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.
Dinghy Dreams 