The next adventure

It’s blowing a hooley tonight: the palm trees swishing in the wind and window frames rattling, and I’m hoping it calms down before Saturday’s race.

Sue, Judy Rae and I were down at the boat this afternoon, doing final prep for the 90-mile race ‘round the Coronado Islands to San Diego. YIPPEE KAI YAY was tugging at her lines, her rig shuddering in the wind. She bucked like a bronca against the dock; eager to get out on the race course, and I thought ‘Even without sails she’s a fast mother** …’

We have an interesting sisterhood, based on our shared near-tragedy; and often reflect (sometimes silently, but knowingly) of the miracle of survival. Last weekend Judy Rae asked if Sue and I wanted to get matching tattoos – appropriately of the Maori symbol that was on the spinnaker we cut away. The prospect of having needles repeatedly pricked into my skin is disagreeable (to say the least) but I’m thinking Yes, I want to make obvious this bond we have: of love and strength and perseverance. It’s something to be proud of.

BECAUSE I CAN

While blow-drying my panties in a hotel room in Moorehead City one morning (everything got drenched in the storm-tossed transfer from the research boat to the Coast Guard vessel) I pondered how, as a boating writer (I do prefer the snappier European term “yachting journo”) I’ve had the opportunity to experience so many amazing things:

Climbing aboard countless research vessels – large and small, including one large leaky ship in the midst of an Atlantic storm;  meeting fascinating sailors (the Russian gentleman who finally invited me below decks in the drowning rain, and showed me his route – on a tiny globe-shaped pencil sharpener - stands out); banging up the coast in a Volvo 60; camping out in the rain at a Hobie regatta; backing a 65’ twin screw into its skinny slip; hiking through the Baja desert in (failed) search of beer; jostling for space among the entire Italian media when Giovanni Solidini delivered Isabel Autissier to port, after rescuing her in the Southern Ocean;  getting t-boned in a go-cart in Montevideo by Brad Van Liew; and oh belting out a song or two on the table tops in Cape Town, South Africa and fishing boat in Honolulu; skinny dipping beneath the stars in St. Maarten; and dirty dancing at an underground bar in La Rochelle, France …

But most interestingly, I’ve embarked on many of these trips and adventures not exactly because they’re on my personal “bucket list” but because -- as a journalist -- I should, and because I can.

I can swing onto an oil platform. I can bob in the Bay of Biscay with the French version of the Three Stooges, in the sloppy black darkness, and await the arrival of race boats; and I can jump in water soupy with chum, and await the arrival of sharks. I can spend three nights off Anacapa Island counting tiny endangered sea birds, and feed injured sea lions … and clean up their pooey cages. I can film on a One - Design 48 even though the crew is not so secretly hoping the cameragirl falls overboard (I don’t). I can be in charge of the life raft on a risky helicopter shoot off the north side of Molokai. I can spend the night shivering on a chase boat off Diamond Head, wrapped in fishy burlap bags. I can learn Dutch drinking songs while tuna blood spews on my new shirt. I can grind a sail in for the 20^th time in four minutes, only to blow the sheet as we suddenly jibe around again. I can climb on sinking ships, troll for a dead body, don a bulletproof vest for a nighttime ride-along with the Harbor Cop, and endure endless barfy days and nights on boats of all sizes, with all sorts of characters, who speak various languages that I do not; because I can.

Despite hip surgery, back surgery, and abdominal surgery (not even a year ago); despite numbing fears, impropriety, despite silly superstitions …  my life seems to hold endless unexpected opportunities; a regal red carpet rolled out to lead me to my next adventure. I step on, and begin my next, again … because I can!

 

 

 

Next up ...

I am writing a book. A BOOK!
Very excited, coming soon(ish) to bookstores near you ...
:-D

Stand by for lift off ...

I might not be upside down any more but 'it ain't over' -- the fat lady isn't singing yet.

For now I'm living in Seal Beach - a community nestled just beneath Long Beach, still clinging to its' small town feel. I'm starting to recognize people (and vice versa) on my dog walks along the boardwalk in the fresh (and brrr!) ocean air, know what time the mail comes, and learn where the good parking spots are. I'm beginning to settle in -- no surprise: I worked here in THE LOG offices 15 years ago!

Besides the multitude of friends I've been able to reconnect with since I moved back south (and reunions yet to come) I've got a whole new set of homies in my outrigger canoe hui. I joined the smaller of the two local clubs, Lokahi, but the bonuses are huge. 1) Kristen and her sister Erin are members here and 2) Kirk, my Santa Barbara coach, has a brother Keith who coaches here. It felt immediately like home - from the warm welcoming hugs of strangers, to the familiar features of Keith: he and Kirk are identical twins! Everyone is helpful, fun and encouraging; and today, despite my frustration in my sloppy changes, our steersman Ray kept it powerful and positive. I'm enjoying this a lot and I am feeling pretty strong ;-)

The ease with which things are falling in to place tells me I've made the right move. Do we need more proof? Holly asked me to work with her as first mate on a Sunsail charter to Thailand! Yup - in just over a month I'll be on a flight to Phuket, with seven amazing and fun women as guests on our week-long cruise through the Andaman Sea!

Moving on

I returned today to Carpinteria. God how I loved living there: a beautiful, small, simple town with all of three traffic lights. I loved the long sandy crescent beach where we'd search for heart-shaped rocks, and ladybugs that had lost their way ... the bleachers where we'd wriggle uncomfortably watching never-ending softball and basketball games ... lively hours spent at the farm with the goats, sheep, chickens and steers ... the green foothills fuzzy with mustard flowers and footed with lupine ... pelicans, seals, dolphins and whales splashing in the channel ... the flowers ... the dive-bombing hummingbirds ... mobs of kids skateboarding and riding bikes to the beach, with a surfboard tucked under one arm ...


It was past noon by the time I got in the pool, where Tamara and her three other water aerobic students were already jouncing around, and eager to hear about my journeys. I've experienced so much, it's hard to digest and summarize (in a time frame palatable to most modern day humanoids). "The world is beautiful. People are nice," I told them, in a nutshell.

Then I walked to the grocery store, joked with the produce guy about football teams (he is a big Raiders fan), got a salad, and stood in the longer of the two checkout lines to say hey to Lupe. I took my lunch and headed to the beach - my beach, at the end of Holly Ave (passing our old home - the sidewalks thickly lined with blooming jasmine) and thought hard.

'This is a healing place.' I remembered Lyndi telling me how the native people considered this little patch of shore and salt marsh cradled at the foot of an amphitheater of mountains, a place of restoration. And I had come here to heal. When I first arrived my goal was to be able to walk to Jelly Bowl (a rocky area at the far end of the beach, about a mile away). Then, with that mastered, it was my goal to walk to Jelly Bowl in an hour.

And now ... now I've sailed tens of thousands of miles (some in mind-blowing conditions); I've trekked for miles (lugging weighty groceries or other 'stuff' at times); I've scaled ladders made of saplings, ropes or tires; plunged off rocks and boats into rivers and seas and hauled myself back up a line off the back of a boat; climbed, crawled, zip-lined; rappelled, shimmied, slid, leaped, hiked, been vomited out of an alligator water slide; been shot out of a natural waterfall slide; endured a 100F-degree variation in temps, blasting heat, sapping humidity, frigid cold, rain, snow, hail and wind-wind-wind ... I would say it has healed me well.

As I sat on the end-of-season remains of the sand berm, thinking, staring out at the ocean and islands, I felt a tug.

'I think it's time to move on.' I've left and come back before, but this time I didn't feel the stickiness. Carpinteria has provided a wonderful home for the girls (Coco, Lani, and all sorts of other kids. I collect children like other people collect Hummels) and fabulous childhood memories. It was conducive to mending my broken body. It opened us to learning and exploring things we would otherwise have not. I love this place, I appreciate our time here ... but now it's time to move on.

I went to the softball game for about a half hour, saw more friends, watched Coco coach, then drove to Santa Barbara for beercan races with Helene. It was a cool misty night on the channel and the breeze that was gusting at pre-start died down to a whisper by the finish. It was a lovely, fun, only-in-Santa Barbara kind of evening and we deliberated my decision to move south. Helene tempted me to stay, with the potential to 'boat sit' on an awesome yacht.

I'm not sure if the pull of wanderlust will win out over the comfort and security of roots. We'll have to see.

addendum

March 20

We left San Diego this morning at 7AM (or so they say – I slept in until 8:30 …) The sun rose slowly too on this misty morning, but the seas were calm and welcoming. It’s nice to be back on my little slice of the Pacific!

Chewey has been following my adventures (since even before I left: when we had lunch and he promised “the ability to flee” – in the form of $$$ support - would always be available through him and other friends, in the event of a real screw-up). We talked about the potential dangers I faced and how you can’t always control your own destiny: you just have to pick a path and go with it.

The fog that rolled in and out, as we chatted our way north, was symbolic, I pointed out. “You can’t always see where you’re going: sometimes you just have to keep moving in what you think is the right direction, and have faith you get somewhere good ...”

“Unless you crash into something and die,” he countered. Always the optimist, that Chewey.

But the truth is, you can’t sit around worrying about ‘what ifs.’ I feel so fortunate to have had the chance to embark on this trip: for the adventures I’ve had, the opportunity to fortify my faith in people (and God) by the experiences, hospitality, and generosity I’ve enjoyed, and to have hung on and continued on my journeys and returned feeling on top of the world, instead of at a low. I'm thankful for so many ‘soft landings’ along the way, the magnificent places, the wonderful experiences.

In LA Harbor now, feeling so blessed, and so happy to be continuing on . Love, love, LOVE to all … Betsy

Right Side Up!

At 7:46 this morning (March 19) we crossed the border into the USA. I may not agree with all of our politics and policies, but having been overseas for six months I can definitely say I feel fortunate to have been born and raised here. God Bless America!

The last two and a half days from Turtle Bay, have also been a re-entry into cooler climes. The days and nights have been overcast, and chilly. All the long johns and thermals I’ve lugged through the tropics, leftover from my trip to the southernmost tip of So America, came in handy as I piled on the layers, the wooly socks, the Snoopy hat, the fuzzy gloves … My days of swimming daily, living in a swimsuit, are behind me for now, but other things are ahead.

We checked in with US customs in San Diego, then tied up at SDYC for l-o-n-g hot pruney showers and lunch, then moved to Kona Kai for the night. My fingers are still crossed that we’ll go to Fiddler’s Green for an early dinner, in preparation for our last leg to Los Angeles, tomorrow!!