Since When Are Things Impossible?

My knee-jerk reaction was, “I’m honored, really, but I can’t. There’s no possible way.” 

To which he responded, “I hear you, but since when are things impossible for you?” 

We’d only been in Fiji for two weeks. We hadn’t even left Savu Savu Bay yet. There was an entire liquid territory to still explore. My captains and fellow crew were depending on me. I’d planned on staying for Kerstin’s birth in a few months. That, and, the country was still shut down. There hadn’t been a flight out in over a year. Besides sailing, there was literally no way out. 

“Just do me a favor and sleep on it,” he requested. 

I courteously agreed, told him I’d call back the next day, and hung up the phone. 

Thick, syrupy rain drizzled from the sky. I could barely decipher the etching coconut fronds onshore, just 100 meters away. There was a thatched cabana tucked in the bush that I wanted to explore one day. It looked unattended and inviting, a perfect destination to enjoy a morning coffee or evening apertif. 

Resigning to the rain, I rested my head against the cockpit wall and closed my eyes. Although I was tucked under the bimini, specks of water bounced off the deck and onto my legs. But I didn’t mind. They felt like gentle taps from a source unknown. 

That night, as I’d given my word, I laid down with the invitation to sail from Hawaii to Alaska. Despite the literal lockdown of the country I was currently in and the departure date of said voyage closing in on two weeks, I respectfully explored the idea. The first thing I encountered was my mind, which said “No, no, nope, no way, not possible, uh uh.” But I knew better than to base a decision solely on the mind. So, I breathed the buzzing energy from my head down into my heart, where it swirled around for a bit. Once settled there, it started to expand. This surprised me. So I continued to observe. As the sensation in my heart expanded, it spread across my chest, almost like a smile. It felt light and luminous and exciting. I took note. 

The next morning, out of all due respect to the authority of my heart, I informed my captains and crew about the opportunity that had been presented to me. I told them everything, that it was logistically impossible, but I was considering it. While I was met with as much surprise as I had myself experienced, there was a tinge more disdain for the idea on their end. I understood the sentiment and accepted the kickback, for I was breaching an agreement we had all made together, that I would stay aboard and attend the birth, which was still three months away. 

This was the hardest part for me to grapple with, even more so than the illogical nature of what I was considering. I believe our words are sacred. They are a direct expression of our truth, when spoken intentionally. So when I give my word, I’m giving a part of myself. I was taught when I was young that it’s quite rude to take gifts back. Going back on my word caused a major conflict of values– those I was nurtured and conditioned with vs. those that comprise my natural core. 

My core is as raw and crude as molten lava. It fearlessly paves its own path and yields to no one. It’s intrinsically aligned with natural sources and forces and is calibrated to the same rhythm that sets stars free so they can fall into the sea. My core is my heart. It burns when transforming pain into wisdom, like lead into gold. And it lights up like a beacon, benevolently buzzing when I set my gaze upon a path worth pursuing. My heart is always true. It may be raw and crude and sometimes rude, but it never lies. This, above all, this pure expression of truth, I value. 

Following the beacon of my heart, I pursued the path of sailing from Hawaii to Alaska in two weeks time, which required somehow getting out of a locked-down country. My modus operandi for a heart-directed investigation is usually as such: take one step forward. If I meet resistance, then pause and reconsider. Or, if my step takes me through an open door, keep going. 

After our crew meeting, I called the U.S. Embassy in Fiji. That seemed like the first logical step to take. I really don’t even remember who I talked to or what I said, but it was a swift exchange of information. 

The next day, I received a call back from the embassy. The representative informed me that I had been placed on the first repatriation flight departing Fiji in over two years, which just so happened to be scheduled on my birthday. That day also just so happened to be a few days shy of the proposed weather window to raise anchor in Hanalei. That day ALSO just so happened to be a new moon annular eclipse. 

Doors were flying open. Stars were aligning. My heart was propelling me into destiny…

Albeit alight with the air of destiny, my heart still seared with the pain of letting go. We had just arrived here. This boat was my home. These people were my family. We had sailed thousands of miles together, endured squalls and storms and shitshows that were only acceptable due to the elevated reality we reached when operating in harmony. I cried a lot during those last couple of weeks aboard, allowing the truth of my tears to be proof of our love. 

The day of my flight, I hired a taxi to take me to a hot spring nearby the airport. I enjoyed the morning soaking in mineral pools of varying temperatures and rolling around in all-healing mud. Afterwards, whilst still on the family-owned premises, I was invited to join a picnic– a birthday picnic. They squealed with excitement when I told them it was actually my birthday too, and ushered me over to a big blanket adorned with flowers and a feast. I offered the auntie-of-honor a pearl from French Polynesia and she made me promise to come back to Fiji one day so she could give me one of her famed weavings.  

Standing in line outside the airport, I felt awkward being around so many Americans again. Everyone was speaking English. And they all seemed to know each other. One fellow turned to me and said, “Some party last night, hey?” I shrugged and told him I didn’t know what he was talking about. “You’re not with us?” he responded. “Umm. No, I don’t believe so,” I replied. As I explained my situation, he grew more curious. “How did you get on this plane? There’s a waitlist of thousands of people that have been trying to get out of this country for over two years. We’re all the cast and crew of Survivor, the first wave to be repatriated.” 

So, somehow, I slid onto the plane with a bunch of survivors and flew across the international date line and the equator just as the moon was eclipsing the sun so that we landed in L.A. on the morning of my birthday (again). 

Our plane had landed a bit late, so I had to sprint through hallways and cut through lines at customs with a surfboard and dive gear bag flanking my sides like wings. By the time I got to the front desk of Delta, it was too late. I had missed my flight to Kauai. No. This can’t be right.  I pleaded with the attendant. But she was merciless. “The next flight to Lihue isn’t until tomorrow morning, ma’am.” But I have to make it. I have to make it before the clock strikes midnight! For some reason, it felt very important that I get to Kauai in time to celebrate the remaining hours of my birthday on the island where I started this whole journey one year prior. 

I scratched Delta from the itinerary and scored a seat on United, which was leaving LAX for LIH in just a few hours. As I approached the check-in desk, I was asked to show my blue wristband. “Where do I get one of those?” I asked. “Over there ma’am, at the COVID-19 test result kiosk. The blue wristband allows you to enter Hawaii without having to wait in line upon arrival.” So I walked up to the kiosk and confidently handed the official-looking woman my Fijian COVID-19 negative test result. “What test is this? I don’t recognize it.” After explaining my situation, she informed me this was not a Hawaii State-approved test and thus I would not be issued a pretty blue wristband. 

Back at the check-in desk, wristbandless, I was told that they’d let me on the plane, but likely Hawaii would send me right back. If I wanted to guarantee admittance, I’d have to forgo my flight, stay the night in L.A., get a HI-approved COVID-19 test, and try again tomorrow. My choice. 

Ten minutes to touch-down, I had my plan all sorted. I would just tell the truth. It was the Aloha State afterall! And I was still a legal resident. They’d understand and surely let me in. Yes. The truth shall set me free. That’s a good plan. 

Five minutes to touch-down, I started looking around me. Everyone except me had pretty blue wristbands. My mind went back to high school, sneaking into parties by exchanging wristbands with friends. Maybe someone who has a legitimate test result would give me their wristband. They’d just have to stand in line, but they’d still get in. But I didn’t want to put someone through that or jeopardize them getting in trouble on my behalf. So, I resigned to plan A: tell the truth.

Then, three minutes to touch-down, I saw it. A little sliver of blue was peaking out of the seatback pocket in front of me. It was the same shade of blue as all the pretty wristbands. I reached forward, grabbed the Dasani water bottle, and pulled out the key to my destiny. There, wrapped around the miniature plastic bottle, was a band of blue plastic that slid around my wrist as smooth as a glass slipper. Just walk with confidence, I told myself. You’re not hurting anyone or putting anyone in danger because you legitimately tested negative, I reminded myself. This is all on you. Walk at your own risk. 

With a heart buzzing off the richter scale, I stepped forward, straight through the sliding glass door into the plumeria-infused air of Kauai (with two hours of my second birthday to spare and countdown 72 hours untill raising anchor for Alaska).