This blog has now moved to www.otra-vida.org.
Tuesday 30 October 2018
Sunday 20 May 2018
Of rachas and chestnuts ...
I lie in bed before dawn listening to waves lapping against
the side of the boat. This should not be
happening. My whole being groans at the
implication: the wind is now coming from a direction that, theoretically, is impossible.
Patagonia. Again.
The two lines we set up yesterday to hold Otra Vida close to shore, protecting us from the forecast northerlies, are now worse than useless – they are holding the boat sideways on to the wind and waves, increasing tension on the anchor. The forecast tells of stronger winds in the coming hours. This is not going to be pleasant.
Estero Arboles Espectrales is a deep inlet that lies WNW-ESE. Somehow the northerly wind in the main channel turns and blows straight up the estero as ESE/SE rachas. Rachas - the Spanish word for gust that in Patagonia means something more: very strong gusts. It makes no sense that the wind should behave this way, but the mystery is less important than the reality.
In the first light of day I look outside and assess our situation. Not good. We´re 20m from the shore, the lines that last night were straight behind us are now at a 45 degree angle, and the GPS tells me we have moved 30m due to the immense strain on the anchor. I let go the shorelines and we swing free. I check the depth. Otra Vida is floating in just 2.5m of water, and it´s high tide. Staying in this position won´t work.
Patagonia. Again.
The two lines we set up yesterday to hold Otra Vida close to shore, protecting us from the forecast northerlies, are now worse than useless – they are holding the boat sideways on to the wind and waves, increasing tension on the anchor. The forecast tells of stronger winds in the coming hours. This is not going to be pleasant.
Estero Arboles Espectrales is a deep inlet that lies WNW-ESE. Somehow the northerly wind in the main channel turns and blows straight up the estero as ESE/SE rachas. Rachas - the Spanish word for gust that in Patagonia means something more: very strong gusts. It makes no sense that the wind should behave this way, but the mystery is less important than the reality.
In the first light of day I look outside and assess our situation. Not good. We´re 20m from the shore, the lines that last night were straight behind us are now at a 45 degree angle, and the GPS tells me we have moved 30m due to the immense strain on the anchor. I let go the shorelines and we swing free. I check the depth. Otra Vida is floating in just 2.5m of water, and it´s high tide. Staying in this position won´t work.
So, we raise the anchor.
At the same time the wind increases, as forecast, and I can see rachas
coming down the estero like white brushstrokes on a dark canvas, ripping water
from the surface – meaning these gusts are at least 50kts. Otra Vida´s engine pushes us into the wind and
we anchor again, letting out all our chain, testing the anchor, and waiting.
A procession of rachas hit us one after another. Otra Vida swings at anchor, tracing a banana
shaped arc on the GPS. Good. The anchor is holding. This is not comfortable, but it is safe.
The wind increases still further. A particularly strong racha hits us,
registering 55kts at the masthead, certainly more at deck level. We start to drag. Damn.
Not a surprise, but I was hopeful.
After over a year down here I should know better than to be
hopeful. Hopeful isn´t a good strategy
in Patagonia. So, on with the engine. Lison
and Jérémie work on the foredeck in stinging spray and howling wind bringing up
the anchor, a process made more challenging by Otra Vida´s gyrations as one racha
after another pummels us. Powering as
best we can against the rachas we inch our way out to the main channel, where
the wind is indeed coming from the north as expected. There are a few possible anchorages nearby,
but they are all unknown to me and in areas without detail on our Chilean charts, so we decide to
be cautious and head 15nm south to a well charted anchorage that will be
easy to enter in these conditions and is certain to be secure. The winds in the channel are now approaching 50kts
from the north, we have a tiny amount of foresail out, and we are making
7-8kts. It´s noisy from the wind,
the rain is relentless, the waves are jostling us, but it´s not dangerous
anymore. We head south. Fast forward a couple of hours and we´re
safely anchored in Caleta Canal, sheltered from the worst of the wind by a
friendly forest.
I realise that I´ve let my guard down a little since arriving
north of Golfo de Penas. In southern
Patagonia I had learned to be diligent about considering all weather
possibilities, however unlikely they seemed, a diligence – almost a paranoia –
born of hard won experience. North of
Penas the weather is better. That´s true. But this was a reminder that Otra Vida is
still in Patagonia, even if it´s northern Patagonia.
Caleta Valverde |
Almost everyone you meet here has similar stories. It´s a counterpoint to the stories of heart-stoppingly
beautiful mountain vistas, untouched wilderness, and abundant sea life. We share our stories and try and learn from
each other. People who sail here for
years become ever more conservative in their navigation and anchoring practices,
and I more and more understand why. I
remember Larry and Mary Anne saying that they sleep comfortably in
Patagonia only when their boat is secured with at least four shorelines from four
different directions. This from a couple
who have sailed Antarctica, the Arctic, and the Northwest Passage, and who
cross oceans like others cross a street...
A few days later. The
wind is less than 7kts and is on the beam.
The sun is shining. We are making
2 knots with full sail, pretty islands to each side, a glacier capped volcano
on the horizon. Jérémie and Lison are
peeling chestnuts, ingredients for a French regional dish they are
cooking. Patty is reading, happy,
smiling. Emma Goldman, our new canine
crew member, stands guard on the bow and enjoys the light breeze in her
nostrils.
Lunch is ready. We
drift along, calmness and beauty providing a sunny backdrop, cuisine grand-mere
and good conversation filling the cockpit.
Our French crewmates´ food is sublime. Time stops ...
Moonrise over Caleta Valverde |
We pull into Caleta Valverde and drop the anchor. Patty and I swim briefly in the chilly Patagonia water while Jérémie and
Lison explore ashore. They collect a
pile of driftwood and after dark we sit around a fire on shore, Emma running back and
forth along the beach, happy as only a city dog in the wilderness for the first time can be. We pop our last bottle of Chilean champagne
under the full moon and toast life.
Patagonia. Again.
Monday 11 September 2017
Southern Patagonia
Estero Fouque |
Seno Pia, Western Arm |
My mind drifts back to trade wind sailing in the tropics
last year. The wind blew from the North
East at 15-25kts, 28C during the day and 22C at night, and passages were
planned and plans followed with rare exceptions. On reaching our destination we´d
drop the anchor, put up the hammocks, and enjoy a celebratory drink on deck.
Sailing in southern Patagonia is different.
Horizontal snow, 46kt wind, safe anchorage |
From Puerto Williams, where Otra Vida has been based for the
last five months, most destinations of interest are to the west. The prevailing winds are NW-W-SW, 15-45kts in
strength, southern ocean low pressure systems carrying snow, sleet or
rain. Heading west means making a dash
between safe anchorages on those occasional days without much wind. Days with
winds from the east, while not unknown, are rare. Sailing back to Puerto
Williams is somewhat easier, but one quickly learns that easier is relative in
southern Patagonia.
No, the weather is not the reason to be down here. Everything else is.
Perfect reflection in Estero Coloane |
The scenery … well, I´ll be frugal with words and mostly let
the pictures carry their own descriptive load.
We don’t have a thesaurus on board Otra Vida. If we did, it would have been well thumbed by
now, searching for new superlatives each day to describe the experiences of
southern Patagonia. After a few days on
board it seems everyone ends up saying “Wow!”, “Oh my!”, “Holy shit!” or some
other fairly meaningless exclamation.
Words simply aren´t up to the task of processing what our eyes are
seeing.
Lovely still anchorage in Seno Pia, ice from the glacier floating past outside |
When the sun shines and the sky is blue these places are
magical on a level that is qualitatively different to the tropics. The feeling of space and peace is huge, elemental,
humbling. Southern Patagonia remains
almost untouched*, nature in a near pristine state, and you encounter
situations that are difficult to fit into any normal definition of sailing or
travel. The experience can be transformative,
sometimes other-worldly.
The same anchorage, rather more challenging conditions |
Then there are the sailors you meet. I first heard of the Micalvi Yacht Club, legendary
bolthole for every sailboat down here, from an experienced Antarctic sailor almost
a decade ago, and I was hooked. He summed
it up: “No one arrives there by chance, and everyone is interesting”. It´s certainly high on the list of contenders
for Best Yachtie Hangout in the World.
Evening beach fire, Caleta Olla |
Seno Pia |
However, there´s complexity in my feelings about
Patagonia. It is a place of genuine
danger – not glamourised danger, like extreme sports, but tangible real danger
of loss of boat and loss of life. Cold,
hard, wet, uncomfortable danger. This is
not hyperbole. These situations are not
theoretical. In 2017 already there has
been one occasion where loss of life for a person ashore was a probable outcome
(that the person is alive today is a testament to the professionalism and air rescue
equipment of the Chilean Armada), and three occasions where boat loss was a real
possibility, one of which resulted in damage to the hull below water line. To put this in context, in 40,000 miles of
sailing over the last eight years, including five major ocean passages and well
over a thousand nights at anchor, I cannot recall any situation where I felt even
a slight risk of losing my boat.
The view skiing down, Otra Vida just visible to the left in the distance |
And this sharp awareness of the contingent nature of life
here is mixed with sublime appreciation for the inescapable beauty of Patagonia
explored with a sailboat. The glaciers, the
hikes, the tranquil anchorages. Evening beach fires with driftwood. Whales, dolphins, sea lions, sea otters,
guanacos. Condors wheeling high above in
an azure sky. Hiking to a rock for
chilly sunset beers overlooking glacial lakes, crenelated mountains, perfect
fjords, sandy shorelines, windswept trees, spindly waterfalls. Occasional solo hikes and dinghy trips,
too. These form a treasure trove of
moments that I will carry with me forever, emotions so intense that tears
easily rise up in my eyes. These are
times you don´t forget, ever.
Guanaco |
There are many amazing places on this beautiful planet of
ours. I´ve been fortunate to experience
some of them, and for sure there are many more still to experience. But in quiet moments of late I´ve found
myself asking a question over and over again, a question without an answer, a
question that seems increasingly rhetorical: Where does one go after here?
Estero Fouque |
Many thanks to Bodo Will for some of these photos.
Tuesday 28 February 2017
It doesn´t always rain
Canal Chacabuco |
Entering Estero Clemente |
Puerto Millabú, a comforting slash in the rocky southern
shore of Isla Clemente, was our home for a couple of days, anchored by the
river beach at the head of the valley.
The Cascada Salmón beckoned, drawing us to beach then river, through an
enchanted Hans Cristian Andersen-esque forest where pixies might have been
hiding behind every fallen log, along ledges under small cliffs, and across
barenaked rock smoothed by abundantly present rain and wind. What we optimistically referred to as the trail
would have carried stern warnings in a tourist guidebook – myriad routefinding
difficulties, easy to lose the trail once you´ve found it, dense and slippery
vegetation, steep slopes, exposed steps on a moss-covered tree root between a
near vertical bank of loose vegetation and a cliff to cross a stream several
metres below, rapidly changeable weather, risk of mist descending, no
possibility of assistance. Wonderful stuff
– our sort of hike. We left temporary
markers at critical points that were especially obscure – a ribbon, a hat, a
bottle of sunscreen - and they served us
well during the descent. Lunch found us
perched on flat rocks munching granola bars and sipping stream water, pensive
and silent, basking in a panoramic view of the upper waterfalls of the Cascada. Far below Otra Vida swung to her anchor in
the bay, dark tendrils of river snaking towards her through grey-green water
covered sand.
Cascada Salmón lower part |
The following afternoon I downloaded the latest weather
forecast : not promising. We needed a 36
hour window of settled weather to reach and cross the notorious Golfo de Penas,
60 miles of water wide open to the Pacific and therefore to the substantial
groundswell radiating from storms that relentlessly pummel the southern ocean between
Cape Horn and Antarctica. As if that was
not enough, add in a rapidly shelving bottom amplifying those swells, tidal
currents pushing north and south, and intense and frequently changing weather. It´s a recipe for dangerous wave conditions
with anything more than modest winds, and one of our pilot books warns that “even
large ships do not cross the gulf in bad weather”. Finding a 36 hour weather window in
Patagonia, we are discovering, is as likely as Donald Trump improving life for ordinary
Americans, and rather less likely than finding a herd of pink unicorns. So, acceding to metrological reality, we replanned
our crossing into sections and looked again at the forecast. Our choice was to leave immediately or wait
about a week. Up with the anchor, quick
stowage of loose items below, and on our way within minutes. Emerging from the protection of Estero
Clemente the ocean swell greeted us as we followed a course dodging small
islands and shoals through the mist and light rain. The VHF burst out “Embarcación Otra Vida” summoning
Allie to a friendly chat with the captain of a research vessel closing with us
through a pass. “You are very brave” he
told Allie, hearing our plans to sail to Puerto Williams.
Belated Valentine´s Day celebration lunch |
The islands behind us and conditions fairly benign, we discussed
options, and jointly decided to continue overnight to Caleta Suarez, a safe and
secure anchorage just shy of Cabo Raper at the northern limit of Golfo de
Penas. It was Léa´s first passage in
the open ocean on a sailboat, ever, and Allie´s first overnight passage. Straightforward, chilly, wet … we all had
pleasant watches, and even more pleasant slumbers in the warm passage berths,
lee cloths holding us in. Cosily
huddled behind the spray hood in the dark, I was reminded how much I enjoy
night watches … the tranquillity brought back lovely emotions of those nights
at sea between Ecuador and Chile in the last months.
The boat sign tree at Caleta Suarez |
We arrived a little after dawn, our mooring plan for Caleta
Suarez at the ready. Another boat in
such a small caleta could add complications, but cruising boats here are as
rare as the aforementioned pink unicorns.
As we rounded the corner we noticed the five commercial fishing boats
rafted together. Undeterred, we stuck with
our plan, dropping the anchor, launching the dinghy, and tying shore lines to
trees. One of the fishing boats left,
manoeuvring around us. We were almost
done, eagerly anticipating a warm drink below, when a fishermen pointed out that
our lines would block all movement, including the boats returning later, and
invited us to tie up alongside. Sounds
pretty straightforward, but with our anchor down, their anchors down, our lines
ashore, their lines ashore, other lines floating on the water … it took an hour
or two to sort it all out. In the rain,
of course. Allie, dressed provocatively
in black oilskins and rubber boots while retrieving our shorelines, attracted
plenty of interest from the young fishermen.
The captain of the fishing boat we tied to gave us two perfectly
filleted fish, and we were gifted more fish and seafood later, eventually refusing
some as there is only so much fish two women can eat. Léa reminded us we had bypassed Valentine´s
Day so a quick ceviche was rustled up (and a chickpea rice salad for me) while
Allie prepared the table with a candle and a white silk rose. We enjoyed a
celebratory Valentine´s Day lunch just two days late - who´s counting the days
here anyway?
After a few days at anchor waiting for weather, including an
attempt to reach a natural hot springs aborted due to too much of the wrong
type of wind, Allie and Léa painted a sign to go alongside those of other yachts
on a tree ashore. Otra Vida´s longstanding
philosophy, “no rules, no limits”, has evolved, and the sign reflects this: “no
rules, no limits, no conspiracy theories.”
Yes, there is a story there … several, actually … but they are for
another time, perhaps with a lovely Chilean artisanal beer in hand.
When we fixed the sign to the tree it wasn´t raining. I take that as a good omen.
It doesn´t always rain |
Saturday 14 January 2017
Saturdays
Saturday morning, 7th January 2017. I´m
at anchor in Puerto Ingles, a small lagoon at the northern end of Isla de
Chiloe, now as quiet as a millpond, sun shining, birds crying, a seal playing
in the water, two dogs running along the shoreline. I arrived yesterday morning
in Chile after 19 days at sea from Easter Island looking for shelter ahead of an
overnight storm. It´s an excellent
anchorage.
Saturday morning. A
feeling I remember well from the days when I worked in a regular job, waking in
the morning light with energy and anticipation. Sometimes there was a glow from some achievement
in the work week … a breakthrough on a project, a milestone achieved, a
promotion gained, a political battle won, a contract signed - as often as not, something
as insubstantial as a change in a number in a spreadsheet.
Saturday morning.
Most of all the feeling was one of precious freedom. I could do anything I wanted on Saturday,
could truly be myself, with the sure knowledge that the following day, Sunday,
I didn’t have to put on the mask of management consultant or corporate
manager. I could live fully on Saturdays
– take myself to that liminal space where sleep is a necessity rather than a
duty. A hard ski ascent, thighs burning,
smiling so much that my cheeks ache, body caressed by sunburn and sweat and
endorphins. The calm of the last
kilometres of a long run, in a trance from the drumbeat of feet connecting with
earth, wondering if my iPod battery will last till I get to the end. Diving deeply into a novel or an essay or a
poem or a travel story and not needing to stop.
The intensity of the last hours before dinner party guests arrive, focused
on cooking and setting the table and selecting music and tidying up and setting
the mood with lights and preparing drinks and polishing glasses and
anticipating conversation and smiling and … everything!
"Why do I climb for hours for a handful of turns in untracked snow? Why do I grin and dance
afterward? Why is fun such an anemic answer to the questions above? Powder snow skiing
is not fun. It´s life, fully lived, lived in a blaze of reality." - Dolores LaChapelle
afterward? Why is fun such an anemic answer to the questions above? Powder snow skiing
is not fun. It´s life, fully lived, lived in a blaze of reality." - Dolores LaChapelle
Csikszentmihalyi called this Flow, Sartre described it as
being engaged with life … whatever words one employs, and this is right at the
edge of language, for me it is that feeling of being, not consciously being with that little commentator in your
head describing it, but rather being
as a state, without a separate awareness of the state. Being completely in the moment, completely in
the flow. Saturdays.
"The more you consume, the less you live" - Guy Debord
It´s an indictment of our western model that Saturdays are,
for many, the only day of the week when this is possible. From his perch in Soho in the mid 19th
century Marx foresaw a key consequence of capitalism – alienation from life –
and refused to lie still and accept it.
Have we progressed in the 150 years since he was writing? Yes, a little – we do have that one precious
day out of seven, although for 1.9 billion people on the planet existing on
less than $2 a day Saturday effectively doesn´t exist. Being,
Saturday morning, is, for the most part, a western privilege.
And living on a sailboat, where it feels to me that Saturday
mornings are much more frequent, where floating at anchor and sharing the beauty
of Patagonia with interesting companions is what life will consist of for
months ahead … what does that say about my privilege? I sometimes feel a need to justify it by
explaining that living on a sailboat involves a lot of work, a relic of my
upbringing in a western society. But doesn’t
such an explanation reinforce the very model that leads to work dominating
life?
Ah, perhaps there´s no escape from the circular logic. It´s enough to make you want to run off with
a sailboat to Patagonia …
Monday 9 January 2017
Easter Island
“… on this island the Wind God inhabits
the only church living and true:
our lives come and go, dying, making love:
here on Easter Island where everything is altar,
where everything is a workroom for the unknown,
a woman nurses her newborn
upon the same steps that her gods tread.
Here, they live! But do we?
We transients, followers of the wrong star,
were shipwrecked on this island as in a lagoon,
like in a lake in which all distances end,
on a motionless journey, so difficult for men.”
the only church living and true:
our lives come and go, dying, making love:
here on Easter Island where everything is altar,
where everything is a workroom for the unknown,
a woman nurses her newborn
upon the same steps that her gods tread.
Here, they live! But do we?
We transients, followers of the wrong star,
were shipwrecked on this island as in a lagoon,
like in a lake in which all distances end,
on a motionless journey, so difficult for men.”
Men IX, La Rosa
Separada, Pablo Neruda
We arrived at Easter Island after a lovely 23 day trade wind
passage from Ecuador, port tack all the way, barely adjusting our sails, life
lived at a 20 degree angle. Rashly
ignoring nautical tradition, we left on a Friday and had a woman aboard so
probably we should have sunk. As you are
reading this obviously we didn’t.
Another small nail in the coffins of patriarchy and superstition.
During the passage I read Jared Diamond’s “Collapse: How
Societies Choose to Fail or Survive”. I
chose it because it sounded interesting, and it was a surprise to find Easter
Island as one of his case studies. To
précis the book: he examines historical and contemporary societies that have
thrived or failed, and teases out five substantive themes: environmental
damage; climate change; hostile neighbours; friendly trade partners; and the society’s
response to environmental challenges.
Easter Island was occupied by Polynesians from island groups
to the West in about 900AD. The
population is estimated to have grown to about 15,000, and then declined to
about 3,000 by the time the first Europeans sighted it in 1722. By then it was already an ecological disaster,
with no significant trees left standing, and its population was barely
surviving The iconic moai (stone head
statues) were there in profusion, extravagantly contrasting with the poverty of
the islanders.
What had happened? Diamond meticulously brings together
strands of scholarship, describing how the Polynesians developed a two class society,
with aristocrats living in large houses in prime locations, and peasants
farming the land. Over time the felling
of trees, used for house construction, cooking, elaborate cremation rituals,
and for moving the large stone statues from the quarry to their final sites,
denuded the island. The response of the
aristocrats appears to have been to erect ever greater monuments as power struggles
developed between rival chiefs. What had
been an island capable of supporting its population became an ecological wasteland
driven by the vanities and egos of the ruling elite and their ever more
elaborate traditions. Unsurprisingly,
following the immiseration of much of the population, the aristocracy was
overthrown, but it was too late – the forests had gone. Soil erosion accelerated without trees to
moderate the effects of rain and wind.
Heating and cooking was only possible by burning grass. Game animals died out with the forests,
cutting off that food source. Lacking
large trees, large canoes could no longer be built, limiting fishing to what
could be caught in sheltered waters very close to the coast. Chickens and rats became the main sources of
protein.
Of course, while the Polynesians destroyed the forests and
reduced the population by 80% from its peak, western imperialism takes second
place to no one in these matters. By 1877
the population had been reduced a further 96% to a mere 111 inhabitants through
a combination of disease deposited by Christian missionaries, slave raids by Peruvians,
and profiteering by the European chancers that imperialism regularly excreted
into occupied lands. Every Easter Island
Polynesian today is descended from one of the 36 survivors who had children.Given the history one might expect the Polynesians to be unwelcoming to those of us from western nations still carrying an imperial stain. Not a bit of it. Warm, friendly, sharing, willing to help … the culture of the island seems grounded in welcoming hospitality and mutual support. Going into Hanga Roa by dinghy the first evening we were swamped by several breaking waves. Local fishermen hoisted our dinghy onto the dock and gave us a hand up from the water, then put glasses of whisky-cola in our hands and invited us to share their barbequed fish while they got to work saving the drowned outboard motor. As the evening continued we were invited to stay in one of their houses rather than return to the boat in our wet clothes.
There´s a happy and relaxed feeling to the island. People have enough to live on, and there
seems to be neither obvious poverty nor ostentatious displays of wealth. People have time to talk and want to get to
know you. Within hours I felt I had
friends on the island.
Was our reception coloured by our arrival by sailboat? Of course, to some extent. Significant numbers of tourists fly into the
island for a few days vacation, apparently 5000 a week in peak season. Travelling
here by sailboat takes a bit more effort, and Otra Vida was only the 23rd
sailboat to arrive at the island in the previous year. Compared to the volume of boats at the
average Caribbean island that is a rounding error, sure. Then again, an average of two sailboats a
month means that sailboat crew are not so unusual on Easter
Island.
The model underlying western capitalism, the model of rational
economic man, says that our nature as people is to be competitive, to maximise
our own self interest, if necessary using violence. It says that these dark base instincts need to be controlled
by strong social rules and norms, backed up by the threat of state-applied
force. Altruism is a fantasy, according
to this model, and all interactions are calculated (perhaps imperfectly) in
terms of the benefit to each party.
I´ve found it noteworthy that cities do indeed seem to bring
out that version of human “nature”, but that smaller more remote places seem to
operate quite happily against “nature”.
Or could it be that our more fundamental nature (let´s forget my skirting
dangerously close to essentialism here) is to be cooperative and generous, to
support each other in community, and that our “natural” competitiveness is socially
constructed? Looking out at Otra Vida
at anchor in the distance, the maoi to the north proudly staring inland, after
a day of getting provisions for the boat with my fisherman friend Juan, it
certainly feels that way. And that feels
right, feels good, feels like something I can hold on to.Friday 16 December 2016
696 Songs
Otra Vida’s bow slices through a seascape of uncomplicated
purity. The water foams and sprays
either side, during the day cresting white on perfect Yves Klein blue, while
at night sparking with the glitter of bioluminescence.
We’re well over half way through our passage from Ecuador to Easter
Island, 14 days at sea so far, another 8-10 days to go.
A few days earlier I decided to create the mother of all
playlists, going through every piece of music on my computer and selecting the
songs that I liked. 696 songs was the
final count. Of course there are songs I
like that are not on my computer, and some songs that I decided not to include
but which held some resonance for me at some point in the past but no
longer. But overall those 696 songs
cover a lot of my life.
What captures my attention as I start playing the list is the vivacity of the memories. So intensely
felt, even more so in this pristine part of the planet, more lived hallucinations than mere recollections.
Ah, those memories. I
noticed a few themes. Women featured a
lot, not surprisingly, both lovers and friends. Mountains and sailing.
Alcohol, in the form of parties, meals, or occasionally hangovers. And travel, of course travel.
Barcelona (Freddie Mercury and Monserrat Caballe) finds me driving
into Barcelona for the first time on a grey morning before Christmas 1989, not
especially liking the city. No inkling of
how crucial Barcelona would become to me … and that years later, living there
and loving it, Hey Man! (Nelly Furtado) accompanies me jogging along
Barceloneta´s beachfront before meeting Rufus and Cris for a memorable Sunday lunch.
Comedy Waltz (Fairground Attraction) and Please Forgive Me
(David Gray) catapults me back to three crazy months in Covent Garden in 2001,
newly single and free and very much enjoying it.
La Vie en Rose (Edith Piaf) recalls a hungover day shared with
Anett after a typically decadent dinner party with good friends in my Budapest apartment in
2009. Reni dancing round and round to She’s
Electric (Oasis) whenever and wherever it was played. Born Slippy
(Underworld) as the seminal anthem of Sziget festival in 2005. Budapest memories ...
The Tide is Turning (Roger Waters) is etched in my soul as the
final song of his Wall concert at Potsdamer Platz in mid 1990, a welling up of optimism
and hope and freedom animating the still-communist night air, under a Berlin sky once again painted with
searchlights, searchlights for peace this time.
Muscle Cars (Mylo) takes me to Carneval in Maastricht in
2007, tiny glass of Dutch beer in very cold hand, dressed in a clown costume, standing outside a bar with work colleagues and
friends watching the parade, boere music playing, Limburgs dialect
temporarily replacing Dutch as the lingua franca.
Massivan´s version of Refazenda recalls passion fuelled days
anchored off Platja Migjorn, Formentera - white sand, turquoise water, beautiful
lovers.
And Jimmy Buffett, unsophisticated
sophisticate of Caribbean beach music, triggers avalanches of Colorado mountain memories. Driving up the Roaring
Fork Valley, sunburn blisters on my face from the previous day´s abortive
attempt on Mt Elbert cut short by a terrifying lightning storm, for the first
time really hearing the lyrics of Changes in Latitudes. Sharing local beers with friends each May at our Beach party at Arapahoe Basin, buzzing from skiing Pallavicini in shorts, Volcano playing from someone´s pickup truck, smoke from the grill obscuring the inflatable palm trees against a backdrop of sun and snow.
I could go on. The
memories rise up - I taste and smell them, feel them as if they are happening again,
here in this blue on blue world of Pacific sailing. Yes, these pellucid reveries are another magical aspect of beautiful long ocean passages. Who needs TV?
Friday 1 April 2016
Mermaid
Otra Vida´s anchor lies snugly in
the white sand of French Harbour, Roatan, waiting patiently for a few days of atypical
weather to make the journey east to the corner of Nicaragua, then
south to Providencia and eventually Panama. The reef protects us from swell and waves and
presents a pallete of blues and turquoises either side of a sharp white line of
foam crashing in the middle distance.
The constant trade winds soften the fire of the tropical sun toasting us
from a mostly cloudless lapis lazuli sky.
The reef protecting French Harbour |
We read, talk, think in the
hammock, do a little boat work, swim, cook.
Sunrises and sunsets frame our days, accompanied sometimes by a
masterful education in contemporary electronic music from Icelandic crew member
Gusty.
It´s not hard to spend time on this island.
French Harbour´s version of
breakfast TV is the daily cruisers´ net, a VHF radio discussion between
yachties about upcoming weather, social plans, trips to the grocery store, the
local iguana farm and needed or offered spare parts. At the end of the net each day the yacht
“Mermaid” chimes in with a trivia question. Erudite and thoughtful, these
questions involve history, literature, sailing lore, mythology … an injection
of a fragment of magic from a fine mind into the everyday cruising business of
propane refills and potluck dinners.
Sometimes at sunset
you´ll find the crew of Otra Vida at the supremely casual Tiki Palapa enjoying inexpensive
cold beers and easy conversation with other yachties and a few stray
adventurers seeking escape from the nearby hotel. One
evening we join a table including a fit, slender, tanned American guy talking
politics, lamenting the likely choice of Trump as Republican nominee. He holds forth with passion and wit and obvious
intelligence.
Breakfast with John in the cabin of Mermaid of Carriacou |
This is my first face to face encounter
with John A. Smith, captain of “Mermaid of Carriacou”. I introduce myself, strike up a conversation,
comment on his interesting trivia questions, and the following day invite him
to join us on board Otra Vida for dinner. He
arrives in his sea kayak with a freshly baked loaf from Mermaid´s galley. Within minutes it is evident that John is
someone cut from a different cloth, and we are in for a special time. It turns into a late evening of stories and
memories, fuelled by beer and rum and grilled vegetables.
John´s a wonderful raconteur,
full of colourful stories, engaging, interesting. But there is more. His lifestyle, indeed his very existence, is
a challenge to consumerism, to accumulation, to striving. By the standards of the mainstream John Smith
cannot exist, and in practical terms for them he more or less does not
exist. No bank account, no “fixed abode”,
no “job”. He sails a traditional wooden
cargo boat built on a Carriacou beach, a boat with plenty of history. He rescued and painstakingly restored the
partially sunken Mermaid by hand, after a previous shipwreck in the 70s saw him
bivouacking for a few months in the Swedish cemetery on St Barths.
The Eastern Caribbean back then must have been a remarkable
place. Along with John Smith you would
have found Don Street, Jimmy Buffett, Fatty Goodlander, Bob Dylan, Herman Wouk
and a cast of other unique individuals living a life of freedom on and around
boats. That has all gone now – the
relentless march of neoliberal consumer capitalism and disneyfication has
rendered those islands into a theme park servicing first world tourists with a
contrived pastiche of Caribbean life. As
John puts it, the Eastern Caribbean today is “embarrassing”.
The legend and the person fluidly
intermingle. He is the “chum with a
bottle of rum” that Buffett ends up “drinking all night” with in “Changes in Latitudes”,
the “hobo sailor” of Dylan´s “115th Dream”. The legend and the person are both fascinating. A life demonstrating that truth is relative,
that facts are perceptions, his very existence holding a mirror to your eyes,
bringing you face to face with the impossibility of objective truth.
Where does truth end and legend begin? Postmodernism showed us that truth is
temporal and relative (unimaginative conservatives and religious literalists
can please go and wail somewhere else).
So what matters more? The
illusion of objective truth that would turn an evening into something akin to reading
the stock prices from the Wall Street Journal, or an evening of magic realism
flowing like a silver stream from the lips of someone the mainstream could
accept only as a fictional character in a novel?
We go aboard his lovely engineless wooden sailboat for breakfast
the following morning, nursing modest hangovers, faces smiling with memories of the night before. He makes good strong coffee and we sit on
deck chatting, photographing parts of a no longer published sailing guide to
these islands, and listening to John tell stories. He reaches for a tattered copy of Ovid and
reads a few lines to us, then recites a Shakespeare sonnet from memory.
Mermaid of Carriacou with John on deck blowing a conch shell |
Later that day, I watch him swim the half mile to shore from
Mermaid, towing his sea kayak behind him, playfully flipping on his back to
admire the emerging stars at dusk. Here is a man at home in the moment,
revelling in the now, drinking in the wonders of the planet and the universe
that pass many of us by. I sit on the
dock, cold beer in hand, having arrived in my rowing dinghy powered by a small
outboard motor, a rather modest set up by yachtie standards, and feel sharply how
much further there is to go in simplifying life and appreciating the wonderful
pleasures of the planet. John´s an
inspiration, a man living a purely free life.
I hope I get there one day.
The atypical weather we have been
waiting for finally arrives. We weigh
anchor and head towards Guanaja. Leaving
the anchorage we motor towards John´s engineless boat held securely by three anchors,
pipping the electronic horn on Otra Vida as a salute to him and the good times we
shared. John springs up from his cabin, joy
in his muscles, a big smile on his face, conch shell in hand, and blows us a
traditional salute in return. The sound
of his conch echoes across eons of seafaring.
As to my oh-so-convenient push-button electronic horn … well, what can I
say? There is still so far to go. I hope I get there one day.
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