Fourth quarter blues

The year is nearly over and here I am: sitting upstairs of a casket factory, in Paraguay, watching the incoming rainstorm swiftly flood the turbid ground. My exciting adventure (my big mid-life crisis) has gone awry, and I don’t know how to get it on track – or even what that track might be.

Four days ago I arrived at the outskirts of Asuncion (the capital of Paraguay) where Marie and JP have given me the warmth of their friendship and the luxury of having a place to land and clear my head. The flat is comfortable, for sure – with great company, big bright windows, my own room (with a big cushy bed), internet, good food and drink (including unlimited coffee ;-), and the utter bliss of air conditioning.

From our upstairs perch, the verdant landscape and lazy river look peaceful, but that is just a veneer … you cannot ignore that this is South America’s poorest nation. In fact, this country is rife with corruption, pollution, poverty – and with that, crime (yet despite this, some truly delightful stimulating people I have had the pleasure of meeting). It is a dichotomy, of rich and poor; of beautiful and abundant natural resources … that are blatantly contaminated with trash, chemicals, and industrial runoff; of an ancient culture of native people … who barely subsist hand-to-mouth; where a horse-drawn carriage pulls up next to you at the stoplight and cows lumber along the sidewalk and it costs $1US to have your tire changed. Above the drone of the rain and tumble of thunder, Marie and I talk -- about how you can love and hate Paraguay all at once; for me, the bleak future of this country and the people is sorrowful.

Marie has brought me a cocktail and small dish of eggplant in garlic as a precursor to lunch, and after that, a brief siesta. For now, we watch with humor as the dogs romp through the swamp; laugh at the giant toads as they shuffle around; and contemplate the magnificent storms that roll through, obliterating the view of Asuncion in the distance. We listen to the animated songs of colorful birds; look for monkeys and pumas in the surrounding greenery; and wait for the rain to fill the river so that DOMINO can sail away …

More pix here

The Kindness of Strangers

Yesterday morning I watched the snow flurry in big fat flakes that tumbled down on the streets of Ushuaia … today I awoke to birds twittering cheerfully in the balmy morning air of Buenos Aires.

How I would have loved to arrive in this cosmopolitan city looking chic and alluring (or at least clean) instead of in the jeans I bought four weeks ago, which hadn’t yet been washed, along with the layers of well-worn thermals and woolens. I am looking a bit savage these days, with broken nails, soiled clothes, work boots, sparse makeup, and my hair wildly unkempt. UGH!

Nov. 5 - I have been living on a moored boat in the scenic anchorage fronting Ushuaia, where I enjoy a spectacular view but also a very splashy RIB ride between the yacht and the dock. Hence my standard attire (two pairs of socks, long johns, jeans, three or four shirts, vest, hat, gloves) is complimented by my red foulie jacket, to ward off the icy spray. Whenever we go to a café or parrilla, I have to find a spot in the corner to strip down to a maneuverable number of layers; then pile them all back on before we head back out.

Besides being most generously free, my accommodations aboard the 37' sailboat are sturdy and humble: sort of ‘floating bachelor pad’ meets ‘automotive shop’ with a dab of ‘grocery store’ thrown in (as the captain is provisioning for his trip to Yendegaia). I’ve been sleeping in the v-berth on a very firm but comfy cushion where I can stretch out beneath an old sleeping bag he unearthed, which I believe belonged to his dog Jack (deceased three years ago) based on the aroma.

The boat has the most awesome heater – in the head (and I can only spend so much time there!) However the shower isn’t set up in the tiny bathroom, but instead in the small ‘pilothouse’ in between the companionway / galley and the cockpit / outside. I have yet to endeavor standing in my birthday suit in this frigid cuddy while providing a full view of my increasing pallor to 1) any occupants of the boat and 2) the entire population of Ushuaia …

Nov. 6 - Despite the hour (2AM), my appearance, and my personal ‘bouquet’ Viviana and Willy greet me warmly at the regional airport and bring me to their home in the north of Buenos Aires. I am once again overwhelmed by the generosity and kindness of strangers … Viviana and her family became friends’ of Holly’s over 40 years ago, in Seal Beach, and fortunately for me these ties have remained strong. They are the most delightful family, with a daughter Mora (23) and son Juan (18) both in college, and three dogs – including a two month old Rottweiler puppy! This has truly been a soft landing: to stay with such a bright, interesting and loving family ;-) If nothing else, this journey has reinforced my priorities: a reminder that appreciating what you already have is just as important as discovering and falling in love with something new.

Much love to you all!

PHOTOS: downtown Ushuaia; local YC and anchorage

Sh**fight in the Straits of Magellan

Where do I begin? It was a good trip south – mixed conditions, a good chance to get familiar with the boat and the way things are done onboard … We hove to for nearly 1 ½ days for what we thought was our ‘big blow’ of the voyage; then spent a couple of days battling our way against winds from the wrong direction to get to the Straits, and thought we had a good window to arrive (timing things to have favorable currents). I will write more on this, once the reality sinks in.

Serge says you can experience all four seasons in one day in Tierra Del Fuego. We had snow, and sunshine, dolphins, and fog. And then, about 36nm from our destination – after 10 days at sea – we got hit with a 30k blast. No biggie … Then sleet. And then, the wind started to climb. Hi 30s … low 40s … high 40s … low 50s … 60s … Serge was on lookout in the cuddy (enclosed – thank God) and called Stephen up. ‘There’s something strange …’ he said (although in his French accent it sounded more like ‘Zere’z sumzing stuh-range ahed … ‘ J ). A white squall. Legendary. Stephen says he’s never seen one before … well we got a lifetime’s experience with white squalls on this one and I hope to never see this again as long as I live.

The wind blowing so hard (70k) the water was smoking (and earlier, I discovered, so cold that it froze before it hit you), The seas grew to into rolling mountains of blue green, with so much spray, there was a halo of white across the horizon. A white squall anywhere is a sh**fight … in the narrows of the Straits of Magellan, it was a nightmare. But one thing I noticed … in the spray flying off our leeward side, was a constant rainbow. My Bible-reading friends will recognize this as a symbol of God’s promise … as I did. The failure of any one thing could have screwed us up – had the staysail (furled to the size of a string bikini) or main (reefed down 4X) blown, any sheets or halyards parted, ‘Mr Perkins’ (the engine) stopped, etc -- we would have been up a creek without a paddle. However: kudos to Stephen and the rest of my mates, not only for keeping their heads on, a close watch on all systems, and excellent crew-work; but ALSO for having worked so darned hard to prepare this boat, ‘The Fat English Girl’, so she held strong. So we are very fortunate, and thankful !!!

The white-out conditions finally paled to gray, to clouds, to patches of blue sky, and the wind tamed down into the 20s. We made it to Barranco Amarillo, a small fishing port just north of Punta Arenas, just before dark (long days here in the south). Docking the boat was a work of art – we half expected an audience on the docks, applauding our arrival. We were very content with hot showers, steaks and wine aboard, and a good, long sleep.

More soon, but for now: we are safe & sound, at the bottom of South America. Probably in port longer than expected as the entire boat will have to go through checks – rig, lines, sails, etc – before leaving P.A., which is a pretty neat town (with an internet café – YES!!) Thank you all for your thoughts and prayers, sending much love to you all.

PS Sorry about the dodgy photo display I cannot get FB to take my downloads

THE FREEZING POINT OF MASCARA

Before I left California I stopped at the drugstore for some last minute necessities. ‘Like mascara, razors, and Bonine – for seasickness; although taking Bonine in the Southern Ocean is akin to fighting a forest fire with a squirt gun. ‘Full of Jello.

I dawdled over the selection of mascaras. So many kinds, colors, brands …  Did I want ‘fuller’ lashes, ‘thicker’ lashes,  or ‘longer’ lashes? ‘Clump free?’ And as I wandered a whole wall of cosmetics, the question that seemed to arise – much less than ‘Who needs mascara in Antarctica?’ – was instead, ‘What IS the freezing point of mascara?’

I entertained the thought of calling my blog “The Freezing Point of Mascara” … either that, or ‘The Freezing Point of Dish Detergent” (do you know that dishwashing soap congeals at low temperatures??) but both are ever-so-unglamorous and sexist at that, so I stick to the Upside Down Summer.

"OH SHIT!"

Sept 11 2009

Stephen has offered me these first few days off anticipating what he SAID was jet lag, but what he really knew would be this “OH SHIT!” disoriented state I am in.

I awoke not with the expected thoughts of, “Where am I?” or “What time is it?” – but with absolute doom, wondering, “What the hell am I doing here and why is it so damned cold?!” I am thousands of miles from home, in a %#&$! freezing stone shack, working full time on a boat, about to embark on an utterly insane venture of sailing to Antarctica. I must have lost my fucking mind.

So Thursday morning I slept in with the covers over my head to block out the sun, the whitewashed stone walls, the thatched roof, the smell of gasoline that permeates the piles of junk stored in the loft. Finally I surrendered and got up, and hung out all my clothes (contemplating whether I have to worry about poisonous Uruguayan snakes, as I plod across the yard to the wobbly clothes line …) The day is brisk but sunny, so I expect everything will be dry by the time I get back from the marina. Stephen came to fetch me (see if I was still here?) and walk with me down to the boat.

At the shipyard, XPLORE (AKA “The Fat English Girl”) is propped up on her keel and a cradle made of logs. To get to her deck you climb up a ladder made of planks pretty firmly nailed across two long tree trunks. Considering how much I enjoy heights (NOT!) this alone is a challenge for me, and visions of my twisted body lying in a heap amidst the paint tins and scraps of wood haunt me for days. I hold on tight.

But the boat is in excellent condition, and extremely comfortable down below. I have my own cabin all cleaned and ready for my move-in, although we are not allowed to live on board until the boat is back in the water. (Hence our stay at La Casa Muy Frio.) My cabin is on the port side forward, just behind one of two large and commodious heads (but we do NOT have a holding tank, I am pleased to hear, so nothing stinky below) and I have two bunks: one for me, and the other for storage or as our guest list demands. I decide I will sleep on the top bunk, which is a very cozy looking pipe berth with extra padding, a duvet and pillow. I figure sleeping as high as possible above the water line will be less refrigerator-like when we are in glacier strewn ice water. In addition to the bunks I’ve got four milk crates on some shelving, which will house all my worldly possessions. I ponder the need for a mirror on the wall …

There’s a carbon copy of my cabin across the hall, and two more just aft, that sleep two or three. Then the nav station, companionway; galley and main salon; and two cabins all the way back for the skipper (Stephen) and the first mate (Audrey). XPLORE really is a gorgeous boat, and I am eager for the day we can move aboard and I can consider her my home, as I think this will ease my transition. I’m approaching the coming days with optimism – not quite excitement yet, but that will come.

The Upside Down Summer (or Winter - depending how you look at it)

Sept 10 2009

I arrived safe and sound in Montevideo, after an uneventful flight (*with the exception of sitting on the on the tarmac at Panama’s international airport, watching my bags lay out in the rain -- hence arriving drenched). Customs/immigration was a breeze even though my bags were stuffed with parts and gear; and after taking the scenic route home (thanks to some road construction and questionable navigation on the part of my welcoming committee) we got to the cottage and I settled into my loft. The Casa is pretty rustic, by familiar standards, but has about everything you might need … a kitchenette, nice bathroom and hot water … but no heat! Even though Piriapolis is nearly the same latitude as Carpinteria, it is MAS FRIO (more cold!) being that Carpinteria is in the Northern Hemisphere and enjoying the waning days of summer; and Piriapolis is in the Southern Hemisphere, clinging to winter.

Subsequently I have decided to call my blog The Upside Down Summer because ‘upside down’ is how I feel. It was still summer when I left (replete with sunny days on the beach, barbecues, swimming) and here it is barely hinting of spring. It was hot, here it’s frigid. I was doing ‘intellectual’ work as a writer; and now physical, even menial, labor fills my day (and a long one, at that). There, I was connected -- online and on the phone all the time; but now my phone doesn’t work, and I have little time or internet access. Truly I feel disconnected: from friends and loved ones and all things familiar and desirable. My whole life feels like I’ve taken a big 180-degree flip-flop, and my head spins with the thoughts of everything I have left behind and everything (mostly unknown) that lies ahead. So that’s it (for now): the Upside Down Summer.

One last point: I admit it is also a nod to Eduardo Galeano, the famous South American political/historical writer who wrote many years ago The Upside Down Book, in his inimitably quirky prose. A native of Montevideo (where I landed) I acquiesce to his talents and seek him for inspiration. If I can provide such a window on life as Galeano does; then I am truly blessed.