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Where is Royce? Click to sail along! ⛵  Surfing down the waves, Wind is howling through the shrouds, Flying through the air. We have never covered 200 miles in a day. This will break our streak, 16 days in. We’ve never gone faster. The sailing has never been livelier. And still… Alejandro and I give each other blank stares. We have discussed our lethargy. Our desire to sit. To rest. To cool down. By midday, when the sun is at its zenith, the boat turns into an inferno. To go above decks means to bake in the sun. To remain below, which is usually the decision, you sweat in your bunk trying to get comfortable under your fan. The wet bunk. The heat. The still air. This gimbled oven we’ve called home is now lively because of the higher winds and following seas. What is helping us get to our target faster, is also our greatest torment. The heat, without the shifting boat, pitching and yawing below us, would be too much. Together, they are unforgiving. It’s 4:30 in the afternoon. We lost an hour again today, which only extends the length of our suffering. My roommate and I are sitting at the settee below, the cabin fan aimed at the back of my neck. It’s cooled down a little, coagulating the sweat and sunscreen on my body. I’m sticky. My Garmin watch has alerted me to a “Detraining”Status, whatever that means. It can’t be healthy. I’m already dreading the excited questions I’ll get from friends and family upon Re entry. “How was it”?! “Was the trip so amazing?!” “What was it like out there?!” I’m concerned these last few days of introspection and external suffering will skew my response. How can I possibly sum up more than 2 weeks of an ocean crossing in a manner that excites the interviewer, or gives any credence to its mental and physical demands. I can’t. I don’t have the energy to respond. Earlier today, Mia and Chris were talking about a sailor they know who spent 306 days circumnavigating the Americas, non-stop. “Why would you do that”, Chris challenged? “What are you trying to prove, and to whom, by doing that?”, he added. He’s right. Stopping at all of those countries along the way would make for a more rich experience, and less of a hardship. But then, why climb a mountain, or complete an ironman, or sail across an ocean? I suppose to have survived the hardship of it. Stand at the summit, the finish line, the beach - look down, or back, or across and be proud of your accomplishment. Tell your friends how hard it was. I’m feeling like it’s mile 23 of the the marathon. So close to the tape. It’s no longer a physical journey. You need to will yourself forward. I’ve been there - I know the feeling. The body in absolute pain. It’s done. It want’s to be done. I’m feeling that now. I’m exhausted. Will I ever find motivation again? Will I ever look at another boat and want to climb aboard? Unlike the marathon, I have no choice, physically. I’m going where Falken goes. But now is not the time to give in, mentally. Overlook the heat, the exhaustion, the lethargic indifference. Try to soak it up - it’s coming to an end. I started my 4th book yesterday. I can’t figure out this new Kindle - I never know how much progress I’ve made or what chapter I’m on - how much farther do I have? I’m just in there somewhere. Swept up in the story - a wave pulling me along. Similar waves are bringing this adventure, this marathon, this hardship to an end. I can picture the beach. I can taste the beer. I can imagine the feeling… I just crossed an ocean, and it was good, I’ll tell my friends.
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Where is Royce? Click to sail along! ⛵ I reach for her hand, And dancing through the warm night, I guide her to land. It’s 10:45 on a Monday morning. We set our clocks back an hour today and will do so again tomorrow. In international waters, we can manufacture our own time, and when it should change, but need to arrive in the Caribbean under the formalities of civilization. Another reminder that the passage is nearing it’s end. As that conclusion approaches, and I was helming this morning before a rising sun, it occurred to me that I’ve done little to help the reader appreciate the main character of this story - Falken. Yes, you understand her functions, and through accompanying pictures or video, you might get a sense of her layout or her features. But do you really know her? How she feels, cutting through the waves? Or how she makes me feel, behind her helm, leading her daily in a dance with the Atlantic? Shifting winds, and cresting tides forcing a new step, like changing music. Mother Nature has been in absolute control of the playlist from the outset, and despite our strong desire to change tunes, our requests are never considered. We must simply dance the steps she demands across her watery floor. But, as Falken and I fell into rhythm this morning, as we have for more than two weeks now, I haven’t discussed the relationship I’ve built with this sailing nymph. If it’s possible, my heart beats fastest, when I wake up on a Saturday, rollover in bed and observe Tara sleeping next to me. Her angelic face, peacefully at rest, is unstressed by the chaos that awaits her when slumber ends. If one of our kiddos didn’t end up in the bed overnight, which is more common than not, we are alone, together, and I just watch her breathing. Now, before you get all “dude, that’s creepy, lurking over your helpless bride”, just appreciate that feeling. It is a deep sense of love and tenderness that washes over me. It’s with a similar tenderness, that I step behind the helm of Falken, two weeks in. I know how she’ll respond when a wave approaches her beam, or how she wants to turn into the wind when a gust surprises us both. We’re dancing. Last night, the moon, still asleep below the horizon, left a black canvas for the stars to consume. Shining down from their dark expanse, they sparkled across the water - Zeus’s’ disco ball lighting the floor. Rather than steer toward a star off her bow, I simply guided Falken’s main sail between Venus and Mars, and watched her white dress dance between the two planets. We understood each other. I led, but she moved gracefully through the waves, knowing the steps, and dancing along. Today, we are making better time than the last several days. The joke that we are consistently 6 days away from Antigua is losing its humor. We are certainly getting closer, and although the crew and I equally share an anticipation for arriving, there is this pit in my stomach that I’ve noticed, born from the next dance with Falken approaching my last. The beauty in knowing we are nearing our end, allows me to be that much more attentive to her each time I take her hand. Do I exercise that same light touch, and appreciation for Tara, I wonder? What if I knew this morning might be my last with her? Would I cherish the moment more? Do I appreciate her as much as I should? This absurd adventure, that she supported from the start, certainly takes its toll. Though Falken can dance through the night and on through the day, week’s on end, her partner needs a break. I can sleep. I can eat. I can rest, before guiding her once more across the floor. Raising four children was never a one-helmsman’s role either, and yet I’ve left my partner alone to dance around all the complexities of life on land. She is so deserving of a rest. I am living in this dreamlike state at sea, soaking up all that I can from the trip, from Falken and the commencement of our relationship. But I’m yearning to return home, to that sleeping nymph next to me, who slowly opens her eyes, and smiles.
Where is Royce? Click to sail along! ⛵  “To desire nothing beyond what you have is surely happiness. Aboard a boat, it is frequently possible to achieve just that.”
Bruce offered up this insight, contributing to the spiritual enlightening conversation Nelson and I were having as the sun crested the horizon this morning. Only now am I realizing that it’s Sunday, and ironically appropriate we would find ourselves on the topic. “What did you study at Columbia, during undergrad?” I had asked Nelson, 30 minutes prior. “Buddhism.” “Yeah, but what was your degree? World religions?” I clarified. “Buddhism.” “Well that’s a fucking waste of money.” I blurted, all too aware of my daughter’s practical pursuit of a psychology and business degree on my dime. He then went on to explain that his favorite professor was Robert Thurman. Like Ulma’s dad, Robert Thurman (as if to clarify between the several in my Rolodex). Robert dropped out of Harvard and travelled the East (India, Tibet) on a motorcycle, ultimately befriending the Dali Lama, not dissimilar from Bill Murray in Caddyshack. After losing an eye, and reaching the pinnacle of a Westerner’s pursuit of Buddhist enlightenment, the two unrelated, he was shipped back to America to evangelize as a white monk. He became the head of the Buddhist department at Columbia, wherein my friend Nelson came under his mentorship and guidance. Un-enlightened, I was curious if Nelson ever made out with Ulma, being his dad’s prodigy and all. “No, but I did hear the story of how she saved his glass eye from the bottom of their swimming pool at their summer home.” He offered as a consolation. Lame, I thought. “So what are the principles of Buddhism, or like, what do you believe if you follow Buddha” I asked, a sheltered Jew from the Midwest. “Well, there are four tenants of Buddhism. The first is that life is suffering.” Sweating my balls off, dehydrated, hungry, and bored, he had my attention. “Next, life is suffering because of unmet desires. For example, we want to get to Antigua - we desire that, yet here we sit bobbing in the ocean with very little progress.” I was reminded of Staton’s comments below deck earlier. How every day the computer tells us we are still 6 days away - what a geographical oddity Antigua must be. 6 days from everywhere. “Third, the suffering will come to an end, or you can end it” Again, I’m looking at that cool water, trailing our boat. One leap over the life lines and I can reach enlightenment. “Last, and this is key, you can end the suffering through the learnings of the Buddha”. So now launching myself into Neptune’s bosom is my back-up plan. Life is suffering, it’s due to unmet desires, it can end if I understand simple philosophies that put me back in my body, my present moment, my current state, etc. “For example” Nelson continued “when I’m in the ER, the smell of body fluid and the noise of suffering overwhelming, I remind myself that this place brings hope to the suffering, and I experience a feeling of Nirvana. And THEN I ask if I can go home, and hide in my bed”. “Bruce, share that quote again.” I asked, enraptured by his advice. “To desire nothing beyond what you have is surely happiness. Aboard a boat, it is frequently possible to achieve just that. It’s from Carleton Mitchell, a renowned sailor.” He shared a second time. I’ve got some beef to raise with my rabbi. All that Hebrew, and I’m still searching for a feeling of contentedness, AND a legit bagel in Denver. And, readers, there it is. Nearly two weeks off the shores of Europe, nearly becalmed a thousand miles short of the Caribbean, and the answer was in me the entire time. Be where your feet are. Desire no more than what you have. Who you have. Who you are. What you are. Be the Buddha. Be the ball…na na na na na nahhhh. Where is Royce? Click to sail along! ⛵ It’s 6pm on Saturday night. Chris and I just brought the Spinnaker’s body bag on deck so he could perform an autopsy. He has clews and tacks, seams and sheets strewn about the cockpit like body parts at a murder scene. Mia is taking photos, and the rest of the crew is wide-eyed, mouths agape, as we observe Chris prodding his corpse behind the police tape. Oh the humanity! So, like, normal Saturday stuff. We started the engine for the first time in a week, either to charge our batteries, or to make a fast getaway - our kite’s murderer is still out there somewhere, lurking. Ella made pancakes this morning. That was cool. I took a nap or two. Read my kindle for a bit and then moved onto learning about the Pacific in a sailing coffee table book that was sitting on the settee. Um, what else? I had a lunch. Seriously, how Magellan made his way around South America without dying first of abject boredom is lost to me. But seriously, please God entertain me with something other than Alejandro’s undergarments, or Jeff’s senility. There was a moment today that I offered to get our stereo going, but was shot down by Bruce unexpectedly. Does he not realize I have the entire Beatle’s collection on my iPhone? During our “ups and downs” sharing over dinner last night, Mia highlighted that this trip is unique to each of us. In another week, she reminded us that it will be over. I hope she’s not referring to a similar end that met the kite. Now is the time to get what you want and bottle it up for later, she said. Something about that struck me. I’ve been complaining inwardly and to those that will listen, about the boredom I’ve reached. I see it in the hollow eyes of the other crew as well. Who will be the first to throw themselves from our vessel, or climb in the bag with our deceased sail friend. But in rereading my blogs today, I was reminded that “patience” was what I expected to alter or enhance out here. So how am I doing? Today seemed like a corner was turned on sitting in the discomfort of boredom. I found moments of happiness and laughter, during interactions with the crew. I sprayed Alejandro with the salt-water hose while cleaning the deck for example, and his sharp rebuke brought me joy. There were periods of solitude, where I was lost in my novel, or looking over the sunrise, trying to capture the scene for a lifetime. There was a sweaty nap, rocked to sleep by the ocean and Jeff’s erratic driving. These all constitute living, even if I didn’t cross something of productivity off my list - my normal measurement for a “good” or “happy” day. There is also a rhythm to all of this. My favorite part of the day is coming through the companionway in the early morning, the seas cloudy and dark, reflecting the gray morning, and sitting to watch the horizon. The quiet, the peacefulness - both reminders of a new day, full of promise. Or boredom. There is something magical about that. By mid-day, its too hot to be in the cockpit, unless on watch, so we all disappear like cockroaches into the nooks of the ship. As the day cools in the afternoon, the crew emerges again, energized by a nap and the forthcoming community meal. Rhythm. Repetition. Boredom. I think I can bottle all of that up, and pop the top on shore, when I’m scrambling to meet a deadline, or racing a kiddo to practice and all I desire in that moment is the calming waves, the heat of my bunk, and the monotonous boredom that I’ll long to get back. And if that doesn’t work, I can pop the top of a Red Stripe. Or 12.
Where is Royce? Click to sail along! ⛵  “Hey Royce, what’s your breaking point for days on a sailboat?”, Staton asked this morning during our first watch.
What a great question, I thought. Here we are, 12 days out from our departure from the Canaries, and I can’t recall at which point I grew tired of answering his stupid questions. “I don’t know, buddy.” I responded pleasantly, his inquiry interrupting my thoughts of leaping over the rails. “I think I’m less excited about long passages like this than I was before. I’m bored, when all the days are the same.” I shared. And as I reflect on this trip, with 1,000 miles to go, I think I reached my “I’m done now” point a few days ago. That was an open question coming into this adventure. How many days at sea before I wanted to reach land, murder myself or others? On my first blue water adventure, when I was into day 3 I felt like I could stay out here for weeks. Which begs the question: do I want to murder Staton? Also, is there a version of this passage that would extend the “days-at-sea-breaking-point”? I see the appeal of making the passage as short as possible by keeping the sails flying, mourning the loss of speed (RIP Kite), actively trimming the sails, working the crew, etc. BUT, there is a monotony to just sailing that diminishes the experience, in my unsolicited opinion. What I wouldn’t change is the weather. I’m perfectly fine being too warm, juxtaposed by the borderline hypothermic temperatures off Sweden. So, lower latitude sailing like this, or what I imagine the South Pacific to provide, is definitely a must. Other areas of improvement would entail hydraulic furling sails allowing us to quickly drop our power and enjoy a half hour of swimming every couple days. A Bimini to provide shade and auto helm would collectively allow us to sit in the cockpit and read, or talk, without the punishment of the sun or Alejandro coming up when he should be falling away. Music! For the love of God and sweet Baby James, music. We should add that to the mix. Fishing. I love the idea of getting a Mahi on the line (dropping sails quickly to land the fish) and enjoying the activity of making sushi rolls. In short, I want a more varied day if I’m going to be bobbing around out here for weeks on end. I’m not interested in diversifying the experience by working on the vessel. I cringed today, watching Chris rip apart Falken’s circuit board to troubleshoot our lost navigation system. Don’t ask me to splice a line for pleasure or raise a third sail for speed. I’m not unhappy or disappointed by this trip. Each of these passages has taught me something - there’s no fucking way I’ll even look at a sailboat in the North Sea again, let alone board one, for example. But what is life other than a series of experiences or mishaps, teaching us what we really want. Speaking of, I just spilled my 12th coffee in fewer days. So let’s add mocha-colored cushions to my “must have” list for next passage. As the sun descends, AGAIN, over the great blue, all of us sitting in the cockpit talking, I’m reminded what I do love. The sound of the waves, the rocking of the boat, the community, the sense of adventure, the absurdity of a massive passage creeping toward it’s goal. Give me more of that, sprinkling in some activities during the day, and some friendly jabs at that hairy Neanderthal, Staton, and I’m happy. Rinse and repeat tomorrow :) Where is Royce? Click to sail along! ⛵  ‘I wonder if Ella can tell who’s at the helm by watching the instruments below? Has she noticed how awesome I am at keeping a course, amongst these confused waves and erratic wind patterns? I am really in a groove here, anticipating the next…’ “Come down, Royce.” - my thoughts interrupted by Ella’s abrupt command from the companionway. “Try to stay at 290.” - she suggested politely. “But I was sailing at 290!” I retorted, skipping several of Alejandro’s leadership tenants and jumping right to denial and a new step, frustration. All this, while bouncing back and forth 90 degrees, losing absolute control of the boat. “Try to keep 120 off the wind, Royce” Ella calmly continued. “I can’t hear you, Ella! What?!” My anger growing. “Try to keep 120 off the wind” she instructed, with proper Queen’s English, frustrating me all the more. ‘I was in a zone, goddamit’ - I thought to myself. ‘I was doing awesome’ I’m awesome. Am I awesome?’ “Vicky! Wasn’t I on the right course? The sails weren’t luffing, before were they?!” I asked my watch mate, clearly caught in the crosshairs of my heated argument with a perfectly calm 18 year old, several times more experienced than myself. “Err…”. Vicky, who grew up in a country ill-equipped to deal with conflict, was at a loss. What side do I choose, she thought? My original alliance to England or the more powerful neighbor to my south. Looking to the sky for guidance from the Maple Leaf constellation, she remained perplexed and quiet. And so, with 10 minutes to go in a six-hour watch, I followed my instructions until I was relieved at the helm by a much calmer Bruce. Quietly, I stormed off into my cabin like a teenager stranded at home on a Friday by his misguided parents who selfishly won’t let him go to Matt’s house because his parents aren’t home. So unfair. And now, as the sun rises over our stern, the calming breeze reminds us that a new day brings with it a new beginning. I am shoveling the pancakes that my adversary from the night prior lovingly prepared into my mouth. “Ella, I’m sorry for being a dick last night. You didn’t deserve that” I said calmly, in between bites as I turned to look at her (‘but I was crushing it, wasn’t I’ my subconscious asked her) “It’s ok” she replied (‘And you were such a little bitch’ she mentally responded) See Vicky, there’s no need to bring conflict. Why don’t you understand this? —-  You might be wondering, at least I am, what the hell consumes the crew for an entire day. This trip reminds me of our human desire to manufacture entertainment. Yesterday, around 2 for example, well before my much-deserved chastisement from the second mate, Ella helped teach me how to use a sextant. And so we’re clear, despite the phonetically accurate spelling, this does not refer to a house of ill-repute, located midway across a Moroccan desert. She helped me use this medieval sex tool to find our location on earth by taking a sighting of the sun’s location in the sky relative to the horizon. “So, Ella, I just look through this telescope and the sun reflects off the mirror into my eye?” I asked with curiosity. “That’s correct. And then line it up with the horizon” “But, uh, won’t I go blind?” I wanted to clarify. You idiot, she must have been thinking. And so, I took a sighting, and was hesitant to let Chris know that we had somehow ended up in the Indian Ocean. So much for navigating. Better I retire to my comfy spot on the settee below decks, where I can’t hurt my eyes or scare the crew. While I’m writing this, in my said “safety-zone," Mia pleasantly suggests that our watch, recently relieved from duty, is responsible for dishes. Springing to action, having learned my lesson during SpinnakerGate, I attacked the dirty coffee mugs with vigor. And from my station in the galley, I heard the following interaction: “Is Jeff awake yet” Mia asked his watch mates. “He’s reading in his bunk” Bruce shared with patient exasperation, clearly not surprised by his mate’s tardiness. I get you, Bruce, my daughter Nora is the same way. “Go put on your socks, pick up your room, and come back downstairs, Nora.” I might advise her on a Saturday morning. Four hours later it dawns on me, as I notice her untied shoes, that she never came downstairs. Checking on her, I find a barefoot daughter coloring in her room, amongst the chaos of toys and stuffed animals strewn about. Oh, Nora, you’re going to make a great barista one day. “Jeff, you’re on watch.” Mia instructed 15 minutes later, and you can’t make this shit up, Jeff comes out of his room whistling Dixie. This is where I should give a selfish plug to 59 North for paid passages across large bodies of water, with fucking children. Bless your heart, Mia. You are a saint. —- On the other end of the absent mindedness spectrum, we have Nelson. It’s not his fault for being forgotten in my journal this many days into the voyage. We have a watch system designed to separate crew, a precaution Chris enacted to avoid any mutinous plotting. Only during watch shifts, like passing period in middle school, do you get to see your friends who were relegated to a different classroom. It’s during these changeovers, which I look forward to if for nothing other than to get reprieve from my Costa Rican hanger on, where I see the doctor. Nelson has a quirky way, with little time to waste, of sneaking in an observation that lands in a hilarious and insightful way. “Mia, it would seem on brand, nautically speaking, to have a gelato machine in the galley, don’t you think” he suggests with a combination of ironic accuracy. If Paul Rudd and Jimmy Fallon had an intellectual love child who pursued a career in medicine, you would have Nelson. During longer passing hours, we dive deeper into the interesting past of this liberal Texan. “There was that time when my dad and I reluctantly strip-searched a chain gang of Mexican road workers all sharing a commonality in neon underwear,” he absently contemplated, as we all sat wide-eyed, like “dude, you can’t just skim over what is clearly a mind-blowing story!” Or, he might regale us, in between describing black tar heroin at a molecular level, with stories of negotiating hair-pin turns on the Yucatán peninsula in a hard top Cadillac, with a B-List Hollywood actor riding shotgun, whom he met at a roadhouse in Puerto Vallerta the night prior. Just dote on your daughters, Royce, and everything will be ok, he advised me one morning with profound simplicity. This guy gets me. With rapt attention, I’m confused by my desire to listen. Does he also think we’re now dating, I contemplate in a daze, as the sun sets behind him, silhouetting his mane of brown hair. Pull yourself together, Royce, I remind myself, snapping out of my awkward love spell. You’re married. To a woman. You need off this boat. And the sun sets on another day at sea.
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Previous Trip Posts:
September 2024
We're the Zimmerman Family!
Home Base | Denver, CO 
A family of six that
LOVES to sail! Follow our crew (Royce, Tara, Avery, Charley, Nora & Ruby) as we blog our sailing adventures Upcoming Trip:
9.4.2024 | South Africa Previous Trips: Set Sail 4.22.23 Las Palmas - Across the Atlantic - Island of Antigua Set Sail 9.22.21 Sweden - Germany - United Kingdom Set Sail 7.18.19 Newport, RI - Martha's Vineyard, MA - Nantucket, MA - & back! Thanks for reading ! |
