In Thailand, a group of divers plans to release sharks into the wild September 3, to help reverse and spotlight the decimation of the species. It seems ironic, considering “Jaws” mania has only increased over the years. But the fact remains: although a handful of people around the world will die in shark attacks each year; sharks are slaughtered in the millions, by humans ...
The Pacific Voyagers had arrived in LA; a majestic fleet of Polynesian sailing canoes – ‘vakas’ – having journeyed all the way from New Zealand! With twin amas 75-feet long and thick wooden spars, they look as powerful as the burnished crews who sail them – tugging at the massive steering paddles, hoisting the blood-red sails.
Thirty miles south Sea Dragon had picked up a mooring can in Newport Harbor. Equally impressive – and nearly as long – she’s a sturdy but elegant modern steel-hulled cutter rigged sloop, designed for round-the-world racing. (In fact: it is a reunion for this yacht and me, as I did the web coverage for the 2000/01 Global Challenge and greeted her and her sister ships into seven ports around the world! A touch of déjà vu embraces me.)
Despite their different appearances and venues however, they come bearing the same environmental message.
Duncan Morrison, skipper of Haunui (the pan-Pacific vaka – 15 island nations are represented among the fleet) tells how they left Auckland and saw very little refuse ... a tiny bit more as they neared the equator ... and then, just north of Hawaii, the deluge began. Every 10 meters – 2,000 miles from shore – there was plastic trash. Refillable lighters and disposable razors. Plastic cups and bags. Bottles. Closer to shore, acidification is destroying the coral reefs. Their bilateral cultural/environmental mission calls on people to unite and halt our careless ways ... before the ocean becomes a lifeless sea of debris.
Aboard Sea Dragon, they do research on this type of debris, and skipper Dale Selvam shows me a kaleidoscope of plastic fragments in a vial. Trolling the five oceans (for Five Gyres/Algalita Foundation) they skim the seemingly pure, crystalline waters of the distant seas ... alas their fine mesh net is cluttered with chunks and particles of the partially degraded plastics which now saturate the waters. Yes: our oceans are plastic chowder.
Despite the apparent differences there are more similarities: both skippers are Kiwis. ‘In New Zealand we’re raised to take care of our home,’ says Dale. Neither was an environmentalist – or ‘tree hugger’ as he calls it – before embarking on their eye-opening expeditions, but having seen what they’ve seen, neither one cannot image returning to existence as it was before.
The people I’m meeting, opportunities I have, and work I’m doing are mind-boggling. Life is moving at such a breakneck pace, I need a helmet. It’s invigorating, compelling, stimulating ... and a bit consuming. Transcribing and researching 'til 1AM, interviewing, shooting, working 24/7 – I am beat.
But I am blessed. What a thrill to be able to make a difference in this world – even if only conveying the good works, challenges and needs of others, while ‘double-dipping’ my way around the world, using my Sailing gigs as a vehicle to drive Ecology.com stories. Last month I was working in Belgium, next month it’s San Francisco, New York and Annapolis. And from there (fingers crossed) the agenda continues at a blistering pace: San Francisco, ‘Statia, Guadalupe Island, Belize, Grenada ...
I adore the people I meet, the stories I hear, the passion in the voice of an individual following his dream or pursuing her mission. Friendships are made, networks are woven. After much talk and a beer, Dale and I discover we have mutual friends in England (Valeria), Peru (Andy) and Uruguay (Alejandro). The world feels small, and with that realization, our problems no longer seem too great to tackle.
Look for stories from me on Sea Dragon / Pangaea Expeditions and the Pacific Voyagers, on Ecology.com and Sailing magazine, soon.
On another note: our favorite bow monkey, Jeff ‘Sneddog’ Sneddon, slipped from this earth this morning, after a long and incredibly valiant fight with cancer.
Jeffrey was a close friend and playmate – he taught me much about working the bow on big boats, including how to yell just as loudly and vociferously BACK at someone who is screaming in your face (with great joy and laughter!). We were friends on and off the water, and later when he met and married Sharie, she became a friend (and a Nauti Chica) too.
I was fortunate to spend a chunk of Friday night sitting next to Jeff, holding his hand, whispering, “Remember when (giggle giggle) ... ” as I retold ‘oh shit’ sailing tales and reminded him how much he was loved. What an incredible blessing that is, to have the chance to say goodbye to someone you love. I can only say: TAKE IT, when it is offered to you! It was an incredible gift to me; a reminder how sweet life is, and that the honey is not the places we go or the things we accumulate, but the loved ones we share them with.
May God welcome you with loving open arms Jeffrey. (They have amassed one heck of a sailing team up in Heaven, is all I can add ... )
It’s been a while since I blogged – and I shouldn’t even be up writing tonight, having been scolded righteously about burning the candle at both ends. However I cannot but live life at 120% (hey – THAT’s a compromise!!) so I promise more is to come, as the fullness of life explodes in front of me. XOXO
California was an expanse of limey green swathed with mustard, ‘til I got over the Grapevine. Then it was ... not hideous, not pleasant; just ... benign. It wasn’t my eyes, but my nose that sensed the divergence in the atmosphere: from truck fumes, to earth whipped up by dust devils; from pungent manure, to the glorious honeyed perfume of blossoming orange groves.
I kicked on the cruise control and blew up the freeway; cruising along the "5" under cornflower skies. The Central Valley was the color of toasted whole wheat bread - and about as flat. It was warm, and so dry, my hair stood on end, glued, by the static electricity, to the ceiling of the car.
Around mile 300 I started to see signs of life: at least more life than just the sticky orange bug splats plastered to my windshield. Soon I was in Stockton, my stop for the night on my way to the conference in Clearlake.
Just two weeks ago I was on another such expedition. “Road Trip!” The simple phrase conjures up a wild patchwork of images and thoughts: travel, adventure, new sights – sounds – flavors - experiences. We had our share of these ... plus tedious passages through monotonous stretches of road striped with lanky pines and swamps, entertaining only because of the moronic billboards defiling the way; of spats over speed limits and tunes (when it comes down to rap vs. elevator music – country becomes the common denominator, although it was a treat hearing Dad ‘croon’ to the oldies). We were charmed by southern cities like Charleston and St. Augustine, and dined in pubs, fast-food huts and seafood havens; we sniffed (and snapped off samplings of) the blooms of spring, craned our necks at lighthouses and steeples, shopped for treasures (‘small’ being the optimal feature, in the cramped car) ... hunted for alligators and cheap accommodations; and watched gas prices climb while the trees grew bare -- as we crept steadily north.
Mom and I chatted up vendors at the markets. Coco and I broke into hysterics fashioning fart-y noises, under the high-pressure hand dryers in the rest stops. Dad sang (I will mention that I got inherited my Dad's voice, which is not saying much. At one point Coco asked, 'Who sings that song Opa?' to which he replied, 'Peggy Lee.' 'Let's keep it that way,' she retorted.) At night we pulled into tidy hotels and unloaded everything from the car: luggage, suit bags, coolers, electronics ... One night Mom, tired of carting around a jug with the last two inches of vodka from the Florida house, transferred it into a small bottle of OJ for easier transport. Unknowingly (so he says) Dad drank it for breakfast. “The orange juice was a little zippy,” he remarked. We didn’t let him drive that day ...
Each night we played cards or watched TV until everyone collapsed (except for me – who insisted on wifi and worked well into the early morning on the book). Then we started all over again each after breakfast: rotating through the positions in the car – from front to back, straddling coolers and gear – taking the driver’s seat, or the prime napping location: shotgun. By the time we got to Donna’s (after crossing the expansive Chesapeake Bay Bridge and Tunnel) we were eager to stretch our legs, and enjoyed a long weekend of Little League games and Ballet lessons, dog walks, restaurants and pubs, before the final stretch home.
All in all it was a miraculous experience; three generations laughing and loving and exploring the Eastern Seaboard.
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