Eternal Sundays

As featured @ Ho’onalu Voyaging

Sometimes Sundays are reserved for that which is sacred. Sometimes Sundays are for being savages. Sometimes Sundays are for cleaning, brunching, and being squired about. Other times, Sundays are beyond the definition of a day, leaving you with the feeling that you touched eternity within the illusive framework of time. Today was all of those Sundays. It was eternity and it was serenity and it was savage. And, aside from it being Sunday, it was a totally normal Ho’onalu day in the life. 

I woke up feeling, with every cell in my body, the sensation of being alive. Slightly bruised, sore, and still tender to the touch, I traced the aches back to the wave, the surf, the spill, the reef. Worth it. 

I then slowly took inventory of my surroundings. I was in my cozy cabin, the port aft cabin on the Sv Wild Thing. Through the hatch, florescent clouds against a crisp blue sky suggested sunrise. Tranquil turquoise wavelets outside the port light revealed our stealthy lagoon location. And the light breeze of the alizés (trade winds) carried effervescent hints of Pacific Ocean mist.

The deserted landscape before us was a blank canvas. Uncharted lagoon waters surrounded the boat. Coral heads bloomed from the shallows, filled with secret labyrinths and fish of all shapes and sizes. An alluring hoa lay directly east, one of many tidal waterways connecting the lagoon to open-ocean. And flanking the hoa, narrow strips of land, called motus, looked like foreboding thickets of resilient plants, relentless insects, and pearl farm ruins.  

We were on a homemade coral mooring in the French Polynesian Tuamotus. Comprised of 77 atolls, this watery wilderness is an expansive stretch of sparse, untamed terrain. 

Atolls are the geological remnants of barrier reef that once surrounded prehistoric volcanoes. Over time, the towering landmasses eroded, baring the calcified bones of the earth to be inhabited by those who dare. Elevated just above sea level, the motus form a rugged ring of land, intermittently punctuated by hoas and passes. Inside the ring is a salty lagoon; outside is the open-ocean. 

Waking up in such an exposed place on the planet, anything felt possible. Moreover, it made the most normal things feel out of place. To my delight, a french press of coffee was on the chop block when I emerged from my cabin. Thanks, Lando. Kerstin greeted me with a sweet Bonjour, topped with a sun-kissed smile. Bailey, in her element, was making preemptive maneuvers to capitalize on the incoming squall by rigging up the rain catchment. And, before the morning got swept away, as it sometimes does, Brian strategically executed a jovial general announcement, thus initiating family cleaning day. 

Unlike the tedious Saturday morning chore routine I would carry out as an only child, I’ve come to cherish our boat chore ritual. It’s a time of playful productivity, a kind of salty sweaty satisfaction that comes from many hands making light work. Together, we run through the gamut of salon tidying, settee situating, galley de-greasing, cockpit scrubbing, head deep cleaning, and, of course, bean bag fluffing. By now, it’s a synchronized dance to a well-known soundtrack and simultaneously an ever-evolving orchestration as dirt-levels, dynamics and duties are always fluctuating. 

On this particular Sunday, I found myself spot cleaning the chart table, an area I usually avoid due to the daunting spread of switches and knobs and wires and gauges. However, since first stepping aboard Wild Thing, the subtle nuances of her anatomy are starting to make more sense. I understand the numbers and percentages displayed on the battery monitor— they’re correlated to the time of day, the strength of the sun, the positioning of the boom, and the exposure of the solar panels. These numbers tell me how much power we have to work with, if I can run the dry vac or start the water maker or charge my computer. They also indicate if we’re drawing unnecessary energy somewhere on the boat, which usually means a glitch, leak or inefficiency within another system that needs to be addressed. 

As for the switches and knobs and such, I’m slowly learning their purpose. By now, I know the sailing instruments, deck light, and party light buttons by muscle memory. And, the more I engage in the equation of raw energy, sailing systems and their direct influence on my life, like how much water we have to consume, the rest is starting to make more sense. 

So, as I carefully cleaned between the tiny synapses of Wild Thing’s switch board, I felt an air of gratitude rather than overwhelm. For all her systems are our lifelines. And the more I align myself with those lifelines, the more connected to life I become.  

Similarly, the systems of my own body have become attuned to those around me. For example, if I’m hungry, someone else probably is too. Prompted by hunger rather than the hour, brunch time struck. So I heeded the cue to transition from boat love to crew love. Comprised of papayas in dire need of consumption, a rack of bananas gifted by a friendly Tahitian captain, and the precious remnants of our Hawaiian provisions, I created a Persian-style breakfast bowl. Each bite was a sultry experience upon the pallet. Seemingly decadent in comparison to our deserted paradise, the combination of fresh fruit, salty pistachios and ceremonial cacao felt like a sacred convergence destined for a Sunday. 

Before I knew it, I was being squired about the lagoon. Kerstin stood behind me, paddling up wind as I sat cross-legged, clutching my pole spear and dive gear. Unfortunately, the squiring was counter-productive, so I abandoned ship and swam the rest of the way to where Brian had already tied up the second paddle board strapped with a fish bucket. 

Spearfishing in the calm shoulder of an atoll was new terrain for me. I had been spoiled by the crystal clear visibility, bold depths and profuse pelagic life of the passes. Zero gravity was easily reached at those depths, while here in the eerily murky shallows I was struggling to keep myself down. I could only see about 10 feet in front of me. Blacktips went unnoticed as they cruised by and coral bombies revealed themselves as large, dark, ominous underwater objects. But once I adjusted, I started to have fun. I played hide-and-seek. I hunted for secret honey holes and heavy rocks to hold myself under. I ended up spearing 1 uhu and 2 tiny apai. Brian, on the other hand, slayed a heavy kito and 7 substantial tero. I’ve got a lot to learn… 

… Including proper gutting and filleting etiquette. Thankfully, Brian is a thorough and patient teacher. And he’s got tricks of the trade from what seems like lifetimes of experience to share. Today he showed me how to scale an uhu with my barehands. Savage. I tried. But my lady fingers paled in comparison to his bear paws. So I finished the job with a fork. 

The day in the life just kept reeling. We got to be spectators for Landon’s spontaneous motu-man triathlon. The sunset blew our minds, yet again. Brian cooked a gourmet dinner, yet again. Featuring the day’s fresh catch, we feasted on kito sashimi a la Emma tempura. And as darkness fell, we were bestowed with a cool breeze that swirled around the boat like a silky cocoon. 

Today was one of those days that felt like a single moment stretched into eternity. There were no pauses or lulls or distractions that pulled from presence. Life never stopped. It kept unfurling from one engaging activity to the next. Though not so different from any other day, it was enlivened with the luster of a Sunday. It was simultaneously sacred and savage and serene. It was a proper Ho’onalu day in the life, an eternal Sunday.