Costa Rica or bust?

Sail away from sight of land, even for a short time, and your next sighting of it will be significant to you. Face it. We are not water animals. If in the water, we can’t lay down and take a nap to recharge. The water will not support us. We’ve gotta swim. On the land’s surface we can relax without sinking, it cannot rob us of our next breath (i remember as a kid being horrified at the idea of quicksand!). I describe this connection we have to the ground, realizing that had i more experience with planting and growing things, i would have far more to say of it. Would that i could sing such higher praise. Even without it, no matter how much of a sailor i am, my appreciation for the earth part of Mother Earth deepens every time i return to it. Yesterday, it was mid-morning when i scanned the horizon and my eyes tripped on a distant rising contour of the Nicaraguan coast. “Ah, there you are. Still there. Thank you.” As if all land might have sunk or evaporated while i was gone.

The day’s weather was a repeat of the pattern i grew to expect from the previous five days: some morning wind, calm in the afternoon while cathedrals of cloud build on the (previoiusly too far away to be seen) coast. At dusk these remarkable, turbulent, shifting shapes would head…our way. Gulp. Suddenly their fantastic displays, which happened to include lightning, became far more than entertaining to us. “Please don’t strike us,” i prayed upon the approach of each night’s storms. It feels…at least foolish to be the waving the mast (the tallest and most conductive thing) around in the face of a storm. Likely i’m forgetting how small we are.

“Girding for battle,” with the help of the day’s last light, i deeply reefed the mainsail (made it smaller). The only headsail i flew at night was the jib since it is smaller, easier to handle, drives Akimbo with good speed, yet doesn’t overpower us. Think of it this way – if the perfect wind to make Akimbo go is 15 knots, and the approaching storm will start with 20 to 30 knot gusts (potentially 40 to 50 knot), we only want enuf sail up to catch 15 and let the rest go. Anything else i can think of to do or re-do to get ready, the smallest detail - the stove is gimbaled, the drawers and cabinets are latched, the flashlight batteries are recharged, the solar panels are folded in, the companionway (where we go in and out of the cabin) doors are unstowed, put in place and closed…the flag is wrapped up so it won’t be noisy or distracting, water bottles are full… - i do.

The moon long since buried above clouds, by midnight it is really dark out. Our challenger has sent several harbinger’s of its approach. Rather than rely on only what illumination the lightning gives us, i watch the shapes of the approaching rain on the radar. “When it’s two miles away,” i tell myself, “close five hatches and portholes, count them to be sure i haven’t missed one.” At one mile off, i put my foul weather jacket on and put my lifejacket/harness back on over it. Reviewing, did i forget anything? Go below, look around for any detail. Is what i might want where i can reach it? Drink some water. Check the radar screen one more time – no other boats “in sight.” Check our position on the chart on the laptop and close it, Back in the cockpit, check our compass heading. I sniff the air for the ozone that comes with too much lightning. Not there. Good. Still repeat the prayer, “please don’t strike us.” The rain starts slowly, i clip my harness lanyard to the boat, and wait to respond to whatever is going to happen next. Which is usually a change in wind speed and direction, a wall of rain, and then settling in to a new, noisy, energetic and fast reality. It’ll settle down in an hour or two, and i’ll nap then.

Not so this last night. These consolidated fronts that overtook us offshore apparently start out as separate smaller storms on shore. They don’t get together, organized and fired up until they get out to sea. Here we were, 20 miles from shore, we’ve come in to them instead of them comin’ out to us, and lo, they flew right over the top of us. They didn’t start huffing and puffing and flashing and roaring until they were well out beyond us. And their blasts of wind? Nothin’. In fact, we had to motor in the last 8 hours. I had hoped to avoid another night’s challenge but at least out there we wouldn’t have had to motor. Not complaining, mind you. Now the challenge was…to not fall asleep. Especially now that shore was close enuf to bump into. Taking my groggy, not-sharp self into account, i needed to navigate safely into a new anchorage in the dark. I had to literally “stand” watch the whole way, could NOT let myself sit down or would have fallen asleep.

So, remember the significance of the land? It started when i caught sight of it in the morning. Now that it was dark, my next sense of it was of its AROMA. Like an impact, we reached its odor. It had a moist flavor of decay in it, almost smoky but more composty. Thick, lush, jungly. It was a calm night. Visibility from a shrouded half moon wasn’t bad but didn’t reach far. In the water’s reflection next to Akimbo, and the steady throb of her engine, i could see the shadow of her bow wave in place next to her, smoothly peeling away. We felt as much as navigated our way in to Bahia Santa Elena, once again to find ourselves the only boat here. Dropped the anchor and finally turned the engine off. Now it was my hearing that met Costa Rica – some bird sounds, the splash of a few fish jumping, and the breathing sound of water lapping shore, all in front of a solid background of whirring insect noise. Like so many camping trips when i got off work, jumped in the car, drove to a trailhead, arrived in the dark, and went to sleep, antic…in the morning light, my sight would predominate again and i would see what wondrous place i had gotten myself into. For now tho, safe at anchor, i could not sleep hard enuf.

This morning, it is indeed a new and different place. “We aren’t in Kansas anymore, Akimbo.” No signs of the Mexican desert. Dense green. But it’s “just” another place. Like i am “just” another person, like this day is “just” another moment. Each unique unto itself. Whole yet part of more, regardless of whatever else there is, was or will be. I am glad to behold this place, to take it in as much as i can, to let its newness and difference change me, this piece of Mother Earth. I’ve heard that African vistas reveal her pulse, i imagine Himalayan reveal her spirit. Perhaps lush landscapes like this reveal her breath.

This seven day/seven hundred mile leg is the longest i’ve sailed alone, so far. Even at only seven days, i find it “working on me,” as if granting me some authority. Not sure what i mean by that. If ever you want to test your sanity, go sailing offshore alone. Of course, if you find yourself sailing offshore alone, the conclusion may well be foregone anyway. No need to test. Out here my connection and love with many of you, and Tyler most, feels so obviously like what literally saves me. Have i said that too much? And saves me from what? But it’s huge for me. If it were a debt, i would owe my life to it/you/us. I find myself wanting for sanity sorely at times, “fighting my ghosts,” and trying not to fight still more tears (they are NOT as salty as the sea). Those lyrics – “is wisdom wasted on the past.” Well, sure. But hopefully the past isn’t wasted on wisdom. May i please let the past be past, and harvest from it a present that is intact, forgiving and at peace. Like the rest of us, it deserves its time and is sacred. Let me give to and live into it more gracefully than i have. Grace counts.

The sea life (or is that “see” life?) continues to include lots of porpoise and honus (hawaian for sea turtles, pronounced “ho” long “o,” “nus” long “u.” Of “graceful bulk,” as Heather says). I’m afraid there is an awfully steady stream of plastic junk floating by too. Third day dawned and a big whale swam close by our port side for five breaths. I snapped one photo when he/she surfaced, then another of his/her fin before it disappeared. One whale, one breath, two (not very good) photos of it. A majestic visit, and then gone.


The last day, between dropping a sail when the wind went away and starting the motor, i spent most of an hour communing with 8 to 10 porpoise. Akimbo slowly drifted along while they danced under her bow. I lay there, holding the camera over the side, taking their photos. I listened to their squeaks and squeals. One turned on his/her side to eyeball me as he/she swam by pass after pass. I wish i could have touched one. I don’t know how to describe them and the company i feel from them.




I’ve given up on waking myself up every half hour when underway at night. That works for one night out but by the second and third night i am too tired. So i sleep in the cockpit if it’s not raining, and whenever i wake up i look around, check the radar, Akimbo’s trim, and go back to sleep. If it’s raining, chances are we’re in a squall and there’s wind at last, sometimes more than we want, but we’ll take it…so i am up and down to sail. Strictly speaking, by going to sleep (thus not maintaining an active lookout) we are underway illegally. Sorry. I am relying on my radar reflector being visible to the other boats out here maintaining their watch. And i am learning to tune my radar alarm so it doesn’t give so many false alarms. This has some risk, but fatigue has more. 40 to 50 miles off the Guatemalan coast, i was surprised to see two pangas that far out rigged for long line fishing (black flags on poles at each end of their line). Have to watch for them too? But i never saw more of them. Maybe it was their last set for the day. One of them offered to sell me a dorado, but i had caught a fish the day before and i don’t go fishing for more as long as i have some in the freezer, plus i would rather catch my own and i’m feeling increasingly cheap anyway. They did ask if i had any matches, so i gave them some.

When we departed Ixtapa, i started something new – i e-mail my noon position to Bud and Rhoda every day while Bud copies and pastes to me a weather report i can’t get out here. We add a few personal notes, i usually copy Tyler in. It’s turned into a high point of each day for me. Leaving Huatulco, the other new thing was stowing the kayak inside. I’ve really appreciated having the decks clear for sailing and not worrying about the kayak.

The Panama Canal is about 600 nautical miles away now. Can i actually poke my way along to it? I guess i started that leg today, by staying at anchor and catching up with sleep and tho’ts. These from a letter to a dear friend – “I'm tired, no make that TIRED of being alone. In that way, this trip is not what i imagined or want. Still i appreciate it deeply and am glad i'm getting to explore it/me. It'd be so different if i was doing this with someone. Then i think i would keep going. But i'm doing it alone and frankly i'm getting this adventuring thing out of my system. Or at least, adventuring alone. I can only take so much of myself. And i've a month or three left to find out how much (poet David Whyte suggests that arranging to get tired of yourself leads you to the change you seek.)… After this or the next chapter i'm comin' back into community! With or without Akimbo. For me, the best adventures are not solitary, they’re with loved ones.”