the journey

Top to bottom: Barcelona airport, Annie & Eric, waiting for our 400+lb of luggage to arrive; view of Barcelona from the old bull fighting arena (now a mall); on the final leg of the journey - cheese, sausage, baguette & wine on our 7-hour (!) train ride to Cartagena

Hola España!

Oct 14 2:21AM

 

I want to burn my clothes – the clothes I have been wearing nonstop the last 34 hours as we traveled from San Diego to JFK to Barcelona to Cartagena by plane, subway, train, and finally taxi –  requiring two taxis, as we were schlepping our weight in luggage, and transferred it so many times, I felt like Sisyphus: in and out of terminals, up and down elevators, and the lofty steps of trains (gladly off the Barcelona Sants platform which was scurrying with what must be GMO cockroaches – they were so huge and peppy); eight massive, stuffed bags plus heavy backpacks each. Finally we are on El Gato tucked in the yacht marina in Cartagena, the boat looking fantastic but all else swallowed up in the black night. Cartagena is supposed to be a beautiful city and I expect we'll see a bit of it provisioning and prepping for our departure Thurs.

 

My mood's a little more sober than my journal entry Oct 12 when we began our trip: "Approx. 9pm somewhere over the mid-Atlantic enroute to Barcelona I can hardly contain myself in seat 20C; finally on my way to Spain!" But still, yes: excited, a bit anxious, eager to see my surroundings when the sun rises in a few short hours.

 

WED MORNING UPDATE

Cool drizzly night, we all slept in til 9+ (9 is all I'll admit to) getting a first glimpse of Cartagena.

My cabin is AWESOME- big V-berth, windows on both sides of the ama so great ventilation, plenty of stowage, and (drum roll please) my own desk and chair!!! My home for the next month is awesome.

Busy day of provisioning and stowing for the weeks ahead; leaving for Gibraltar (1 ½ days) tomorrow (Thursday. I am 9 hrs ahead of PST) we think – if all chores are done and weather window stays open.

xo

Time to throw off the bowlines ...

"Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover." - H. Jackson Brown

UPSIDE DOWN SUMMER. TAKE 2.

FADO. “Fate,” in Portuguese.

There could not be a more apropos word.

Fado is a mournful genre of music; I have long listened to – adored – the music of the Great Fadista

Cesaria Evora. It has been my muse, and comfort, during long hours of writing – when spurred by the somber melodies (but not distracted by lyrics, as she sang in Kriolu - a mishmash of Portuguese and West African) I have typed. And typed. And typed.

And now: I am sailing to Sao Vicente, the island of her home (tho’ she’s passed), in the Cape Verde Islands! My God, I even fly out of Cesaria Evora International Airport when I leave!

It is an overwhelming sense of destiny. 

I have dreamed this dream into truth.

‘Much like I dreamed Africa into my reality. For years I had my African library. Every book by and about Isak Dinesen. And then her husband. And then her husband’s lovers. And then her lovers. The neighbors. Kinsman. My library grew – 40 books: an obscure obsession for a Californian. Yet I collected everything I could – current, and antique – of British East Africa.

And then one day, I flew: on assignment, to Cape Town, crossing over the throbbing body of Africa at night:

APRIL 12, 2001:

We fly over exotic places I dream to visit. The bulk of France, the Pyrenees, the sainted walk Paulo Coelho writes of. Spain, Majorca, the Med.

We slice through Africa: Algeria, Niger, Cameroon, Congo,  Angola, Namibia. Hopefully at the light of day I will be able to spy the great savannahs and deserts, before we land in Cape Town.

Beneath me, in humble farms and gracious estates, sparkling cities and crowded huts, perhaps in tents and shacks and even some just bedded beneath the starry sky – thousands will sleep as I drone overhead. Maybe one or two will notice the flashing speck in the sky as we float over Africa. Will they wonder about me in this distant plane: who I am, where do I go, why? Will it even pass through their thoughts for a fleeting moment? Any more than their presence in the sand below tickles mine?”

Fado is a song of destiny. It’s a song of the sea, of poverty – not just monetary, but poverty of spirit. Resignation. Melancholy. Sinking into a longing – “saudade” – that is perhaps, never sated.

And yet mine, always is.

What a blessing.

Testing

Testing, testing, 1, 2, 3

 

www.ultimatesailing.com

Another flashback ...

Another 'replay' of an older dispatch. I like this one ;)

" ... I was at the tail end of the trail ride, eating the dirt of the preceding horses: 20 clip-clopping hooves stirring up the chalky loam on the track to Rainbow Falls in the Eastern Sierra. I rubbed my tongue over the grit covering my teeth, as the rolling, tumbling clouds of dust blocked the guide from my view ... "

Read the whole thing HERE

Making whoopee

Reprinted from my WackyWahine blog  6.16.2008

Making whoopee

It was bound to happen.
Considering my ambition to get in the water if I’m near a get-in-able body of water that, in particular, I’ve never been in before -- the Indian Ocean, St. Maarten’s Great Bay, the Sarapiquí River in Costa Rica and several beaches in Mexico come to mind, along with more recently the Tuolumne River and Pinecrest Lake -- my 'toe in the water' dogma has finally caught up with me, fostering a little souvenir I never intended to take home: a colony of single-celled parasitic squatters whose common goal is to ‘party hardy’ in my small intestines, while creating copious amounts of gas.
Yes, I am a walking-talking whoopee cushion ... continued