Sailing

  Five days of sailing treated me well.  We floated away on a breathless monday morning learning the ropes, literally, of sailing.  Soon the glassy sea turned ripply and we glided away on a breeze that only the sails could feel.  Four other students, mostly wealthy retirees, and I bobbed around on our yacht named Oceans alternatingly sailing and relaxing.

 

  Our skipper was a born seaman.  Even his eyes were built narrower than ours and the top eyelids squinted into a permant flap over his pupils that served as a visor.  Not once did he wear a hat, sunglasses, or sunscreen.  The rest of us wore all three.  In addition to looking like a seaman, he also acted like one.  Years of solo voyaging had filled him with innumerable stories but not the sense to know when and when not to share them.  Every night at dinner, whenever the conversation topic veered into his territory, the floor was his.  Our seemless banter would come to halt as he announced that, “One time, many years ago, of the coast of such and such island…”  and so on and so forth. 

  He had a knack for drama.  No fact was ever released offhandedly from him.  If you asked him a question he would reply with an, “ah,” and a raised finger.  Then his eyes would narrow above a suspenseful grin before he delved into an illustrating anecdote, when all along a simply yes or no would have sufficed.

  He was knowledgeable to be sure, but his knowledge, coupled with his arrogance really got on my nerves during the five days spent on a 42 foot boat together.  Though, I don’t know if I would have learned as much from a less arrogant instructor.

 

We had good weather for all but one rainy day.  We also had light wind, but our boat was built for racing, so the slightest breeze sent her on her way.  In some instances, a flower petal would not have been blown from the deck, yet the boat kept up a satisfying 2-3 knots.

  A couple times, we were able to put up a spiniker, which is a large headsail that spans the entire length of the boat.  I assigned myself as sail trimmer, as spinikers are tricky sails that need constant adjustment.  I sat back, jib sheet in one hand, winch in the other, and sagaciously let out or cranked in the sail, looking and feeling very important.  And how our boat would sail.  In just a few knots of wind we managed 8 knots, which is faster than many boats theoretical maximum.

  On the last day, we got our only bit of actual wind.  The water was white capping and our boat keeled over to its limits.  We all sat on the high railing to couterweight the lean, but the leeward rail was still dipping into the water.  The guys were smiling and the girls were grimmacing.  It was a ideal ending that left an pleasent taste in my mouth.  Sailing is great, but whether I could live on a boat is another story.

photo du jour

 

For Visual Learners

A truck bed liner for a place to rest.

Seattle wetlands

On our way out of Vancouver on bikes via the interstate

Blending in

A crocodile with shades

Where I live

 

A Thump

We went surfing yesterday.  The ocean was flat in the morning, but it picked up enough in the afternoon to lure us out.  The waves were sizable enough, buy they were sloppy and hard to catch.  I was having fun nevertheless, because I was feeling more natural on the water.  The ocean sensed this. 

  I had a couple falls where I was tossed around as if, to use the language of the sport, I was in a washing machine.  It was kind of fun though.  Once, I fell into the water backwards and was in a sort of upside-down squatting position underwater, and then a wave came and sent me into backflips in that position.  I surfaced smiling and got back on my board. 

The next wave came and I don’t quite remember what really happened, but I was thrown around.  I was underwater, waiting for the tumult to pass, when a long blunt object thumped me in the face.  It didn’t hurt right away, but the impact felt skull cracking or nose breaking so as soon as I reached the surface my hands were checking for damage.  I pulled my hand away from my nose and it was full of blood, so I figured I’d head back in.  When I reached the beach I sat meditatively, checking my face for cuts or breaks.  Thankfully, my face was still in shock and I was able to play docor before the pain arrived.

  The board hit me across the top of my nose and under my eye, so I was trying to tell if my nose may have been broken.  The trouble was that I knew nothing about broken noses.  I didn’t know if the cartilage breaks, or the actual bone.  Either way, I decided that everything was intact, because my nose seemed straight, and the bone wasn’t excessively tender.

  Britt and Damien came in soon after and we walked back to our house.  I took some drugs and started icing my face, but the swelling was inevitable.  I kept icing until I went to bed, but overnight the swelling continued unabated and I woke up with a big puff invading my eye.  When I blinked I could feel my eyelid having to force it’s way out from under a big flap of skin.  When I looked down or left my vision was obstructed by my overgrown eye-socket.  I think I may get a black eye.  I’ve never had a black eye before.

  It’s the fourth of july here.  Can you guys believe it, the Ausies don’t celebrate our independence day.

 

The beginning:

For lack of a better way record the last two weeks of travel, I’m going to simply copy my journal entries, because they will provide the most lucid account of what I did.   I will, however, edit or omit certain words, sentences, paragraphs, or entries that I prefer not to share.  Otherwise, I don’t think I could keep my journal honest if I constantly feltlike I was writing it for an audience.  But even with the editing and omiting, this whole process feels very gross and indulgent.  Even this very confession feels stained with narcissism.  So read up while you can.  I don’t don’t know how  long I can do this.

 

June 10,

Mom dropped my off on I-25 and after an hour I was worried I wasn’t going to get a ride.  I was about to walk to another exit when an old Pontiac stopped with two youngish guys.  They made a small amount of room for me in the back and I climbed in.  They took me all the way to Casper, though I was uncomfortable the whole way.  My goal for today was to get beyond Ceyanne, so the day is already a success, but I’m going to try for a bit more.

…End of the line.  I’m in a divey bar in Sheridan Wyoming, which is much further than I expected to get today.  I got a ride from an ex-marine cowboy who listened to country western music.  No matter how many the man, they all listen to cheesy country western music here.  At one point the driver said, “Alright, enough of this shit,” and changed CDs.  But the new meloncholy heartfelt ballad was indescernable from the last.

The driver dropped me off in the middle of nowhere.  I still didn’t feel like calling it a night, so I walked up the interstate with my thumb out.  It was cold and windy and I didn’t feel hopeful with the cars wizzing by at 80mph, but 40 minutes later two guys and a girl gave me a ride to where I am now.  It’s still early and I’m thnking about getting a hotel.

…I’m in bed now.  Or at least a semblence of a bed.  I’ve rolled out my bivy in a boggy field next to a creek and the interstate.  I tried meditating, but failed.  My mind simply won’t focus.  I thought this trip might be different in my overall attitude.  It is a little, but I still find mself lamenting my situation, longing for comfort, and changing plans.  Who is this “myself” that I keep finding?  He’s ruining my life.  He needs to be abolished.  Anyway, one of my selves has decided to head to Seattle and I’m going to follow.  I’m on I-90 right now, and If I follow it to the end, I’ll land in the Puget Sound.  I may get a hotel room or two along the way.  One with HBO.

 

June 11,

I’ve gotten to know Shridan pretty well by now, having walked through and around it several times.  I was even inducted into official bumdom by a true transient with mssing teeth and everything.  He yealled down to me from a crevice in an underpass.  He came down and said, “If you hadn’t noticed, I’m camping up there.”  “Yeah, I noticed,” I said.  He wanted to know if I had heard of some bum gathering, and I said I hadn’t.

I couldn’t get out of this town, because a state patrol warned me that hitchhiking was illigal in Wyoming and put my name in the system for future apprehension.  I said okay, thank you, no problem, sure thing, then I went to another on-ramp to hitchhike from.

This failed.  I don’t know why people wouldn’t pick me up.  I was giving them the opportunity to add some excitement to their lives.  I could have been the story they told at the dinner table that night.  I was even trying different looks to appeal to different people: The Eager, The Forlorn, the sitting-reading-intellectual-with-his-thumb-out-but-couldn’t-care-less-if-he-got-a-ride.  None of them worked so I caved and bought a bus ticket to Billings, Montana.  I may do some more hitchhiking, but I see more busses in my near future.

 

…Montana is Beautiful.  It’s green, open, and rolling.  I arrived in Billins and went straight to a bar.  There were the first pretty girls I’d seen since leaving Boulder, but I was too intimidated to talk to any of them.  I talked to a stranger outside on my way out.  He was smoking a cigar and gave me the rest of if when he went inside.  I felt like royalty walking back to the bus station smoking my big fat stogie.  I talked to some ordinary folk outside the station while puffing my nicuraguan tobacco.  I asked the questions and let them vent.  Everything seemed like a struggle to them.  I’ve got it so easy.  My life is care-free compared to 99% of the world.  I’m Heading to Misoula, though I’m tempted to head staight to Seattle.  I feel like I have to challenge myself somehow, because my original plans were so lofty.

 

…Where did I leave off?  Ah, yes.  The bus broke down and we came back to the Billings bus station.  I slept on the floor and then had a complimentary breakfast.  I’ve been in the bus station 12 hours.  I’m taking the bus all the way to seattle now.  I’m too damn exhausted to hitchhike anymore.  I want to fall in a bed and sleep for days–or four days.

…I’m on the bus now, but wish I wasn’t.  I’m really kicking myself for not hitchhiking through this part of the country.  On top of that, I lost 18 hours sitting in a goddamn Greyhound station.  Oh, well.

 

June 13

Traveling is great, but being places isn’t.  When you don’t have a life somewhere, it’s hard to occupy your time.  I could call it boredom, but it’s probably more akin to innactivity.  There’s not much more I can do other than walk around looking into used bookstores and reading in coffee shops.

 

June 14

I went to Sarah’s graduation today.  What a factory a University is; churning out thousands of [allegedly] rational and critical thinkers.  It’s funny how perfuctory everyone gets about graduation by the time they’re done.  Growing up, a college degree is exalted as the one thing that will make or break your life.  But four years of academic pummeling transforms gradiation simply into the end of school, not the beginning of adulthood.

 

June 18

Miles and I are having coffee right now on Granville Island overlooking the water.  We slept on Wreck beach last night.  I was very comfortable and slept soundly.  A guy came can talked to us around 5am and warned us about police coming in the morning, which was nice of him.  Then he picked up our lighter from the ground and asked if he could have it, which really bothered me.  I was trying to sleep, but he kept talking to us and stealing our lighters.  We managed to wake and pack before the cops came down.

 

June 22

I’m on a plane to New York, and these Delta bastards are stingy.  If I had know my second bag would cost $25 extra I would have flown with a differnt airline with free check-ins and more than a handful of peanuts for the in-flight meal.  The stingy bastards also only gave me a small cup of ginger ale.

Nobody could believe we were visiting Vancouver just for visiting’s sake.  It’s as though we need some excuse like a wedding or a funeral.  When we walked across the border, the police asked, “why are you coming to Canada?”  We told them and they left for several minutes.  They came back and asked, “So… WHY are you coming to Canada?”  We told them again, and they seemed satisfied enough to let us through.  Even when we talked to locals, they seemed surprised that we would come to Vancouver for no other reason than to just come to Vancouver.  I guess if you’re going to vacation somewhere, it’s got to be warm and sunny for it to make any sense.  Leaving the country, our car was pulled aside and searched.  The border patrol asked, “What were you guys DOING in Vancouver,” trying to understand our trip.  Whatever, I’m moving on now.  It’s New York tonight.  If I can make it there, I can make it anywhere.

 

June 26

So, I’m in Australia now, though on in the airport.  As soon as I got my bags and out of customs, I went straight to Brumby’s Bakery.  I knew I wanted some coffee, bus as for what to eat, I couldn’t decide between the bruffin or the scroll.  I went with the bruffin.  I have two more hours until my bus leaves and then three more hours to Byron Bay, and then my two weeks of travel are over.  I can’t believe it’s only been two weeks.  It feels like a year ago that mom dropped me off on I-25.