Single-handing

During the season of spring here in the Southern Hemisphere, I’ve been single-handing a 30’ monohull in the Society Islands archipelago of French Polynesia. Single-handing wasn’t something I set out to do. It wasn’t a childhood dream of mine or something I ever really considered. But since nature has a way of orchestrating the optimal environment for life to evolve, and I am indeed a product of nature, the opportunity to captain the s/v Ajax called me forth with an air of destiny.

The call came through a soul sister who had an unattended boat in need of tending. She couldn’t be present and I happened to be voyaging in the general vicinity, about 250 nautical miles ENE in the Tuamotu archipelago. When she presented the proposition, there was an undeniable magnetic pull— an instant internal response of yes. But it seemed a little crazy. So I slowly, patiently explored the idea. I took a few tiny steps forward in pursuit of this potential, and sat back to observe the biofeedback.

Like a spectacle before my very eyes, the stars began to align. Signs and synchronicities lit up the darkness of the unknown, illuminating my path forward.  They shimmered with a resonance stemming in my cells and directed where and when to step next. Step by step, details fell into place with a grace as whimsical and wondrous as a meteor shower. Meanwhile, the dots connected like constellations, revealing a celestial treasure map hinting at discoveries to come.

Within a few weeks I slid straight from the stern of the s/v Ticket To Ride onto those of the s/v Eimata Va’a in Fakarava, which delivered me directly to the door of the s/v Ajax in Tahiti. I located the hidden keys, unlocked the hatch, and opened the door of my own destiny.

I’ve been told that the edgy novelty of single-handing softens after the first couple months. Or, maybe it’s a year? It’s all perspective. Think of it what you will. From the outside looking in, I could have looked like a single woman sailing the high seas of the South Pacific “living her best life.” Or, I could have looked like a wind-swept, salty damsel in distress, doing dicey shit she shouldn’t be doing solo in foreign waters far, far from the reaches of mainland rescue means. From the inside looking out, I was all of it, depending on the moment.

High highs and humbling lows.

Ebbs and flows.

Troughs and peaks.

Calm alizés and menacing maramus.

My life morphed into a mélange of elemental information too complex to be calculated by the brain. Oftentimes, there was no time to think. So, I bypassed the brain and let my primal instincts navigate the present moment.

I’ve yet to birth a baby, but I imagine captaining a boat is a lot like caretaking a newborn. You’re always on-call, attentive to each tiny creak or subtle sway or whimper of the wind, and you’re tuned in to some kind of superhuman nature that activates keen senses and affords tenacity and strength and bends time and burns the midnight oil when all you’ve got left is fumes.

While I’ve been living aboard boats for the past few years, everything shifted once I was the one— the only one— in charge. Left alone to make my own decisions and entertain my own devices, I dared not dream because each moment was magnified by an omniscient lens of perspective. Presence folded in on itself and unfurled into eternity. Because everything I’ve ever done, everyone I’ve ever met, every lesson I’ve ever learned led up to that very moment and influenced my ability to respond to it. Simultaneously, my chosen responses caused a ripple effect into the environment around me. Sometimes, I swear I could peer overboard and watch the wavelengths of my actions coasting on the conducive surface of the sea.

Each moment became the apex of existence, charged with accumulated potential of the past and surging with momentum into the future. And because nature is our purest reflection, the sea state mirrored the coherence of my mental/emotional/physical state with brutal honesty. Actually, ninety percent of the time, it was blissful rather than brutal. Only when I was resisting a facet of reality, or rather, rejecting a part of myself, did the conditions get rough. Even the slightest stray from transparency resulted in discomfort.

The repercussions of inauthenticity incentivized transparency, to being true in each moment— true to myself and my surroundings. In sailing we use the terms true wind and apparent wind. True wind is the detectable, measurable angle or speed of the wind as it meets us where we are. Apparent wind is the angle or speed of the wind that is created as we move. True wind is what it is. We can’t change it. Apparent wind is what we make it. We have a choice in how we create it. So, for me, as a single woman single-handing a small sailboat, I learned to decipher the difference between the reality at-hand and the reality I was creating. I had to accept life as it was. For, it was a series of my own choices that led me there. And, from there, I had to make choices, knowing well that I was responsible for my own reality. In simple terms, I had to face the facts and act.

This translated to taking precautions like religiously checking the weather and double-checking each knot or diving the mooring to tie an extra line in preparation for the forecasted maramus (strong SE winds). Because if I didn’t, I’d not only be jeopardizing myself, my friend’s boat, and the harmony of the environment around me, I’d also be compromising my peace of mind. While “peace of mind” didn’t necessarily equate to peaceful sleep, it did help me rest assured that I did everything in my power to be and do my best.

I may be over-exaggerating or portraying this experience through a dramatic lens, but that’s what it felt like. Single-handing felt like the sweet, salty, searing edge of life. Swelling with beauty more bountiful than my meager mind could contain, I cried tears of joy to replenish the ocean for all the gifts it bestowed upon me. There were moments I savored my sovereignty and also those I felt very alone. There were days filled with jaw-dropping discoveries and sunset solo dance parties. And there were nights when I prayed for either the anchor chain or day to break, save me from feeling trapped within the self-inflicted foreshadowed forces of nature.

Alas, the only true saving grace was acceptance. Regardless of the scenario I found myself in, I had to accept that I chose it. I chose to be here, on this boat, at this particular place on the planet. And if I didn’t like the scenario, I could choose to change it too. Once I got caught in a storm because I didn’t heed the forecast, and while I could have fled, it felt more apropos to surrender than scramble.

As an intrinsic part of nature, storms serve a purpose. They put everything standing in their path to the test of true integrity. They kick up the dust and divulge secrets and dismantle unsustainable structures. If we can accept the process and allow nature to run its course, then, in due course, balance is restored. The upheaval was a necessary evil, or, perhaps, a blessing in disguise. Storms are nature’s revolution— her lack of tolerance for disharmony.

Whether I was weathering a storm or not, I owe tribute to the helping hands that supported my single-handing. Yes, maybe I could have done it without Didier’s dinghy escort into the carénage for the first time; or Marcel giving me the coordinates to his secret mooring for safe refuge; or Manu teaching me how to flush my outboard motor after the annex capsized in high winds, or Estaban’s unrelenting encouragement, but it wouldn’t have been the same. And I don’t think I would have remained sane. Because the moment I started thinking I was crazy, or having thoughts like who the hell do I think I am?, the sailing community was there to remind me: Yes, you’re crazy. We’re all a bit crazy… because you have to let go to embrace life out here. When I was worn and torn and on the edge of demise, they redirected my defeats and doubt into a sense of confidence sourced from intuition, instinct, and our intrinsic navigational instruments. For, it’s these senses that got us all here and will continue to guide us onward.

When I signed up to single-hand, I had no idea or expectations for what this reality was going to be like. All I knew was that it felt right. So, I went with the flow. And that flow turned out to be a confluence of many divine appointments. I met with people and pelagic life and parts of myself that were ready to be realized, refined, resolved. And the best part was, I didn’t see any of it coming, because I had zero expectations. Each moment was a surprise arising from the purity of presence, but familiar in a way that only destiny can ordain.

As the earth revolves around the sun and the Southern Hemisphere spring blossoms into summer, I’m realizing that what I really signed up for wasn’t single-handing, but evolution. And because nature has a way of orchestrating the optimal equation of elemental ingredients — and I am an elemental being — solo stewarding a sailboat in the South Pacific just so happened to be the perfectly curated conditions for me to evolve. So, in moving forward, I trust that nature will continue to evolve and it will likely invite me along with it, and I’ll likely say yes. Because I know I’ll be able to navigate the journey as long as I stay true.