On the homefront

The closest thing I’ve found to a paying job is my dad offering to give me 20 bucks if I go into the basement and watch an episode of ‘The Walking Dead’ by myself. If I don’t find a job here in the next few weeks, I’ll have to hatch a new plan. Every passing moment I think about boats. I crane my neck in the car spotting a mast in a sea of planing hulls, all hauled out and snug for the season. I arrived at the wrong time for work in my seasonal, coastal hometown. If there are jobs to be had, I’ll just have to look harder. High above the hudson river I’m reminded of the opportunities to sail right in my backyard. A West Wight Potter points it’s bow west. I spot it from thousands of feet away, squinting my eyes. My dad tells me I should get sunglasses, then maybe I won’t squint so much. 

 

Saying goodbye to the wine industry

The romantic notion of living in a tent on the vineyard while working as a cellar hand during this year’s wine harvest was exactly that, a romantic notion. I’m holding on to boat life with slippery fingers. Not quite willing to take that job that requires the car. Not quite willing to leave these islands for the mainland. Not quite willing to trade the smell of brine for the smell of fermented wine. The wine harvest has been my means of travel for many years. It’s brought me to new places, afforded me bits of extra cash, and suddenly ended as quickly as it began. It’s been a lesson in impermanence. A lesson in saying goodbye. Being a traveling cellar hand has always felt like being part of this secret club. A club of cellar rats doing a job that anyone could learn if only they knew it existed. Making wine breaks my back, stains my hands and fills my heart each year. But in the end it leaves me homeless in a strange place where I must then move on to more work or more travel. I am part of a different club now, however. Even though that seasonal job with the French winemaker a state away sounded fun, it wasn’t going to get me any closer to my boat. It was going to take me further away. During our phone conversation he said in a thick accent. “This too is my dream, to have a boat and sail away. But you must first buy your freedom.” People tell me to apply myself. To get a “real” job. To “do what I love”. To not “work for money.” All seem to contradict themselves. I can’t do what I love without money and a real job would afford me no time to do what I love.

Taking the helm

Walking through town I’m teetering on the edge of a nervous breakdown. I’ve made my bed, and now I’ll lie in my dirty sheets. I’m moving off the boat.

The streets are filled with tourists. The sun radiates off the concrete. I come into a cafe for internet  to apply for jobs. One girl behind the counter has her hair perfectly curled by a curling iron. The other has shorts so short her cheeks hang out. They can’t be more than 18. I’m two days back on shore and already I don’t fit.

I head back to the boat to look for Alan and see how he’s fairing in his job hunt but he’s not there. The boat is empty. I heat day old rice and beans and try to stop the tears that sting my eyes. “I need to get used to coming home to an empty boat,” I think. My own boat.

I head back out onto the streets and wander, aimlessly. Hoping to see Alan’s orange t-shirt and white sailing hat somewhere in the crowd of strange faces. I never thought I’d be one of those people who is still in a living situation with their “ex.” But it all happened so quickly, and what can I say–he’s my best friend.

After checking into possible jobs in town I fear I’ve exhausted my options. I head back to the same coffee shop. That familiar hat is sitting in the corner. “I’ve found you two boats,” he says with a smile.

“Yeah?” I say. My heart feeling instantly lighter at the sight of him.  “I wonder how I will pay for them.”

F is for Freelance

Although this blog has lost steam, and I find myself living on a Falmouth Cutter with that crazy sailor from http://www.artofhookie.org, and his extra terrestrial dog, I thought I’d post this small crowd funding campaign I’ve started.

http://www.gofundme.com/rnk2w4

I’ve quit my job as a newspaper journalist and am diving into the world of freelance journalism. Please help me break into the field and offer the under-represented young, female perspective in the sailing community.

Now bring me that horizon!

Cheers, mates!

Finding Home

We left the boat in a hurry Friday morning. Did the final check on the security of the dock lines. Grabbed a latte and piled into my car to set forth on a two ferry journey and a road trip down highway 20 to the 2014 Port Townsend Wooden Boat Festival. The kindness, inspiration and insight I gained from the sailors I encountered at the show was worth every penny we spent as an unemployed couple. We were invited to stay the weekend on the hard aboard our friends 26 ft. Lyle Hess Cutter. We planned on sleeping in their cockpit but soon realized no one was going to let that happen. Karen Sullivan asked us where we were staying and within hours we had a written invitation from her to spend the night aboard her Dana 24, Sockdolager. We politely declined. As the night rolled on our friends refused to allow us to sleep in their cockpit and although we protested we spent the nights sleeping in their sea berths practically on top of them in their aft double bed. The hospitality they showed us was greatly appreciated as we woke up to the morning light pouring through the portholes, the smell of freshly pressed coffee and potatoes roasting on the cast iron skillet. I met Lin & Larrey Pardey and had to control my star struck tears from streaming down my face as they clasped their hands around mine in firm handshakes. “I’ve read this book, and this one, and this one,” I said nervously pointing to the display of books at their booth. I had even brought my copy of “The Self Sufficient Sailor” for Lin to sign but decided to buy their biography “As Long as It’s Fun” and have her sign that instead. Lin was vivacious and full of energy, Larrey smiled quietly and looked into my eyes as we spoke. Lin said, “I was kicked out of my house, and Larrey said I could stay on the boat and didn’t have to sleep in his cabin. I guess I was a little shy…well not that shy.” It reminded me of the first time I spent the night on Alan’s boat. He was prepared to give me the V-berth and stay in the quarter berth as I had drank a bit too much wine to drive home. I guess I wasn’t as shy as Lin. During the Pardey’s first presentation, Lin said something that struck me deeply. She was talking about opportunities, and how every opportunity you take closes the door to another. How she meets so many solo female sailors and wonders what would have happened if she had gone on alone. She said, “you have to give up lots to go on your adventure. To gain your life.” I started this blog with the intention of it being a platform to share my story of buying my own boat and becoming a female solo sailor, but when the opportunity arose to move aboard a blue water boat with a partner twice my age, I took it. Since then I’ve wondered if I made the right decision. I wondered if I was going to miss out on my own adventures, my youth, my chance to be wild, reckless and free. And the answer is yes! I will miss out on an entire other path, several other paths. Hearing Lin speak validated all of my feelings. All choices we make cause us to miss out on something else. When I ran into Karen Sullivan again on the second day, right before her presentation she said to me, “Hey! We thought you were leaving! Weren’t you going to Oregon to work at a winery to try and buy your own boat next year?” “Well,” I said. “The moment I decided to stay my car was packed. I was sitting outside the laundry room, looking out over the marina and I thought ‘I’m leaving the most beautiful place in the world, just to try and get back to it.’” “Wow” She said with a gleaming smile, “that sounds like the beginning of a really good book.” I was in awe. One of the most respected writers and sailors I know thought my story was worth telling. During Karen’s presentation about their trans-pacific journey complete with seasickness, storms and hear palpitations she also realized something about leaving, that everything they wanted as sailors was right here in their Pacific Northwest home. “Travel is really great,” she said. “But so is coming home and seeing it with new eyes. That’s why we go.” Home has always been a strange concept to me, but coming back aboard the tiny boat gently floating at the dock felt like coming home. “We owned the whole world. So we never thought of her as small.” Lin Pardey on Seraffyn

Luffing through Life

I think I’ve run aground. Working the past three years as a seasonal migrant worker has solidified that my brain has been dormant, while my body has been active. I’ve applied to seasonal jobs because that’s all I’ve known post college, and therefore all I think I’m capable of.

Fail.

I’ve had two interviews in the past two weeks. One for an entry-level position with a controversial ocean conservancy, and one with a local newspaper for a reporting position. I’ve managed to bomb both interviews with flying colors. In my head, I have no confidence that I have the coping skills to allow me to stick to something professionally, and that shines through in my interviews despite my relevant experience, adaptability and enthusiasm. The question that seems to haunt me time and time again is this: Where do you see yourself in five years? I can’t answer it, because I don’t know. When I think about my dream, which is preparing a boat for cruising and taking off to explore the deep blue, I see a blank grid with no points to plot. I can’t even begin to imagine how I can make that happen. 

A few weeks ago I met Karen Sullivan who recently completed a trans-pacific journey on her Dana 24, Sockdolager. I asked here frankly, “How did you support yourself throughout the years and earn the funds to prepare your boat and fill a cruising kitty?” Her answer was equally as frank. She worked as a commercial skipper on the east coast, one of only two women captains at the time, but eventually she realized she couldn’t make money doing that forever and she didn’t want to be 50 years old and cleaning toilets! She told me that she hunkered down on land for 15 years working for a non-profit. Karen was just another example that sometimes we have to suck it up, and do what we have to do in order to do what we love. Now she’s a successful writer.

The other day I was cleaning up down below in the boat and grabbed a bag of what I thought was filled with things to put in the “free box” in the marina. A few hours later I walked by it on my way back from the shower and saw my boyfriend’s very sentimental sweater sitting there for someone to claim. I quickly grabbed the sweatshirt and looked through the rest of the bag only to find it empty. I came back to the boat nervous as to what else I had carelessly thrown away.

My boyfriend was very upset, not by the anonymous belongings that were now gone, but by the fact that I hadn’t taken the time to look in the bag before I dumped it. “How am I supposed to trust you at sea where careless mistakes are the difference between life and death?” He said.

I crawled into bed feeling disappointed in myself for another failure. I was in the throws of “Cruising in Seraffyn” by Lin & Larrey Pardey, trying to get out of my head when I came across this:

“Look at the oil on that dinghy,” Larry said angrily. “Why didn’t you set it off to the leeward end of the ship where it wouldn’t have rubbed against her oily side?”
For the first time I noticed the heavy oil around Rinky’s Dacron fender.

“But I didn’t secure her, a crewman did,” I protested. “Damn it, Lin, you must be responsible for your own boat. You can’t expect anyone else to take care of your equipment!”

Larry Thrust a bottle of kerosene and a rag into my hand and pointed shoreward. “Don’t come back until that dinghy looks like new,” he said, scowling.
I was in tears as I rowed to the beach, not because Larry was wrong, but because I had been careless.

Even the greats make mistakes. Perhaps you have to fail time again, until you finally learn how to succeed.