Liquid Vibrations

Everything is liquid and vibrating, inside and out. So much water. Waves as tall as castles. They crash onboard with their fairytales. They toss Juniper up into the air or knock her rails down into the water. They tell Juniper that she will melt into the sea then turn into an octopus. Juniper likes the sound of that. She perks up and follows the wave that told her so.

My foulies are soaked through and through. Now, I just wear a bathing suit with my jacket on top. It’s the easiest thing to do.

We hang our wet foulies in the shower, beneath them is our trash, beneath our trash is our water. Next to all that is the head (toilet). You can imagine how peachy it smells in there.

Last night Josh was sitting on the head and a wave knocked him and the seat and the lid right off the bowl and onto the floor. There seems to be no way to fix its broken plastic parts, plus none of us can tolerate the stench in there long enough to try. Instead, we just brace harder now when we use it. Hugging the mast, gripping the sink. Hoping we don’t fall in or down.

I think that’s the hardest part of sailing for me. All the things lost and broken and stolen by the sea along the way. I don’t mind the lack of sleep or getting drenched as much.

The mermen are having a tough time with the conditions of the ocean and boat. They said that they are pretty miserable and exhausted out here. I feel awful for this. I didn’t know how much the ocean was going to try to get in. That it was going to fall in from the ceilings and prisms and corners and hatches and portholes and floorboards and cockpit.

I think, too, that I can get so hyper-focused on a goal that sometimes I can be careless or not notice how the people who are helping me get to that goal are feeling. How long have they been so glum?

I have offered to cover their watches so that they can sleep more, but they said it’s no use because they can’t really sleep anyways.

I feel terrible about another thing too. I was blinded by my upset over the blatant disregard to certain boat rules by one person onboard, that I have failed to fully recognize the rad things that they have done. And that has taken a toll on both of us. I’m trying to be better about this. Letting my bitterness about the resistance go. Not letting it seep into every interaction.

But sometimes I wonder, if I was a man, would I be ignored or looked at with disgust, if I said “Please only use water set aside for showering to shower.” Or “We need to all take turns cooking, here is the galley schedule.” Or “Wet gear stows in the shower or out on the lines.”

There is a lot I have to think about to keep the flow going out here.

At 3:00 pm today the jib aka Janice, ripped. I was asleep-ish when it happened. I’m not surprised. The waves would kick us so off course that she would luff in a violent fashion. I could feel her shake down to the keel and back. But we were flying high 6s and 7s, so I let the waves do with her what they must, during their brief and unwanted encounters with us.

When Josh woke me up to let me know about the rip, my eyes drooped with dreams. I was only halfway anywhere. Halfway here. Halfway there. Halfway somewhere.

The three of us furled the jib and hoisted the staysail, but we were moving slow like that. 4 knots tops. I proposed that we take down the jib and sew it. They agreed.

I was so groggy that I tried to drop the jib off the furler while still on a reach. I’m such an idiot. Of course I couldn’t get it down until I got the boat upwind.

It’s a 6 foot rip. Josh and I sewed and sewed and sewed until sunset. My fingers are bleeding. We hope to finish it later today.

I mostly use my staysail to point higher and gain speed upwind. I have never sailed with it on a reach, not once. But it ain’t too shabby. If the wind is strong enough our speed is over 6 knots. Plus it’s a mellower kind of ride.

I’m trying to sleep now, but the breaker for my running lights just tripped. I tried it again. It kicked the D.C. amps up to 40 and tripped again. I suspect salt water has done some of its dirty work.

From now on I’ll call salt water, Sirena.

Good night.

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