Saturday, 5/6 - Day 13 at Sea

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.