3: Underway

​Day One: Today, I was sprayed with shit. Yes, people poop. Welcome to the shit show.
 
We spent the night our first night aboard Rapport in the La Conner Marina, around the point from the boatyard.  After lowering her into the water, the mechanics checked systems and discovered that the reason the propeller had a “funny” noise was due to a transmission issue. Heading out to sea and the San Juan’s with an under-powered transmission was not advisable. The recommendation: motor to the marina, winter over, and get the transmission rebuilt. As we motored out of the boat yard, instead of heading to the marina, Kent headed out to sea. We each took a turn at the helm, letting log storage, breakers, Goat Island and Hope Island slip by and turning at the channel to Deception Pass. Kent pronounced the transmission good enough to travel. Sylvia and Connor cheered and bumped their hiking trip. We returned to the La Connor marina to begin to chart courses.
 
The next morning, we ran our final errands, filled our water tank, and decided to empty the holding tank while we had the opportunity.  Sylvia stood at the switch. The hose stretched across the dock to Kent at the outlet on Rapport. The pull of the hose threatened the suction on the outlet.
 
“Hold the hose,” Kent said to me. I picked it up to relieve the tension. He affixed the hose to the outlet. “Okay,” he called to Sylvia who flipped the switch. Over the noise he mutters, “I have never done this before,” as the power blows the hose off the boat and shit sprays at me.
 
More startling was the cold hose. With a bottle of Dawn, and Connor manning the hose, we washed my clothes on me. It’ wasn't not a lot but when it comes to people poop sprayed down your side, not a lot is more than enough.
 
Day Two: Now I remember, it’s not the seasickness that’s my problem, it’s my fear. We sailed peacefully through Deception Pass and entered Rosario Strait. We unfurled the jib, attached the halyard, and raised the mainsail—all from within the cockpit.  The sky was grey. The sea was grey. The wind was 20 knots on the beam, and we were sailing at a good clip of 8 knots. No sounds but the ocean. Not feeling the wind under the protection of the dodger—with all the systems there is little cause to leave and head out on deck. There are more lines than I remember, and brakes and buttons for auto-winches and reefing. I may have learned a little then, but I know nothing now. And it’s not just the language of sailing that is unfamiliar, it’s the motion. The wind bellows 30 knots, the boat heels, and I am consumed in panic. I fear the motion of the boat in the water, the way some people fear the motion of the horse. I am able to release control on the horse therefore it stands to reason I can do this on the sea as well. But not on this day.
 
A blast of wind and the boat tips wildly. I lean across the cockpit to the rail. Sylvia tips her face into the wind. Kent assists Connor at the helm to turn a bit into the wind. The boat levels slightly. I ease my grip and move to a high point on the boat.

I see the delight on Sylvia and Connor, and this is Connor’s first time on any boat. That this does not come naturally does make me wonder if it’s possible I can allow this motion. Can I truly inhabit this sailboat? Really, I am scared shitless.
 
“Maybe Mom you should take an edible, and we can lash you the mast, and you can listen to John Denver on headphones, and then you will love the whole sea experience.” Because it’s not possible to listen to John Denver, and not feel as if you are in some Pollyanna universe. It could work.
 
It’s been exactly thirty years since I truly inhabited a boat. So long ago I don’t remember lines and wind directions, but close enough to have an imprint. I recall the placement of things: silk blouses in the foc’sle closet waiting for the next job interview in my post-college life; my stacks of shoes: heels for navy dinners, sneakers for running, Tevas for the beach; my desktop computer for resumes and letters sat on the dining room table. I remember the top-down fridge and the labeling the tops of cans so I could find them stacked in the cupboard. Here on Rapport, there is plenty of storage, but we have to structure the space, find the best movement. We stow food and trash bags and glasses and plates and learn the flow of the space. We bought a straw basket to hang for fruit. We discover the sink really heats up underway so it’s good storage for the still-partially full coffee press. Or I think, a pie.  Everyone is on board with the pie idea: anchor at day’s end and eat warm pie. We settle into our habits on this boat: eat, sleep, sail, reside completely on board.
 
Day Three: Wind is 30-40 knots today. Kent decides that for the long-term success of his wife remaining on board that Rapport remain in the harbor in Anacortes. The sun shines, the wind blows, and we wander about town, and purchase another down layer. And I think I am already failing: We should really be at sea. It’s days like this that people have sailboats and we are in safe harbor. 
 
I have not found my sea legs, nor sea heart nor mind. Sylvia and Connor are at ease. Kent is totally in his element. And I’d rather be in the mountains. I embrace the lessons from the horse: I can expand my comfort zone. Turns out that skydiving reference was an apt one. I have fear to confront and there’s no mind-changing at sea. I have to commit but it’s more than the commitment, because it’s more than mental. I want to do more than inhabit this space physically. Skydiving I could get through, and I was able to experience moments of joy, in the absence of control. I have to turn myself over to something larger than myself: something I am capable to do with skis, and on a horse, but the sea adds a new element. At the helm, I begin to sense the ever-changing contact with the sea and the wind, much like contact with reins and leg to the horse. Be quiet within, and allow that conversation.
 
Tomorrow, we head out in lesser wind and a lot of rain. We will put up the sails and hunker down under the canopy. I am going to put on my poop shirt, find my sea legs, have heart, and let go of the rail.

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