Usually, a chapter closes in my life, and I feel this urge to write a blog post. I didn't get that feeling after crossing the ocean, which was strange because it was quite the chapter-closer. People have asked about the trip and I say something like "uneventful in all the right ways" which is vague but funny enough to evoke a chuckle that smoothly transitions the conversation. Anyways, the feeling finally came! So prepare yourself for the not-vague-but-unavoidably-ultra-condensed version that will hopefully still be funny.
In May, I was invited by my friend from Waterford, Jaci, to join her family on their transatlantic journey back to North America in December. Jaci and her family have lived on a boat for nine years, have been homeschooling, and have been to an insane number of countries. Three takeaways: 1) they know what they are doing, 2) they are so cool, and 3) of course I said yes.
Fast forward to December: after what must have been the 15th Covid test that held absolute power over my future, I was able to fly to Cape Verde (via Portugal). I arrived to the boat (named "Wicked" after the musical) and met the nine people I was about to spend a ridiculous amount of time with. In addition to Jaci's family, there was Amandine (bad a** world traveler sailor lady), Jaci's sister's best friend Zoe, and Jaci's bestie Josh. They seemed weird in exactly the right way.
Practically, sailing across the Atlantic was a lot easier for us than one might think. Auto-pilot took care of most of the navigational heavy lifting, winds were consistent, weather was good, etc. Wicked is a catamaran which means it isn't perpetually tilted while underway, unlike a monohull (the classic sailboat); we could eat on a flat surface and even do a puzzle.
The first part of the trip I will explore involves the sleeping situation. There were four double beds and ten people. Fortunately (personal-space wise) and unfortunately (sleep-quality wise), two people had to be on watch at all times because we were moving 24/7. We had to keep our eye out for icebergs and the like. So throughout the night, two of us would wake up, stumble through the kitchen, put on a sleek, water-activated, radar life jacket, and go on deck and try to not fall asleep for three hours. I would sit there under a blanket and listen to music while looking at the stars. Oh those stars. At points in the trip, we hadn't seen signs of other humans for a week and were more than a thousand miles from any land. The sky was so dark. I felt so small. In hindsight, I was probably not being a particularly helpful watch-woman.
My favorite rotation was the 6am - 9am, 6pm - 9pm shifts because you got both the sunrise and sunset. Stunning. And that is about all I can say to try to sum them up. Sunrises and sunsets have been quite the motif for my past year. I have so many memories associated with watching sunrises and sunsets from the mountain at Waterford, on the beach in Cape Town, on a farm outside Johannesburg, from an Airbnb in Mozambique. Also, they serve as this metaphor for beginnings and endings, of adventures, of good times, of bad times, of relationships. The sun rises and sets everywhere, every day. Quite cool. Tattoo material.
Back to the boat, post-sunrise. We chilled. I had no reason to be on my phone. I read and journaled. Josh taught me guitar. We discussed the case against higher education in America and the meaning of life. I learned about, and from, his deep love for God. I did dishes because I had no idea how to pull the spinnaker (a type of sail) down and wanted to be helpful. I only had one projectile vomit session. We swam in the middle of the ocean when the wind died down this one day, and I looked up at our tiny boat bobbing above endless blue that turned to black and felt tiny again. We decorated for Christmas when it was 85 degrees out (30 degrees Celcius for my metric readers). We ate fresh-caught Mahi-mahi (thanks Josh) and lots of homemade bread. I learned how to raise sails (kind of). When we finally pulled into the marina in Grenada, 2200 miles from Cape Verde, and after 13.5 days of sedentary living, I took off my flip-flops and sprinted down the dock. The immigration lady gave me some side-eye I totally deserved.
And that was the journey. I made friends, asked big questions, reflected on the past, learned a couple things about sailing, and made it to a new continent. A huge, huge thank you to Jaci and the Alonsos for the trip of a lifetime.
After swimming at the base of a waterfall in Grenada, cleaning a very much lived-in bathroom, snorkeling off a white sand beach covered in palm trees, a brief puke session from the back of the boat (induced by my embarrassing snorkeling strategy of clearing the saltwater that enters my tube through swallowing), swimming at night with stingrays, and saying goodbye to some incredible people, I got on my flight home.
And now I'm in Missoula, living with my family, and trying to adjust. I have the time that I dreamed of while doing IB, but none of the people that I wanted that time for. I have so much processing to do but also don't want to be constantly dwelling on the past. I am excited for the next chapter but am also completely unprepared emotionally to set out again right now. Seems like home is where I am supposed to be.
In my first blog post, I wrote about sharing my adventures over "the next two and a half years." Well, here we are folks, 2.5 years later. Crazy. Seems like this blog has served its purpose. We will see if I am ever struck by the "time to write a blog post" feeling again!
Tallblondrambler, over and out.
What an adventure! Thanks for sharing TBR!!
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