked him what he thought.”

“And what happened, what did he say?” asked Steven, intrigued.

“There was a black, molded plastic tool case, and he said. . .” I widened my eyes to punctuate the cryptic message, “. . . open the box.”

Just then someone cranked up the sound system and the song, “I’m on a boat, motherfucker!” thudded through the speakers, rousing a handful of us to jump up, hooting the anthem while bouncing around in a small circle. Then Steven busted out a free flow rap, keeping with the sex and boat theme: “she got her hand on my tiller.” That had us all howling with laughter and encouragement. Our little group had a good solid dance, cracking each other up with our most exaggerated, theatrically lewd, and energetic moves. At some point someone asked Steven where his infamous other half was. He glanced at me before answering, “Oh, she’s been demoted to 1/16.”

The night was getting late, but I was sure I would be even later. After asking Steven if he would give me a ride back to my boat, I went to let my shipmates know. I approached the table and was immediately stunned by the awkward silence. I informed them that I’d be getting another way back to the boat. Mary tried to respond, mumbling something about them sailing early for the Pirate Regatta.

“You mean we will be sailing in the race?” I asked excitedly.

“Ah. . . ” she stuttered and said something about sailing and the morning, but the words floated by separately without a meaning to hold them together. She looked across to Peter and Ivan for help, but it was if there was a big fat elephant sitting on their laps, squashing their lower bodies, making their faces blue and expanded like balloons. They all stared back at me as if hoping I would just understand.

Peter finally broke free from the trance, jumped up, and took me aside.

“They are kicking you off the boat,” he told me.

I had been vaguely aware that Ivan had been talking to several young men during the evening, but my focus had been elsewhere and besides it seemed like they would have told me when we’d been alone that afternoon so that I could have taken advantage of the party to find another boat, but still the news came as a relief.

“Really?” I squealed, shocked with the pleasure of escape.

“Yeah, but before you get too excited, apparently Ivan took your little talk about how you wish you didn’t have to accept any money to mean he doesn’t owe you anything.” [see: Tonga and Fucking Up]

Then Peter, my dear friend and legal counsel, coached me through what I had to do.

Then I took Ivan aside and laid it out: he owed me money. When he tried to argue and warned me, in his passively-aggressive way, that I better not make a scene in front of immigration, I decided to stop the bullshit and bad feeling in preference for the good vibe I had had all evening with Steven. Obviously everything was working out perfectly.

“Look, we can talk details later, Ivan. Bottom line, I know you are a man of honor and you’ll do the right thing. I really don’t want to cause a big problem. I know we can work it out so that we are all happy.”

I walked back to where Steven was sitting.

“I just got kicked off my boat,” I declared. I felt stunned, in awe of how swiftly my situation had changed. I had finally released my craving for a man and apparently the universe had instantly responded by setting me down in the lap of what seemed like my perfect guy.

“Well,” he said jokingly, throwing an arm around my shoulder and leading me down the dock, “lets go shag.”

We bounced back to his boat in his red rubber dinghy, our feet sloshed with a few inches of standing water in the soft bottom. The night was dark, the stars were brilliant, and I felt totally in the moment. We climbed into his trash-strewn cockpit and went below.

“I have barely come back to my boat this week except to sleep,” he explained, grabbing an armful of stuff off the bed to make room for me to sit. The small interior was shabby and cluttered. His bed took up one side of the main salon, since his quiver of surfboards filled the v-birth. I made myself comfortable on the salt-encrusted mattress.

He cooked us grilled cheese sandwiches and we carried on with our comfortable and intimate conversation. I talked about Ivan and our dynamic, realizing my pattern of beating myself up had something to do with my father. I told Steven about the “family meeting” we’d had years ago. It was the last time I’d talked to my dad, who had used the same passive-aggressive tactic as Ivan.

Then Steven told me, in full detail this time, about what had happened the previous night with Melanie. She had been so drunk by the time he brought her back to the boat she crewed on, that the captain had started to rig up a halyard (a line used to haul up sails) to get her limp body onboard. She had slipped from Steven’s grasp into the water, and sunk below the surface like a stone. Steven dove in to retrieve her. He swam blindly down into the black water with his arms stretched out searching for her body. It had scared him so badly he was still filled with anger, disgust, and confusion. He had come up without her, desperate for air himself, and dove down a few more times, thrashing around in the darkness frantically hunting for what he imagined would be her cold, dead body. Then he heard her sinister cackle from another boat.

He told me how degrading and dramatic their relationship was. “It’s seriously easier and more satisfying just to masturbate,” he half-laughed, as if seeing for the first time this truth. “I’m definitely done with it,” he pronounced. I listened intently to support him, but felt entirely separate from the situation. Melanie obviously had a major issue with self-love, which was sad. And Steven had his own shit to deal with.

He invited me to stay. “We’ll just cuddle,” he assured me, but there was a lot more to clean up than a messy boat before I would spend the night.

In the cockpit we hugged, a long, slowly swaying embrace of support and caring, and then he took me back to Mistress 3.

“I tried to get you a place on the boat I’ll be sailing in the regatta,” he said, “but we’re already way too many. We could try and take my boat,” he started, obviously not stoked on the idea.

“No way. That’s too much work,” I cut him off. “I’ve got a boat to sail on tomorrow, don’t worry about it. I’ll see you at the party.”

His face spread into an easy, relieved smile, as if he was not used to a woman with no drama or clingy needs. He cut the engine and we drifted up alongside the hull of
Mistress 3.

“Bye,” I said, sharing his feeling of relaxed happiness. Spontaneously we leaned towards each other and through big smiles and starlight we kissed—soft warm lips—and then again. Both content to have found such effortless company in the midst of so much turmoil, come what may.

It was afternoon when we carefully entered the arm of small islands and reef that protected the northwest waters of Viti Levu, the main island of Fiji. It took us another few hours to sail along the coast before we dropped our hook near the town of Lautoka. Mary had already informed immigration by VHF that we were approaching; she was now stressed out, rehearsing our excuse for being tardy. Fijian officials were, according to what she had heard, red-tape bureaucrats. Plus her personal motto, as she had explained it to us, was: “expect the worst.” So, true to form, she was conjuring up all the horrible repercussions if we didn’t follow the rules.

Peter and I dutifully inflated the dinghy and mounted the engine as twilight was descending, a speed record for the Mistress 3 pit crew. We lowered the dinghy in the water, climbed in, and slowly poked by another cruising boat. Four of us in the small rubber ducky was a bouncy, wet experience. We asked the couple on deck where to find the immigration office. They assured us that it would be better to wait for morning; the officials might be strict, but they wouldn’t be happy if we made them return to work.

In one of the cruising guides I had read about the cannibalism of the Fijians of old: how they not only ate their enemies, but sometimes mutilated the dead bodies and sexually taunted their private parts during the ceremony. The last recorded act of cannibalism was well into the 20th century. It was no wonder Fijians had retained their language and culture! They have many connections with the ancient Polynesians, especially their Tongan and Samoan neighbors, but they are descendants of the Melanesians, with skin the color of powdered chocolate milk, and kinky hair.

In 1874 the British colonized Fiji. The new governor, apparently a humanitarian, forbid interference in the native culture and way of life, which is cool. Except then the British brought laborers from India to work on the sugar plantations. Along with the Indians came the measles, which killed over 40,000 Fijians. Today the population is almost half and half, Fijians and Indians, both fully integrated into the society, with small populations of Chinese and Europeans. The Indians tended to concentrate on the bigger islands and towns and were more motivated as business people. The Fijians populated the small islands and stayed closer to their agricultural roots.

The next morning we went to immigration and I was happily surprised to find the feared officials, if not terribly efficient, at least friendly. We learned the word for hello: bula. As we headed toward town from the guarded compound on the jetty where the immigration offices were, past tied-up cargo ships, past the smoke stacks and huge metal warehouses of the sugar processing plant, we were greeted by everyone, Indians and Fijians alike, by this word, sung in a happy refrain: “BU~LA!” All of this positivity gleamed defiantly in contrast to the gloomy cloud hovering over Ivan and Mary.

The sun was hot and overly bright, and everything was covered in a fine layer of dust. The town felt flimsy and crowded, like two stories of glued-together, random cardboard cutouts. There were decrepit wooden storefronts, expansive fast food chicken places, little second hand shops with grimy windows, and modern department stores whose mannequins were clothed in jeweled saris or Australian surf clothes.

We ducked into the cool dark shade of a high ceiling warehouse that housed a market; it was a gigantic area with thousands of tables all piled high with a rainbow of every kind of fruit, vegetable, and spice, along with eggs, grains and seafood. The floor was dirt covered concrete, the tables were grubby slats of plywood or just a tarp on the ground. But each vendor’s goods were artfully organized in neat piles: red peppers, oranges, yellow bananas, greens, purple eggplants, all precariously balanced. I watched a woman creating her display. She was doubled over a small mound of brown root vegetables, painstakingly attempting to balance one on the peak of a pyramid. She turned the yucca every which way before finally selecting another one to try.

Our plan was to do all our shopping, fix the radar yet again [see: Palmerston] and get underway. We had wasted too much time in Tonga and the pressure, though arbitrary, was on. But at the dock that morning we ran into the cruisers who had advised us about immigration the night before. Sam, the 13-year-old daughter, with long stringy blond hair, a freckly nose, and an American accent, despite her English mom and Danish father, (because of all the movies, she explained) loved my shell earrings. The friendship was sealed when we discovered we were both artists. They told us about a regatta at Musket Cove. Sam had painted a mermaid on a sail for the decorated dinghy competition that I wanted to see. Peter and I were desperate to get off the boat, and Ivan and Mary agreed to sail over there for at least one day of fun after our chores were done.

Since Peter was getting sick of doing it, we agreed that I would go up the mast to fix the radar. This was the fifth time it had failed since Panama; the movement of rough seas kept causing the plug to get yanked out. We came up with a plan to pull more wire through the mast, hoping to eliminate the problem once and for all.

Just as I was being hoisted up, friends if Ivan and Mary stopped by. Ivan seemed glad for the distraction. Once I was in place beside the radar, dangling high above the boat, Peter straining his neck up at me, and Ivan and Mary out of sight in the shaded cockpit, I felt above it all: my past stupid mistakes, my bad habit of beating myself up, and all the subtle tension building up like static electricity. I was my captain self, purposeful and confident, ready to solve this annoying problem for good, and show them how it’s done. [see: Tonga and My Many Fuck Ups]

Apparently, while I was up there, Ivan’s guest made the comment that he wouldn’t have amateurs working on his radar; if he had ongoing radar problems he would hire a professional or do it himself. Well, Ivan didn’t want to fork out the dough or go up the mast. Instead he sipped his tea. And when I realized I was in over my head after removing the shrink-wrap on what appeared to be a broken wire, which left the radar thoroughly disabled, he didn’t want any part of the responsibility either.

But somehow my emotions didn’t overwhelm me. My internal voice that would have begun its abusive beating stood wordlessly in the corner while another voice held it at bay with loud, repetitive, empowering logic: “Shit happens on boats and the radar was already a problem. I’m not a pro and Ivan knew that when he had me do the work. Maybe this is for the best; now he’ll have to pay a professional, which he should have done in Panama. They’re already planning to pull the boat out of the water, since there are other needed repairs that will be cheaper to do in Fiji than in Australia. All this means is that we’re back to Plan A, not a huge change of itinerary. It’s okay Davina.” This confident voice stared down the other one, whose dangling hands still held her hurtful words like weapons.

There were no professionals available until Monday, so it was Musket Cove for a few days, and then we would go to the boatyard and hire someone to fix the radar problem once and for all. We lifted anchor and Pete and I washed the muddy chain and cleaned muck off the decks. We got the sails up and heeled over, cutting through the protected water, aiming at an island in the distance. Peter tried to get me excited about taking the wheel for the cutting edge sail to Musket, though with that voice still lingering in the corner, I was reluctant to make any nautical decisions. Then Brian on Furthur called on the VHF. Lucka [see: Lucka and Following Your Bliss] was flying out the next day; they’d just left Musket Cove and we’d miss each other. I ducked below to say goodbye, and though the Mistress 3 crew couldn’t hear my side of the conversation, Lucka’s radiant voice sang through the outdoor speakers. Her words of love and inspiration temporarily washed away the stress that pooled in heavy clumps between us.

As we approached the reef, Ivan was a nervous wreck and had Peter guide us slowly into the Cove. And as soon as that anchor was set, Peter and I began, almost frantically, getting ready to depart. It was Friday night and we were on a mission. There was a regatta going on and we were going to let the lighthearted fun of it cleanse us of that thick, dirty muck.

But there was barely a soul on shore. All the sailors had partied all day on a disappearing sandbar and were taking some down time before the big Saturday night blow out. We parked our inflatable at the empty dinghy dock, walked past quiet, tied-up sailboats and the deserted yacht club bar, then onto the white sand, past lounge chairs and palm trees, shower and laundry facilities, a little café and a market, past hidden bungalows, a saltwater swimming pool, posh restaurants, and tastefully hidden resorts in the manicured version of a Westerners’ paradise.

Pete and I sat at a small table overlooking the pool that featured a decorative shipwreck, and had a lovely meal. If Peter had his way we would have kissed, but despite that it felt like we were honest friends. The only thing we talked about was the interpersonal dynamics on the boat, and how much the negativity weighed on us. Early on we had compared worldviews with Mary and Ivan and were equally dedicated in proving the superiority of our belief in positive thinking. I had confided in Peter, after the last fuck up, that I intended to get off the boat. Now I felt like everything was exactly as it should be.

“I’ll stick it out,” I declared, “I said I would and I stand by my word.” I felt strongly that the lessons I was learning were extremely important and overall I was thankful for the whole experience on Mistress 3. Maybe I was learning to be kinder to myself; if I had attracted this scenario to learn a lesson, I’d also included Peter to support me through it, and I was really thankful to have him. It all felt cosmic and aligned.

“It was even good for Ivan, I reckon,” I said, describing an early email where he had been complaining about Peter and the last crew constantly breaking things on his boat. “He was obviously creating this dynamic too.”

“Besides,” I said, “I kinda like Ivan; he’s alright.”

“I don’t,” declared Peter, “he is an uneducated, close-minded, bigot.”

“True,” I smiled, and nodded thoughtfully.

One thing Ivan, Jennifer, Peter, and I all agreed on was a Tongan feast. We saw them advertised at different “palongie” (white people/foreigners) establishments but fancied something more traditional. I imagined a pit oven, a kava ceremony, food wrapped in banana leaves. Then a fellow cruiser told Peter and me of a small community that he had gotten to know and love on one of the islands; they were putting on a feast to raise money for a new wharf. Our ears perked up. That was for us.

We anchored at a nearby island and got soaked on the long dinghy ride across open water. Ivan slowed down to motor up to the tiny beach, alongside the arm of crumbling rock where their old pier had been. We were the first cruisers to arrive. I scampered out into knee-deep water and handed the painter (the bow rope) to the man who greeted us, he was dressed in a black shirt and a long wrap skirt made of black polyester, topped by the traditional Tongan swath of palm frond mat that encircled him like a stiff mini skirt tied on by a belt. He immediately sent someone to fetch me a dry sarong. It was a white cloth, hand-dyed in blue and orange, which he insisted I keep as a gift.

There were a few curious children who came down to check us out, and some shy women who busied themselves close by, but it was obvious this event was solely created for the palongies; not something in which the whole community would take part. There were palm frond and banana leaves laid out on the ground to sit on. A large wooden bowl with legs stood at the head of this rectangular arrangement, and a few men were seated around. I may have been off of intoxicants but kava wasn’t one of them.

Kava is a root plant, and Tongans make a muddy-looking tea from it that has a relaxing, anti-anxiety, sedative affect. They have used it for centuries in ceremonies and while socializing. Traditionally it was only men who’d sit around for hours, drinking and talking. I was curious to take part in the experience. The few middle-aged men who were already partaking insisted I serve, so I sat on the ground in front of the bowl and used the dipper to fill the half coconut shell cup and pass it around. Each person polished off the contents before passing it back to me. The guy next to me, after establishing that we were both single, passed it back with a coquettish albeit toothless smile. Slowly the cruisers arrived and sat. I continued to fill and pass and drink. I had just begun to feel the effects: the tingling numbness in my throat and mouth, the peaceful sensation spreading through my chest.

Then the food was ready. There was a small spit-roasted pig that they cooked there on the beach, but everything else arrived in saran-wrapped dishes and was presented on a palm frond-decorated table. There was a surprising variety, mostly seafood. I even tasted sea snails, which were mixed with enough mayonnaise to hide the fact. We all grabbed a seat where we could, on the pier or on the ground, with our plates in our laps, and watched the sun set. Then Lucka (pronounced Luchka) and crew arrived.

Lucka was in her late twenties and tanned golden. She had sandy, shoulder length hair, with a longer braided bit in front, dangling a shell.  She wore a skirt, mismatched earrings, and the open hearted smile of someone following their bliss. With her was Tom, early twenties, a tall, thin Kiwi with pale white skin and a cloud of light curls floating around his head. Their captain, Brian, was a middle-aged American, compact, in a bright tropical print shirt and a buzz hair cut; his boat was named Furthur. Lucka was from Slovenia, where my maternal great grandmother came from, and we immediately connected.

The next morning a group of cruisers came for church, and we got a short tour of the tidy little island. Then the crew of Furthur stole me away. After my Vana White assistance with Brian’s balloon animal entertainment for the kids the night before, and Lucka and I’s quick friendship, we were all stoked to hang out. The plan was to take me diving, and though I felt loyal to Peter, who was just as eager as I was to get a break from the slow, indecisive days on Mistress 3, I didn’t argue when Brian told him there wasn’t room for him in the dinghy.

I had already noticed the 48-foot motor yacht in the main harbor. It had Grateful Dead bears dancing around the tie dyed name, Furthur, which struck me as incongruous: a big, shiny, navy blue powerboat with a hippy motif. Boats and owners sometimes have similar characteristics, like dogs and owners do. Brian was clean cut and sober. I suspect he had learned a lesson from his wild hippy days following the Dead, even though he still talked about them incessantly.

As soon as we had grabbed my stuff and gotten back to Furthur, Lucka went into action. What a relief to be on a boat where people made quick decisions and promptly followed through with them! She demonstrated the electric boom and winch system to Tom, who had just joined the boat, and lifted the hard bottom inflatable up onto the top deck. Then we lifted anchor and were underway.  With the press of some buttons on a handheld steering remote, we basked in the sunshine on the top deck and watched paradise sail by. Soon we were re-anchored in yet another perfect spot; 90 feet of clear swimming pool blue water, white sandy beach and lush green vegetation.

Zooming over to the dive spot in the dinghy, Brian and Lucka sang songs, laughing and carrying on. It was exaggerated to entice me, I could tell, but I welcomed the lift in energy. We tooled along the cliff face and found Mariner’s cave because other snorkelers were floating out front; the entrance was hidden below the surface. Brian and I donned scuba gear and went in through the deeper opening at the bottom of the cave. Suspended in the dark depths, we looked up towards the piercing rays of light dancing around the silhouettes of Lucka and Tom as they dived down through another opening to emerge inside the cavern. I lay on my back and watched their legs kicking like frogs to keep their heads above the surface. There wasn’t much, besides rock, to see so far down. Brian was beckoning me to follow him, but I would have preferred to be up in the air and light with them.

Back on Furthur, Lucka stripped off her wet bikini and showered on the back deck, as if unaware that the boys hovered, basking in the sight of her naked, long-limbed, sun kissed body. Brian, hoping I’d be into it, was excited to tell me about their new sport, skorkeling; Lucka piped in to say it was a combination of skinny dipping and snorkeling. I am oddly modest. I love being bare skinned in the sun but I would never frolic naked in front of such an eager man that I had no intention of sleeping with. In fact, my previous captain, L, had thanked me for not flaunting my nudity when we were alone on the boat. But nobody held that against the beautiful Lucka.

Then she made us a light and healthy Greek salad, and we all rejoiced in how delicious it was, sitting around the table on the top deck, soaking in the sun and the tropical turquoise, white, and green views.

That evening Lucka and I made our beds under the stars and talked long into the night. She had been traveling for ten months, like I had, but was filled with wonder and magic. Some of that time she had been on boats, and dreamed of owning her own boat in Hawaii with her partner, who was still in Slovenia. It sounded like they had an honest and deep, spiritual relationship, which could withstand the test of long distance and time, even surviving a love affair that she had had while traveling. She was full of inspiration and insight. Talking about how we create our lives and how the best way to do this is to follow our bliss these were all things I knew but needed to be reminded of. Her name, Lucka, means light, and I pictured her; arms open, palms up, glowing with the loving luminescence of an angel.

What began as a single afternoon on Furthur stretched into three days of light-hearted fun, appreciation, and smiles. Those three days were especially great because Brian and Lucka didn’t drink or smoke. We moved the boat around to different anchorages each day, jumping in to snorkel every chance we got. One day we spotted humpback whales and chased them around, willing them to come closer. In Neafu harbor one night, the opaque water was filled with jellyfish. Brian flicked on blue underwater lights, creating an out of this world visual display not even Monterey Aquarium could top. We ooo’d and awe’d and took pictures. Each meal was a celebration worthy of the highest thanks. We talked. Tom played his guitar. We watched movies and ate chocolate cake. Lucka showed me her We Moon calendar, and I scribbled down my astrology reading with great interest. The signs that point me on my path pop up everywhere. Meeting Lucka and sharing these idyllic days were like a billboard.

Though I had great time, I finally told Brian, who’d been joking about steeling me, that I wouldn’t join them because I was getting paid and needed the money, but that wasn’t the whole truth. Lucka would be leaving soon, Tom was temporary and it would end up being just Brian and me. I was bored enough on fancy sailboats that had buttons instead of winches, a crossing without even sails to deal with sounded dull. And though Brian was a nice and interesting guy, I was sick of being a captive audience for a lonely man. Brian’s longer than friendly hug goodnight made it uncomfortably clear that when he said he wanted to keep me it was for more than just a deck hand. So after 3 days we met Mistress 3 underway, and when the two boats were alongside each other, I hugged everyone good-bye with hopes that we’d meet up in Fiji, and jumped across.

My fire had been rekindled. Lucka and the way she was following her bliss was an inspiration. I thought I had been doing just that. But now I realized that I had been confusing the apparent bliss of an intoxicated buzz with the truer bliss of clean, healthy, appreciative living. Lying under the stars with her, sharing stories and dreams…her light encouraged mine and I could feel its warm flame flickering up within me. And now I knew I could do it. I could set myself free.

After four uneventful days at sea, in which I cleaned, waxed, and de-rusted the cockpit, we had arrived at the northern group of islands, Vava’u, in the Kingdom of Tonga. To get into the protected harbor of Neiafu, the second biggest city in Tonga (a small town by American standards), we wound in through forty little islands that, on a chart, seemed to hang from the larger main island like chopped up tentacles from a jellyfish.

Though the missionaries invaded Tonga with the word of God, the white armies weren’t so successful. In 1875, Taufa’ahau (King George), declared Tonga a constitutional monarchy. It remains the only monarchy in the Pacific. Besides the king, nobody owns anything in Tonga, and perhaps because of this, the Tongans don’t have the same sense of economics as the Europeans who have, in recent years, settled there. So all the artsy little cafés and restaurants along the waterfront are owned by palongies (white people).

After clearing customs on the first morning, we began the ever-present boat chores. Ivan and I began with the backstay (wires that hold back the mast, which run from the top of the mast to the stern.) On Mistress 3 these were hydraulic and one side had a leak. The plan was to replace the faulty one with a manual turnbuckle, though the hole on the stay and the hole on the turnbuckle were different sizes. Luckily, from his collection of stainless bits, Ivan fished out a clevis pin machined specifically for the job. This was entrusted to me, but somehow, while attempting to line up the stay with the turnbuckle, this one-of-a-kind pin jumped from my hand, making a clean break into the depths. Oops. The first of my many fuck-ups.

After Ivan’s discourse on how hard this would be to fix, nearly insurmountable in such a faraway place, my logic hazed over with my emotions. Luckily, Peter had an attitude of acceptance and “let’s get this done,” so I followed him to shore. He found a palongie who, for twenty bucks, machined a new part with efficient perfection.

We spent an afternoon folding and unfolding storm sails that had never been used, trying to figure out how to rig them. Peter was knowledgeable and industrious, and took the lead when Ivan didn’t. If I were paying my way as he was, I would have wanted to spend more time checking out the islands. As for me, I didn’t care about Tonga. I had resigned myself to accepting the fact that I was working. I just wanted to do a good job and get to Australia, where I would be free. I was relieved from guess work when Ivan gave me a list of chores. While the others went to shore to explore, I wired a new plug in the anchor locker for the spotlight, without incident or comment.

The next job I tackled seemed straight forward enough: fix the light in the main salon. It was drizzling and we were all crowded inside. Ivan was into some project or another with his tools scattered around. Peter was there, working on his computer. And Mary was sitting at the nav station, a raised desk across from the galley, above the refrigerator box and freezer.

I carefully pulled down the light and investigated the problem, which was obvious: the wires weren’t connected and needed to be re-soldered. While I was groping below Mary’s feet, dragging out the cooler marked “electrical gear” that was stored there, Ivan began inspecting the light. I quickly explained what I planned to do, assuring him that I knew how to use the solder iron and I didn’t need his help. I cringed when Peter looked up to see. “I can do it,” I declared, and went to crank up the generator.

I realize that sometimes, especially when a woman is trying to prove herself, there might be a tendency towards pridefulness. I like to think I’m beyond that, I did rewire my whole boat twice and soldered every connection, damn it. I’d like to think I am confident enough in my skills to accept help and advice. So when Peter jumped up, I recognized the slight mania I was feeling and took a breath. OK, I could use a little help, though I wasn’t going to let him take over.

“Okay Peter, you can hold this,” I relented, and handed him the pliers to hold the pieces together. I plugged in the iron and stood on the cooler, waiting for it to get hot, which it quickly did. I held it’s tip to the piece, and the solder to the wire, but the solder didn’t suck up into the wire like it should. Then the iron cooled down. Huh? That’s strange. Peter and Ivan were on it like tiny fish on food dropped overboard. Then there was a pop, and Mary complained that the GPS had gone dead. Suddenly I knew what I had done wrong. Fuck-up number two.

Though I knew enough to start the generator, I didn’t think to ask where the plug that corresponded to the generator was. I had plugged the soldering iron into the inverter where I was used to plugging things in, but the inverter didn’t have enough juice. After Mary and Ivan made sure that all the expensive navigation equipment was okay, I retreated to the bow to cry.

I allowed the wave of negativity and feelings of stupidity to pass through me, then gave myself a pep talk. “It’s okay. That was stupid, but nothing’s broken. You can buy another soldering iron. It’s okay.”  When I had recovered a bit, I made my way back to the cockpit, wiping away tears. I pushed past Peter who was hurting to see me hurting. He had a daughter in her mid-twenties, and his fatherly instinct was to coddle me, which I couldn’t stand. I preferred Ivan’s direct, “that was an airhead thing to do,” comment, which was honest and much closer to my own sentiments.

I wanted to run to shore and fix the problem. I gathered my stuff and made for the dinghy, but not so fast. Mary wanted to go to shore, then so did Peter, and it took another hour before I could make my escape.

Finally I walked into the hardware store and found a large airy room full of shelves but little else. It looked as if a swarm of people had just swept through and bought up everything, leaving only scant odds and ends in their wake. I asked the cute young girl who looked like she should work in clothes retail, if they had a soldering iron. She assured me, decidedly, that they didn’t. But I spied what looked like one and asked to see it. It was almost exactly like the one I had ruined and only cost me forty Fijian, making my fuck-up bill to date only $40 US. “It’s not so bad, Davina, it’s not so bad.”

Back at the boat I easily fixed the light. The satisfaction when I turned it on was only slightly dimmed when Ivan said, “Well, it may work now but it won’t for long.”

Peter wanted to rescue me. After the near kissing experience [see Palmerston blog] I had felt my guard go up with him, but realizing that I needed him as a friend, I had decided to trust him and let it down. He tried to get me to go exploring, rent bicycles or something. But I needed punishing and redemption, so I insisted on staying and scrubbing the water line, which took hours and wasn’t even on Ivan’s list.

He and I did get away sometimes during our stay in Tonga. We usually ended up at a little open-air restaurant, The Aquarium, on the waterfront, to do internet on his computer. When the waitress came around, Peter ordered breakfast and invited me to do the same, “my shout.” But I declined until the waitress walked away and we could talk. “Peter, you are so sweet, and I would love to have breakfast, but I can’t afford to return the favor and I don’t want you to feel like you have to pay for me just because I’m here and I’m broke.”

“Okay, lets make a deal. I will only offer when I feel like it and you will never expect me to.”

“Deal!” I said, and ran to get the waitress.

All four of us went out one night to listen to a talk about how Tonga had changed. Afterwards we went to a traditional dance performance at a bar/restaurant. It was crowded with cruisers and everyone was drinking. The musicians were seated on a blanket in the corner facing each other, a bowl of Kava in front of them. The dancers were young, aged four to eighteen. The girls did their subtle feminine hip swirling dances, and the boys, an aggressive warrior display, all of them in palm frond splendor.  Peter offered to buy me a glass of wine. I hadn’t firmly declared I’d quit but I was feeling very clear about it and in explaining it to Peter, made my decision official; I was abstaining from alcohol and pot, at least until the end of October, when I planned to go to a meditation course in Australia.

Mary and Ivan were on an arbitrary time schedule, and they were feeling their self imposed pressure to get home. But Peter, wanting to enjoy some of the trip, made a spreadsheet to prove that we had a few unaccounted for days that could be used spontaneously to relax and take pleasure in the beautiful locales we were passing.

One day, over breakfast in the cockpit, we were getting into one of the conversations Peter and Mary shrank from, but Ivan and I enjoyed. Like me, Ivan was opinionated and I liked to engage him in what sometimes turned into heated but amiable discussions. He had a very scientific, believe-it-when-it’s-proven way of seeing the world, yet had experienced intuitions that he couldn’t explain under that belief system. I was pressing him on what exactly his beliefs were. Mary and Ivan both thought Peter’s and my insistence on the laws of attraction and the importance of positive thinking were absurd. Now Mary, who hadn’t been paying attention, remarked that between the two of them, Ivan was the dreamer.

“Really? Ivan? I would have thought it was you, Mary,” I said, surprised. She seemed to have a lighter-hearted take on things.

“For example,” she confided, “I don’t believe you can have a feeling about the future, like an intuition. Did you get any feelings about coming to Tonga? Because Ivan had a bad feeling about coming here.”

Ivan’s intuition proved prophetic. I spent three days playing onboard another boat [see my next blog, Furthur], enjoying a few of the hundreds of little anchorages where you could get the full, white sand, deserted island, Pacific paradise experience that appears on postcards. By the time I returned to Mistress 3, we’d already been in Tonga more than our “free” days allowed, and were preparing to leave when Mary declared she was worried. Ivan had a bite. He swore it was from a water snake, though conventional wisdom said their mouths were too small to bite humans. It didn’t seem like much to me, but given Ivan’s medical history of toxemia, it was a concern, especially with four days of sea ahead of us. We moved the boat back to the main harbor and Mary escorted Ivan to the hospital for antibiotics. Then we waited over the weekend. The infection became an ugly black wound and they went back to the hospital for three more types of antibiotics.

The wind had been howling, which provided another reason to stay put, so we moved the boat to a picturesque bay where we were anchored in more than 25 meters and could see fish swimming on the sandy bottom. Ivan’s bite hadn’t changed and a weather window was approaching; we were all getting antsy to go. Peter and I pulled the dinghy and motor onboard, anticipating our departure the next day. But the next day came and went. Ivan was feeling like hell. Peter suggested that if they were really worried, perhaps Ivan should fly home, which I secretly wished for. It would be clear cut and easier with Peter in charge.

Peter and I spent an afternoon with the hookah rig (a compressor that stays on the surface and allows you to breath through a tube down below), searching the depths for another pin, which this time, Mary had dropped, but we weren’t successful. We flushed the outboard motor with “fresh water” which Ivan had been saving for the job. It was old dishwater that had been fermenting in plastic jugs, and when we decanted it, it was rank with rotten bits of food. We were trying to devise a way to feed the water into the intake hole on the lower part of the outboard. I couldn’t stand discussing the situation for hours, and so, as the boys discussed, I began whittling a plastic tube to fit. Ivan, like a proud grandfather, made the comment that I could be an engineer. I pretended I hadn’t heard, but inside my heart swelled disproportionately, as if he really was my grandfather, or my father, and I was a little girl, protected, cherished, and loved.

The tube may have worked but in the end we opted to hold a bucket of the nasty sludge under the motor covering the intake valve, a job that went to Peter, being the man and stronger. I would have gladly done it but he chivalrously insisted. I couldn’t help giggling as the toxic waste was sucked up through the engine and then sprayed all over him.

Finally, after two weeks, we set sail. The seas were rough and Ivan was sick as death. He couldn’t keep his watches, so Mary, Peter and I did four hours on, eight hours off. Fiji had better medical facilities than Tonga; Ivan just had to survive the four days it would take to get there.

One night, at 4:00 am, it was the end of my watch and Peter was just coming on. I was explaining why I hadn’t stuck exactly to his course because we were holding a better line than we had been, (as if I needed to explain; as if I had done something wrong). I knew this was entirely my crap and was battling the feeling within myself. He was groggy with sleep and his only concern was that I help him jibe before I went to bed. I agreed. He was sitting by the winch and I assumed he would handle the sheet (the rope that controls the sail side to side.) I pressed the jibe button on the autopilot, thinking we were on the same page, and said, “Here we go.”

I released the main brake, and Peter asked if I wanted to move the car on the track. Normally I would have waited until after the jibe, but I knew where the wind was and knew I had time before the boat came around. So I released the car (a piece that holds the block to the track and can slide back and forth) and moved it over, expecting Peter to ease the sheet as the wind passed from one side of the boat to the other. I looked back at him, waiting, when SLAM!, the boom cracked across the stern. Peter hadn’t realized I had pressed the button. Though it was startling, no one was hurt and nothing was broken.

The next morning when I emerged from a deep sleep into the bright sun of the cockpit, everyone was sitting there waiting for me as if for an intervention with an alcoholic. Ivan asked, “What happened last night?”

“Uh,” I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, “Oh, you mean the jibe? I guess Peter didn’t hear me when I said I pressed the button.”

Ivan’s thoughts had obviously been churning all night because he had a lot to say about how serious and deadly my mistake was. In his mind the car had slammed over, and I could have died. I began to explain that it hadn’t and that I was fully aware of where the wind was; it had just been a miscommunication. I didn’t want to be defensive; I wanted to listen and respond calmly so I consciously opened myself. But his heavy words hit me hard, raining down on me like hammers, until I felt battered and bruised. My former logic and clarity about what had happened was buried in his words and all I could do was apologize, sincerely and profusely, and slink away. Though I was lying in my bunk alone, I carried on where he left off, adding every stupid thing I had done on this boat, and in my life, until the abuse was a torrential downpour of negativity and self-hatred. I wasn’t a good sailor, I wasn’t an intelligent and conscious human being, I wasn’t worth paying, I wasn’t even worth having around.

I tried to be strong in the face of the truth about my pitiful self. The honorable thing to do, I decided, was have a heart-to-heart with Ivan. So later, while we were alone in the cockpit, while I tried to hold back sobs, and tears were streaming down my face, I told him that I was sorry; that I really was trying and I didn’t know what was going on, why suddenly on this boat I was being so brainless and stupid. I’d really done great on my own boat and on all the other boats I had been on. I told him that I wished I could just say that he didn’t have to pay me, but I was really counting on the money from this trip. Maybe we could come up with something. Maybe I could do more work, be their indentured servant. Something. He listened somberly, which I took to be compassion, and said I just had to take more time with things. Looking back I realize he never mentioned any of the numerous things I’d done right, or appreciated my help in any way.

We made it safely to Fiji. Ivan got through the mega dose of antibiotics and began feeling better. And Peter, who had a huge amount of sailing and racing experience, reassured me that the miscommunication about the jibe could of happened to anyone. Ivan had obviously driven himself crazy all night, turning it into a much bigger problem than it was and then, to Peter’s disgust, had passively aggressively taken that out on me.

I recovered emotionally from the incident and was feeling back to my able, confident and happy self. But apparently I hadn’t fully learned the lesson, because there was still one more fuck up, the biggest of them all, yet to come.

We were still a few days from our planned destination, but as the sun rose over the endless sea, we nestled in close to a tiny island that brought to mind the classic cartoon of a castaway leaning against a single coconut palm, stranded on a deserted sand spit. Palmerston, part of the Cook Island Group, was only slightly bigger than that. A few other islands in the near distance were part of the same atoll. The heavy weather had disabled our radar and Ivan had decided that we couldn’t go on without it. The plan was to spend the morning doing chores and then get going. The humpbacks were migrating and Ivan and Mary had volunteered to take some researchers out on the boat from the island of Nui to record their songs. We’d have to hurry if we wanted to get there in time to help with the project.

I cranked Peter up the mast to reconnect the radar. He had done the same procedure three times already, so he knew the drill. Then I scrubbed the interior walls and floor with the gusto of a paid laborer who is trying to prove her worth.

When a round, brown local man named Bob, and his daughter came by in an aluminum skiff, we explained that we were only going to be there for the morning. He smiled and nodded, letting us know that if we changed our minds he would be our host. It would cost $25 (US) each to go to shore, which went to the locals. Unobtrusively, he mentioned that any boat gear we no longer needed would be put to good use on the island, the cargo ship only passed every 6 months and the donations of transient sailors were an invaluable resource in the islands’ economy. Mary immediately started rummaging and came up with a red plastic fuel canister half full and a propane tank that she gladly handed over. It seemed like an interesting place but we all agreed that we’d rather get to Nui.

Of course the work took longer than expected. Then Peter and I decided it would be a shame to miss snorkeling in such a remote spot. The water under the boat was a deep indigo purple toward the depths, and when I dove down I could hear the distant songs of whales. As we swam into shallower water the pastel colors of the intricate coral shimmered through the blue. Parrotfish and other preposterously colorful beauties swam by in groups to check us out. “Ah,” I thought, illuminated by the epiphany, “this is what it’s all about.”

We stayed the night, and in the morning discussed our options. There was only a slim window of opportunity to volunteer for the whale researchers and we’d be pressed to get there on time. Or, we could stay and check out Palmerston; an opportunity that we may never get again. We decided to stay.

Bob, the guy in the skiff from the day before, came out with the immigration official and we completed the paperwork and paid our money, making sure not to mention the gifts we had given him. Once we were cleared in, we piled into Bob’s launch and he buzzed by two other of the six moored boats and picked up several passengers. The three families that lived on the island took turns hosting visitors.

An atoll is a coral ring that has grown around the ancient remnants of a sunken volcano. These little islands were the bits of the kidney-shaped ring that cleared the surface. Palmerston appeared so small and fragile it was hard to imagine that humans lived there. The seven moorings were outside the atoll’s calm inner waters and Bob drove us expertly through the reef, and then jammed the flat bottom skiff up unto the sandy beach.

We walked across the “main street,” which was a wide white sand strip that led from the aquamarine inner lagoon to the crashing waves on the ocean side; the only traffic on main street were the hermit crabs and chickens. Lining the street were little buildings and houses, piecemeal but tidy. There was a church, a graveyard with tombstones of the original inhabitants, and a community water catchment system; also a big diesel generator and a small white house with a phone and internet connection. It was all very organized and shattered my tribal-palm hut fantasies. The Marsters were more English than native.

Sixty-seven people lived on Palmerston Island, all of them descendants of William Marsters. He was a ship’s carpenter who, in 1863, evidently sick of life onboard, had a ship drop him and his wives, three Polynesian sisters, off on this tiny uninhabited atoll. They divided the island evenly, a piece for each wife, with “main street” slicing through, and to this day the three families still live here, all of them descendents of Marsters. (the few exceptions being: the school teacher, the immigration guy and the grad student.)

The outdoor dining area of Bob’s family was a rickety wooden table shaded by a patched-together tin roof, encircled with sun-cracked white plastic chairs and benches. Here we sipped a sugary orange-powder drink before we began our tour. Bob and his eldest daughter, Taia, (19), led the way. We walked down a tree-shaded path, which was swept clean, along with the rest of the paths on the isle, every Friday. It was only a small sand spit, but in it’s center grew impressive tamanu (mahogany) trees, maybe four meters in diameter, which made the island seem less likely to be washed away by a hurricane. As we passed different dwellings with people peeking and waving, we showered our hosts with questions. I fell alongside Taia and we found a mutually interesting topic: the dating scene.

I was impressed with how open, intelligent, and socially adjusted she seemed. She explained that, as a girl, the options were only two: you either marry a guy with whom you had grown up, and remain on the island, or find someone off-island. She considered herself lucky that there were no available bachelors within her age range: ten years older to five years younger, so her family couldn’t pressure her. If you found someone to marry from somewhere else and wanted to live on Palmerston with your husband, the whole community had to vote. I loved that Taia had no intention of dedicating her life to finding a guy. She had already lived alone in New Zealand and made good use of the Internet, keeping in touch with hundreds of well-wishing sailors from all over the world who had passed through. The girl was connected!

We visited the open-air school house with desks lining the walls, each partitioned and individually decorated. The teacher was an Australian woman who was married to the immigration guy, both non-Marsters. They were very proud of their school system, which had a religious-based curriculum, and each student worked at their own pace. We were impressed with the care, thought, and effort that went into educating these kids.

Next on the tour was the island’s main industry, fishing. We wandered past open dining areas, greeting families who were busy with other sailors, and unto the beach where a small group of men and woman stood around a table, filleting hundreds of parrotfish. The community worked together catching, preparing, and freezing these reef fish, which they would then send with the cargo ship to sell to resorts on the other Cook Islands.

We wandered back along the beach to Bob’s, where he smoked rolled cigarettes and his wife and daughters served us a meal of fish, chicken, rice, taro (a potato-like root vegetable), wheat-free coconut bread (Ivan was in heaven) with a banana mush, canned beets, and fried bread. They waited while we ate until we insisted they join us, explaining that we’d feel awkward if they didn’t. Then the adults sat around and talked. I had made friends with Meho (which her sister, teasingly, told me to pronounce Mee-ow), the youngest daughter of Bob. She dared me to climb a coconut tree, saying I couldn’t, so of course I had to prove her wrong. We took turns climbing up the tree’s humped spine on steps of wood scraps fastened with jumbles of bent nails. Sitting on a bit of wood knotted onto a rope, I fell off sideways, swinging out and up 20 feet into the air, screaming all the way.

The next day we wanted to snorkel inside the atoll; Bob was our chauffeur. Ivan and Mary, both completely devoid of body fat, were busy donning all their lycra layers for warmth while Pete and I kicked away in bikini and speedos. Pete and I had covered the deeper topics of spirituality and energy and found that we had similar world-views. We’d begun sticking together, proving refuge for each other in the sometimes crotchety environment on board our boat.  Now we snorkeled in water so clear you could drink it; dove in among huge brain coral and bulbous outcroppings of reef, decorated with lacey pink coral and purple fans; and green, orange, and white wonders of elaborate creation. Once we’d had enough we sauntered up the deserted white sand beach, I suppose it was all too much for Peter. As if the lights had dimmed and slow 70’s funk began to play in the background, I felt the mood change. Sure enough, Peter leaned in towards my face. I spun away from him to avoid it and sputtered, “Don’t Peter, don’t. I’ve been on the boat four days, we have months of intimate living ahead of us, this is not a good idea.” I shook my head and began to walk away. Granted, I was smiling. Damn it. I may have nipped that in the bud, but I didn’t get the roots.

We wandered from the beach into a group of elders who were sitting in the shade and invited us to pull up a chair. I was feeling scantily dressed in my wet bathing suit and when I mentioned this, Bill the industrious reminded me that he had our clothes on the line and swooped us up. He was also a Marsters, head of one of the three families, but his dynamic, talkative energy contrasted with Bob’s fat and happy, lazy personality. He had offered to do our laundry in his machine, which we had left with Bob before our snorkel. Now he insisted we take showers, saying he had plenty of water. Our clothes were just about dry in the sun and he set out tea, coffee, toast, and corn beef, adamant that we stay.

Bill’s land was the middle section of the island. He had built a “yacht club,” complete with a bar (think serving counter, not an indoor establishment), toilets, flags, signed t-shirts, and penned notes from visitors from all over the globe. His house was an unending work in progress, he just couldn’t stop, continuously adding whatever pieces he got his motivated and creative hands on. There was a big enclosed room lined with old, yellowed family portraits, various bedrooms and tiled bathrooms and showers, a few different dishwashing stations outdoors. All of this was pieced together without an overall plan. There was a raised cement patio with waist high walls, a TV in the corner blaring Tina Turner videos, and tables. It felt like a restaurant but he had built it as a place to socialize, at a higher elevation for when hurricanes rushed water over the island. A British grad student, who we’d met earlier, stopped by to chat. He was just wrapping up months on the island doing research on remote communities for his thesis.

Bill was hungry for company. He seemed a little disappointed in how lazy his fellow islanders were, telling us about how he started buying rolling tobacco and beer to sell when the addicts in the community had run through their stash. He told us about how the three heads of families took turns alternating between being policeman and mayor. How there had been talk of putting in an airstrip but they all had to vote on it so it would never be approved. We were aghast at the idea and all expressed our strong views against it.

We had another huge lunch with Bob’s family and Taia showed us her two coconut-fed pigs, amazing us with the versatility and usefulness of the coconut tree. We visited the one lady who did crafts and then walked around the whole island on the beach, which only took a half hour.

We realized now that the $25 we’d each paid to come on the island, which at first seemed like a lot, was nothing. We were never asked for a penny more and the kindness, the willingness to share and the genuine interest in friendship was priceless. In a world obsessed with money, the islander’s lack of financial scheming was a gift. Just to know that this place existed, unspoiled by greed, was a fragment of hope in a world of economic absurdity.

I lay in a make-shift hammock of fishing net, swinging gently over the white sand, dappled sunlight playing through the coconut trees, over-stuffed from our meal. The rhythmic wash of waves and clucks of chickens was overridden with happy shouts, as islanders of every age and shape played a game of volleyball. They seemed so amiable and content together. Though I could not imagine living in such a small and faraway place, it was good to know that people did; that they weren’t backwards or socially awkward, that it suited them just fine.

We got to the boat as the sun was setting. There were rain clouds growing like monstrous grey swirls of cotton candy in an otherwise clear sky, and the sinking sun set off luminescent twin rainbows over the tiny islands in the atoll. It was a magical display to top off an amazing experience. Though I was still aware of the small gnawing part of me that couldn’t just be content and in the moment, I was definitely on the upswing.