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Trials
Eight Tahitian Dads
Afloat again, Swell and I rush to meet an Aussie filmer to finish up the footage needed for the Dear & Yonder surf film. After a jam-packed ten days spent tracking down waves together, I settle back into life on the sea: My lagoon swimming pool shimmers each morning; I enjoy open-air showers on the aft deck, the chilly air in my refrigerator, and sleeping under the stars without mosquitoes buzzing. The new wind generator boosts the amount of power to the batteries, so now I’m able to use the lights, fridge, stereo, and computer without hauling out the portable gasoline generator every evening. Plus, I have the freedom to sail again.
I decide to see parts of Tahiti I haven’t yet explored. It’s time to face the wave phenomenon at Teahupo‘o. Professional surfers fly in from around the world to challenge themselves and hopefully ride through one of its enormous round tubes.
There is a swell on the way and after building my skills surfing reef passes, I’m ready to give it a shot. I’ve seen the photos, and part of me wants nothing to do with its menacing thick lip, ledgy takeoff, and shallow reef, but another part of me—that slightly insane part—knows I can’t sail away without at least making an attempt.
I spot two masts in a small fishing marina, as I steer Swell into the calm waters of the Teahupo‘o lagoon between the green and red markers. A man in a single outrigger canoe with a surfboard across the front guides me around the coral heads of the shallow entrance. I hop to the bow to tie on dock lines and throw out bumpers, then back to the wheel to spin Swell 180 degrees into the premier Teahupo‘o parking spot.
Fishermen gathered near an ice house stare from across the marina. A crowd of young Tahitian girls gather at the end of the dock watching curiously. I wave and smile. They wave and smile. The fishermen raise their beers. The girls go back to playing. It’s Saturday afternoon in the quiet little town at the end of the road. The opposite side of the marina hosts a colorful lineup of local fishing boats. I introduce myself to the girls, then hop on my bike and pedal over to make sure it’s okay to park Swell here at the dock.
“‘Iaorana!” I offer, skidding to a halt with my bare feet as brakes. The salty-looking Tahitian fishermen of ranging ages are sitting on crates, car hoods, a cooler, and a rusty-wheeled dolly. “O vau Liz.” (I’m Liz.)
For a moment they’re silent and I feel a wave of shyness coming over me.
“Eha to oe huru?” (How’s it going?) a large, jolly one asks.
“Maita‘i,” I reply. “E oe?” (Good, and you?)
Clearly amused by my effort to speak Tahitian, the white-haired veteran sitting on the cooler pulls out an icy Hinano for me and scoots over to offer a seat. I sip the icy refreshment and answer their questions. Where did I come from? How long will I be here? Need any ice? Or fish? Alone!? Then be careful on the street at night and lock up your boat, they warn. Come let them know if I have any problems. ‘Aita pe‘ape‘a (don’t worry), the dock is free. I soon have eight new Tahitian dads watching out for me. I stay for a while and listen to the rugged group joke and tell fishing yarns.
“Māuruuru! Anānahi!” (Thank you! See you tomorrow!) I call to them when I pedal off to check out the rest of the neighborhood.
The thundering sound on the outer reefs makes it impossible to sleep that night. I toss and turn with visions of the punishing lip and jagged coral below. At dawn, after a bit of nervous puttering, I reluctantly pull out my 6'4" and load into the dinghy. I wave goodbye to my Tahitian dads as I head off across the lagoon, talking myself through a strategy.
I idle the dinghy in the channel, scoping out the sets and the dynamic of the crowd. The cloud cover gives the surf a gray, angry look, as wave faces suck up and heave into cavernous water cylinders. The sets look manageable, though. It’s only a couple feet overhead at most. I spot a few familiar faces that I’ve seen at other breaks, so I tie up to the buoy in the channel and paddle for the lineup.
I sit wide for a while to get comfortable and observe. And then, “This one, Liz, go!” one of the guys calls.
I paddle hard and get under it, grab my rail, and lock into backside three-wheel drive, bracing myself for disaster—but to my surprise, I make the drop and launch out the end.
That wasn’t so bad!
Soon my fears have diffused and I paddle confidently across the lineup during a lull to greet the others with the customary local handshake.
“Liz,” calls another guy I know. “You have a pa‘a ihu ... caca nez.” He signals to me with a grin, putting a finger to his nose to demonstrate where my booger is.
I quickly wipe it away and burst into embarrassed laughter. None of the other guys I’d greeted had bothered to tell me. I learned then, and again, that Teahupo‘o always keeps you humble.
Trust the King
Sunrise in the Teahupo‘o marina two weeks later finds me in a downward dog pose, staring at the grass growing out from the cracks in the rotting wooden planks of the dock. I’ve made progress in the lineup, especially thanks to a local waterman who has helped me catch waves during my recent sessions. After yoga, I make a cup of tea and scan the reef. The swell is the biggest yet, and I can see Raimana’s boat tied to the buoy near the wave with half a dozen smaller boats trailing behind like baby ducks.
I load up and head over, but I’m deterred by a funky morning bump and the thickest crowd I’ve seen yet, so I attach my dinghy to the row of boats and lay back under my pareo, thinking about my most memorable big-wave sessions in other places: the heavy wipeouts and long hold-downs, scratching for the horizon when a set appears, duck-diving through the face of the first wave with open eyes wondering what’s behind it. And patiently searching for the right wave, because there’s nothing like the sensation of skittering down a water mountain. I both love and fear big waves, but Teahupo‘o is on a scale of its own.
The crowd has thinned and the conditions are glassing off. The sets look frightening, but Raimana’s presence makes me feel safer. A handful of guys paddle back to their boats, so I decide to go out and try to catch at least one wave. The sun breaks through the clouds as I make it to the lineup with the five remaining surfers. I luck into a small wave to warm up, and turn to see Raimana dropping into a beauty on his stand-up paddleboard. He pulls into the gaping tube and flies out near me in the channel.
When we arrive back at the lineup, he calls me over and directs me to sit just deeper than him. “You ready? Relax, take deep breaths, it’s okay.”
I feel surprisingly calm already. Soon a set rises out of the deep blue. The line of water stacks on itself and someone paddles for it. When the second wave approaches Raimana calls out, “Heeeeeeeeeeep! Hold off, guys! This is you, Liz. Paddle, go, paddle hard! Toward the reef!” I dig my arms into the water, totally committed. I get in easily. Drop. Roar. And in another instant, I go launching out the now-familiar exit ramp.
“Good,” he says as I paddle back out with an uncontainable smile. “Now come here again. Sit here. I’m gonna push you this time. A bigger one.”
What have I gotten myself into?
“Let’s move out and a little deeper. Yes ... a little more ... a little more ... Okay, here.”
I can’t imagine how we are going to catch a wave sitting here, but I’m certainly not going to argue.
“Don’t worry, babe, you’ll get in early,” he coos.
This is a rare moment with Raimana’s attention, the small crowd, and the beautiful conditions. I have to embrace my chance.
I’m poised, every cell in my body tingling with anticipation. Finally, it comes ... The sight of it takes my breath away. A beast of a set sucks the water off the reef and stands up before us.
“Okay, now, this one! Hey boys, hey, it’s Liz. Okay, girl, turn around, paddle past me to the inside. The inside! Now go, go, go!”
There’s no backing out, and no time for fear. I have to make this drop or the wipeout will be horrendous ... I put my trust in Raimana, put my head down, and paddle like hell.
He follows closely behind me, and when the mass of water starts to pitch, I feel his hand press firmly against the flat of my foot. With a strong shove he launches me into the wave. I could never have caught it on my 6'4" without his push. I rise to my feet and go cascading down the slope of water, gripping my rail for dear life. I barely make the drop, then accelerate across the enormous blue wall. One false move could mean the worst wipeout of my life. The wave releases me and I skitter into the safety zone, giddy and grateful to have escaped without punishment. I wasn’t quite in the tube, but the size, the rush, the vision, and encouragement ... I’m hooked!
There’s a Hole in the Bucket, Dear Liza
Between the excitement of surfing Teahupo‘o and my crew of new friends here, I’m in denial—the time left on my visa is ticking down, and there is water in the bilge again. I keep coming up with reasons to explain why the automatic bilge pump is cycling from time to time: It’s been raining? Maybe there is a leak in the sink foot pump? The toilet pump? The water tank? I finally shine my light back into the spot under the engine and see a dribble of water coming from the same area that had been leaking before. I want to cry and vomit and stomp my feet, but instead I sit down with a large bag of cookies and munch on them slowly until they’re all gone.
The leak is indeed still leaking. I must have been so busy with the filmer and surfing, and so sure that it couldn’t possibly be the same problem, that I didn’t even acknowledge the occasional sound of the pump. I motor a few miles west and tie off to a mooring that belongs to a dynamic French couple with a lagoon-front home just across the way. I met Georges and Marika when I arrived in the area, and sure hope they meant it when they said to come back if ever I needed anything. I need a home base while I sort out what to do next. They welcome my return to their petite paradise by the sea, spilling over with fun, creativity, and aquatic toys.
Over dinner together, Georges recommends a knowledgeable boat guy, who comes out to have a look a few days later. Pulling off the doors to the engine in preparation for his arrival, I’m surprised to find the head of a nut lying in the engine pan. I shine my flashlight around and see that one of the port motor mounts is cracked again. I can’t comprehend it since I’d replaced both mounts in Panamá City. But I unbolt them completely, and when the expert arrives we use a halyard to lift the engine up enough to have better access to the leaky area. He reaches back to touch the wet fiberglass; it squishes softly under his fingers.
“Osmosis,” he says. “It looks bad. I’ll write you a letter to give to the immigration officials. They should give you an extension to stay until your boat is fixed.”
The thought of being back in the boatyard gives me chills. Not only does the idea of grinding fiberglass turn my stomach, I can’t afford to haul out again. Part of me wished for a way to stay a little longer in Polynesia, but this is not how I had imagined it.
Luckily Georges and Marika know the owner of a machine shop and when the man comes over for dinner one evening, he agrees to solder my broken mount back together. In the meantime, I’m lucky to be broken down here: My hosts often throw barbecues and prepare decadent meals, help me improve my terrible French, and welcome me to use their Internet, do laundry, and hang out.
I help with dishes, lawn mowing, sweeping, laundry—anything to feel like I’m earning my keep. As surfers start pouring in for the World Championship Tour contest at Teahupo‘o, I pitch in to help Marika cook, serve, and clean up meals for the surfers staying with them. In between, I get to surf, eat Marika’s mouthwatering chocolate cake, watch the contest from the channel, spy on pro surfers during backyard workouts, and attend tailgate concerts by local friends under the full moon.
But the trials continue. A fifty-knot squall nearly heaves Swell onto the reef right in front of the house, a two-wave hold-down at Teahupo‘o leaves me with a week’s worth of drowning nightmares, a car jack explodes in my face while I’m trying to install the new motor mount, and Swell’s mooring comes unscrewed one day while I’m doing laundry ashore. Luckily Mick Fanning and Taylor Knox rush to save her with Georges’ Jet Ski before she drifts onto the reef. Then, to top it all off: five hideous days with dengue fever. If challenges are the door to personal growth, I’m on the path to sainthood, but sweet Jesus, can’t it just be easy every once in a while?
Ah Rats!
There’s no way around it. Once I’m feeling better, I head back to the boatyard to address the leak. As soon as I haul Swell, I fly back to the States to sign a contract and get to work on a photo book, which I hope will raise some much-needed funds for the repair.
During my time back, I spread the word that Swell’s leak isn’t fixed. My friend Richard of Latitude 38 sailing magazine publishes a small blurb about my latest predicament, asking readers for donations to help with repairs. I’m overwhelmed by the response. In less than a month I receive almost $2,000 from perfect strangers, accompanied by supportive notes and gratitude for my blog. It encourages me to know that I am fixing Swell not only for me, but to keep others dreaming too. After a wonderful visit with Barry in Santa Barbara, he also decides to pitch in.
Back aboard Swell, the new wave of support makes the work seems less lonely. But then: Hmmm, what’s all this? Someone’s been nibbling on my handline, and who got into the cacao powder? What are all these little turds?
Apparently, there’s another reason to feel less lonely. It looks like Swell gained some new occupants while I was away. I find little black rat poops everywhere. There is not a nook or cranny that hasn’t been nibbled or pooped on. Everything must be hauled out of every locker, drawer, and cupboard, washed or scrubbed, and put back in place. I hitchhike into town to find some rat traps. Leptospirosis, a potentially fatal disease transmitted by rat urine, is not to be taken lightly. I have to be careful not to scratch my eye or pick my nose while cleaning out the mad mess.
Those first few nights, I lie under the stars on my pool mat in the cockpit, listening to the rat tinker around in Swell’s belly. I wake each morning to empty traps and new poop trails. That sneaky bastard keeps stealing the bait. Despite the rodent battle going on inside the cabin, I tell the secretary that I want to hire the fiberglass specialist, Sylvain, to help me figure out how to fix the leak. I still have no clue how the water is getting in, since from the outside of the hull, the fiberglass appears to be completely intact. She informs me that Sylvain is leaving on his own boat for an extended voyage, but that a new guy named Laurent will come around this afternoon to have a look.
A short wiry Frenchman in his fifties with a pointy face and Einstein hair shows up after lunch. I do my best to explain the problem and how we tried to fix it, but he hardly listens, then replies too fast for me to understand. But I do get it when he says he is busy for another month so it would be better to find someone else. And I owe him 5,500 francs for his hour of assessment.
For the next few days, I mope and mull over what to do. Meanwhile, that clever rat licks all the peanut butter off the trap and even finds his way into my prized bag of Trader Joe’s trail mix that I’d hung in the middle of the cabin to keep out of his reach. My dislike for my new crewmate has turned into loathing. Both the rat and the leak are outsmarting me; I’m feeling like such a chump.
That evening around midnight I’m barely asleep when I hear, Whap! I leap up like an Amazon warrior, ready for battle. There he is, dead on the trap: The snap bar has squared him in the head. The cashew that I’d tied to the trap with thread worked. A mix of triumph, pity, and nausea churns in me. “Sorry little dude. We weren’t meant to live together.” The next morning, I send him out to sea on a plywood raft with a little prayer, clean the last of the poops, and put away that dreadful trap.
Around midday I’m outside under Swell, looking for the hose, when Sylvain stops by to say bonjour. I don’t want to unload on him, but I explain that I still haven’t figured out what to do.
“I propose you zis,” he says. “I weel help you find zee source of zee leak, and afder Laurent can do zee reparacion.”
“Really?” I feel my face light up like a Christmas tree.
“Take sat (h)ose, turn za pressure up, and bring eet over eer.”
I pass him the pressurized hose, then he instructs me to go up into the cabin, pull off the engine cover, and look at the cursed spot under the engine.
“Okay!” he shouts. “Eere it come.” He directs the high-pressure water into the propeller shaft tube below. Water shoots out from under the engine like a geyser.
“Oui! Yes! That’s it!” I call. It hasn’t been ten minutes and Sylvain has figured it out.
He smiles, and wasting no time, explains what to do next. “Zee leak is coming from somewhere inside zee shaft tube. Zee best way to start eez grind down zee area near zee cutlass bearing to see if zere is somesing unusual because zis eez the easiest place to access. If zee problem is not ere, it weel be a much, much bigger job,” he warns.
I take a deep breath. “Merci, Sylvain. Merci beaucoup,” I say, bowing sincerely.
That afternoon I don my grinding gear and get to work. I touch the spinning disc to the hull where the prop shaft comes out, and grind it down until I hit the bronze tube underneath. Amazingly, as Sylvain suspected, there is a hole in it. It looks like it has been made intentionally, maybe to use a set screw to hold the cutlass bearing in place. I grind the other side down and find the same thing. I drag Sylvain over to have a look.
He explains that I have two options. Either I properly patch these two places with fiberglass and hope that takes care of it. Or I take out the whole tube and replace it, which means dropping out the rudder and removing the prop shaft again, lifting out the engine, and basically doing demolition on the entire aft keel area to remove the tube.
My mouth goes dry. “I’ll try the easier option first. Merci encore, Sylvain.” (Thanks again.)
And then ... What’s this? New rat poops? No ... it can’t be. They’re everywhere again! It turns out my rat was plural! And just as I go to put the stairs back over the engine, I spot another surprise. The motor mounts! They’re broken again after less than ten hours of use!?
Back to the Blue(s)
After I’ve ground, chiseled, sanded, heat-gunned, and cleaned the holes in the shaft tube as best as possible, Laurent helps me glass over them. Meanwhile five more rats are trapped! I slap a coat of bottom paint on the hull, the tractor rumbles, and Taputu and the other yard workers lower Swell back into the sea.
“Maita‘i?” (All good?) Taputu calls, referring to the leak. I remove the stairs, shine my light, and see no evidence of moisture.
“Maita‘i!” I confirm. We use ropes to guide Swell over to the dock since the boatyard mechanic is coming to troubleshoot and install the new motor mounts that afternoon.
The next morning, I open the floorboard that covers the bilge, and to my horror, I see six inches of water shimmering below. My mind goes numb. I slowly pull off the stairs and point the light on the infamous location of the leak, filled with dread. Sure enough, salt water trickles in—and it trickles from my tear ducts, too. How can it be? No! Swell is still leaking. I curl up under the fan to cry.
Whispers whirl through the boatyard about my news. People pat my back or tip a nod of quiet mourning. Plan B requires removing and replacing the entire four-foot-long bronze shaft tube that is fiberglassed directly into the structure of the hull. I can’t bear the thought of hauling her right back out. Christmas is little more than a week away, and my brother is coming to visit.
That afternoon, the owner of the yard, who rarely converses with clients, stops me as I climb onto the dock. My eyes are swollen. I feel fragile and forlorn. He takes me by the shoulders. “Take a brrreak, make a tour of zee islands, forrrget about zis for a while. I’ll clear your visa with immigration and you can beegeen again after zee New Year, d’accord? (okay?)”
“Oui, merci,” I sniffle.
Big Bro and the Lost Chain
James appears at the airport with heaps of goodies—including a mid-sized jib—in a rolling bag so big, I hope the rest of the family will topple out when he opens it. He’s beaming; I dive into his sincere blue eyes and hug him tightly.
Back aboard Swell, I apologize for the mess. I had just hosted a spontaneous guest over the previous weekend—Jesse, the submarine pilot from my time with McKenzie. When Jesse and I left the marina, the engine had made a terrible grinding noise. Turns out the mechanic had poorly aligned the engine after installing the new motor mounts. We had to sail back to the slip upwind and spend the rest of his visit working out the engine alignment. So much for Jesse’s weekend getaway, but we discovered and fixed the reason for the repetitive broken motor mounts!
With Swell’s engine now dialed in, I’m relieved to put boat projects aside and ease into a carefree island tour with James. My brother—clever, capable, and a man of few words—maneuvers Swell toward the windward side, motoring inside the lagoon. I look down at the depth gauge: 125 feet. My mind flashes to my brand-new length of anchor chain that I had hurriedly loaded into the locker while preparing for James’s visit. It’s completely twisted. I should drop the anchor and let a bunch of chain out right here where it’s deep, to let it untangle itself.
I wrench off the bolts that hold the chain cap to the windlass. With the cap on, I can’t even get the chain to come out of the locker because it’s so jumbled below. So I remove the cap, shove the anchor off its cradle, and proceed to release the chain slowly, using the clutch of the windlass. But without the cap, the chain begins to run out much too quickly. Before I can tighten the clutch wheel, the chain jumps off the windlass entirely and starts screaming straight out of the locker unchecked. My expensive new chain is paying out like a runaway locomotive.
“No!” I cry in despair. In my hurry to get Swell back in the water and ready for my brother’s visit, I hadn’t yet secured the other end of the chain to the boat!
“Let it go!” James yells back.
Together as kids, we had witnessed our friend lose a finger in an equivalent incident. I’m petrified to grab at my precious chain, and instead I fruitlessly try to slow it with the flat of my foot. In another breath, the end whips out, and all 300 feet of chain plus my beloved Bruce anchor disappear into the green depths. Silence falls over the scene.
I stand there stunned, then run to the GPS to mark our location so that, Poseidon willing, I can recover it. James hugs me. We circle a few times while I decide what to do next. As horrified as I am at the loss, my brother only has a short time to visit, and the chain isn’t going anywhere.
“It’s okay,” I concede. “It’s still going to be there next week. I’ll rig up a piece of the old chain on a spare anchor.”
James steers us south through the lagoon, while I put some anchoring gear together. At sundown, we make our way through a tight passage in the coral into a perfect patch of sandy shallows near a lovely islet. Thankfully I only have a doughnut-hole-sized blood blister pulsating on the bottom of my foot to remind me of my mistake. We cook up a feast and toast togetherness in the cockpit while the round eye of a true, blue moon peers over the islet’s whispering palms. My big bro and I converse about life well into the night while moonbeams illuminate the shallows, leaping and twirling across their sandy underwater dance floor.
We share ten more days of glorious sailing adventures around the islands, ringing in 2010 as impromptu bartenders at Jessica and Teiva’s restaurant in Bora Bora. James is still my rock—an exemplary human of the highest integrity, always willing to listen and give thoughtful advice, and endlessly explore the philosophies of life. Thinking back to the days I spent as a depressed heap on his couch, I’m so grateful he’s my brother and so proud to show him how far I’ve come, both inside and out.
After James flies back to California, a mission is in order to recover my anchor and chain, so I sail back to the bay of the incident. I call a friend who is a scuba guide and explain my predicament. We load her gear aboard Swell the next day and head off to the waypoint I marked on the GPS. Heavy rains have turned the water dark green with silt, and Manuelle is not optimistic.
“Why don’t we attach a dive weight to a long piece of rope and toss it over when I think we’re near the spot? That way you can follow it down and have a reference point,” I suggest, desperate for anything that will increase the chance of success.
“Good idea,” she agrees. We tie some ropes together, and toss the weighted end over the side with the other end attached to a buoy, as I try to get Swell to hover just above the spot marked on the GPS. Manuelle preps her gear and hops in, while Swell drifts in neutral. My eyes are pinned nervously to her bubbles as she descends into the murky deep. It hasn’t been five minutes when, to my surprise, her masked face pops above the surface.
“Unbelievable!” she sputters. “The weight landed a centimeter from the end of the chain! All I had to do was attach the rope and come back up.”
Holy Days
With a bit more time before going back to the boatyard for Round Three, I catch wind that Jimmy Buffett is playing a secret concert on Bora Bora. I’ve got to make it back up there for the show. Dad raised us on his albums and I grew to adore Jimmy’s poetic travel ballads and nautically inclined tunes. My family quotes his hundreds of songs like bible verses.
I’m near the front with Jessica and Teiva when Jimmy walks on stage at a local restaurant. There he is—the legend and lyricist—just fifteen feet away! He sings wholeheartedly with his familiar Southern twang, barefoot and smiling, just like at the last show I went to in California—minus the crowd of 130,000 crazy “parrotheads.”
Jessica and I sing along from our table—we seem to be the only two among the fifty spectators who know the lyrics. When it comes time for his most famous song, “Cheeseburger in Paradise,” Jimmy explains that his female backup singers couldn’t make it and he needs some help from the audience. He looks right at Jess and me, then calls us up on stage. I don’t miss a word. Jimmy is floored!
After the show, I wander to the front of the restaurant and peek into the private side room guarded by a very tall, stern-faced security guard.
“Hello, sir, I just want to make sure everything is okay with the band,” I prattle away, hoping to talk to Jimmy.
“Yes, everything is just fine, thank ...”
“Let her in,” Jimmy’s familiar voice interrupts from behind him.
The group of five or six men falls silent as I step into the air-conditioned room.
“Well, come in, then. Here, have a seat,” Jimmy says kindly as he scoots to one side of the couch. “Meet the band.”
Slightly speechless yet pleasantly inebriated, I shake hands with everyone and reply to their questions about having sailed from California. I explain to Jimmy that his lyrics had helped shape my sailing dream and approach to life and I thank him for all the joy that his music has brought my family and me. He’s flattered but humbly turns the conversation back to me.
I wake with a headache the next morning, but there’s whitewater on the reef. The north swell is up and I can’t resist. I spend all afternoon in the surf. Back on Swell, Jessica calls asking if I can help at the bar that night. Despite my fatigue, I pull on some clean clothes and go ashore. At the bar, I lean in to ask Jess how she’s feeling after our big night. She rolls her eyes and continues to count change for the impatient customer beside me.
“Actually, it looks like we don’t need you after all. It’s not too busy. But order some food,” she says.
“Okay, no worries,” I reply, and turn around just in time to see Jimmy and his friends duck under the shaggy palm fronds of the bar’s thatched roof. He takes off his jacket and walks over to where I’m standing.
“Oh hey, Liz.” He smiles. “Hi Jess! Well, it looks like we came to the right place. Can we eat here?”
“Of course!” Jess replies.
“Are you busy, Liz?” Jimmy asks. “Why don’t you join us for dinner?”
Seriously! “I’d be honored!” I tell him.
“How was your day?” Jimmy asks after we’re seated around a table.
“Not bad! I woke up with a headache, but I surfed this afternoon.”
“Surf? Where?” he asks excitedly.
“Just out at the pass. It very rarely breaks, but today was pretty nice.”
“Can you take me out there tomorrow?” he asks.
The next day at ten o’clock sharp, Jimmy circles Swell on his stand-up paddleboard. “Come aboard,” I call. “I’m nearly ready.”
I give him a tour, then we head off to check the waves aboard his plush charter catamaran.
“It’s not the easiest wave,” I explain as we head toward the break. “It’s kind of shifty and there were long waits between sets yesterday, so it was easy to lose track of the takeoff zone.”
He’s determined to try. We paddle over, and right away a set rolls in and catches him inside. I cringe as his big stand-up paddleboard drags him toward the reef with another wave behind it.
Good god, I’m going to kill him! To my relief, he comes back out laughing, takes a few deep breaths, and paddles a bit farther outside.
“Try to look for the waves that come in more from the north,” I suggest. “They stay open a bit.” I’ve barely finished my sentence when a lovely head-high wave springs up from the north. Jimmy is perfectly positioned.
“Go for it!” I encourage. “This is the one!” He strokes without hesitation, catches it, and away he glides down the line, then comes back grinning and glowing from his ride.
“Thanks for that one, Lizzy!” he says, as we high-five in celebration.
Oli and the VIP Yard
My holiday ends abruptly when the weather forecast warns of an approaching cyclone. I sail directly back to the boatyard, hauling Swell out a week earlier than planned so as not to have to weather the storm in the water. The crew tows her to an overflow yard down the street. I joke with them, asking if this is the VIP yard, since there are only a few other boats. Swell’s decks must be stripped to make her as streamlined as possible in preparation for the powerful winds. The sails, solar panels, and wind generator must all come off.
Once Swell is bare and battened, my Italian girlfriend, Simona, who lives across the street, invites me to stay at her house during the storm. For three days it blows with a ferocity I’ve never felt. From the window, I can see Swell’s rig trembling from the winds.
Luckily, Cyclone Oli passes without too much damage. While walking back toward the VIP yard, something white flashes among a pile of washed-up debris. Looking closer, I see a bedraggled baby seabird. There isn’t a tree or nesting area nearby; it must have been blown from its nest during the storm. I can’t possibly leave it here all alone, so I scoop it up and bring it back to Swell.
Over the next week, I hitch to town to buy fresh fish for my little friend and use frozen water bottles from Simona’s freezer to keep it cold. I suspect the bird is a male and call him Oli. At first, I have to force his sharp black beak open, but soon Oli is eating on his own. By the end of the week he’s fluffed up and chirping when he’s hungry. After seeing the photos I send, Barry identifies him as likely a blue or black noddy tern. Little Oli stays near me at all times, needing to be fed every half an hour. While I prepare Swell for Laurent to cut away the hull and remove the shaft tube, Oli keeps me company. He chirps endearingly as I drop out the rudder and remove the propeller shaft. He pecks at the pile of tools beside me while I unbolt the transmission from the engine. He naps in his cozy nest of rags while I dismantle the V-drive and disconnect all the hoses and wires that run through the area. Luckily, removing the transmission provides enough access to the repair area that I don’t actually have to remove the main body of the engine. Oli is pleased whenever I finish a job and my attention returns to him.
He grows steadily, feathers thickening, and I cherish his companionship—the way he cocks his head when he looks at me, and snuggles up for a nap in the fold of my T-shirt. I’m the only one living aboard among a flock of fancy catamarans in the VIP yard. The one adjacent to Swell serves as a fantastic yoga platform with an ocean view. A hose in the corner of the yard becomes my new shower. There are plenty of mosquitoes around, but at least no creepy kissers!
The morning Swell is ready for the demolition to begin, the secretary confirms that Laurent will arrive shortly after 7:30 am. I start growing impatient at 8:30 am. No Laurent ... Another hour passes ... No Laurent. I find him in the workshop, glassing a damaged rudder.
“Bonjour, Laurent,” I greet him.
“Bonjour,” he replies.
“I don’t mean to bother you,” I say in French, “but I thought we were getting started today?”
“Ah, en fact, I have meeny small projects in zis moment. I prefer to feeneesh zee uzer jobs first. I weel be ready to start your prrroject in about two monz,” he says and returns to working on the rudder.
Oh Moon, Won’t You Buy Me a Mercedes Benz
I mope around the yard all week, fretting over how to proceed until I receive an unsolicited email from another Cal 40 owner who has dealt with the same problem. Fin heard about my leak through the Latitude 38 article and took the time to write me about how he and his friend Doug had removed the bronze tube without cutting it out of the fiberglass.
“After removing the V-drive and prop shaft, Doug made up a slide hammer from a half-inch stainless rod approximately six feet long and threaded at each end. The rod was inserted into the old tube from the outside, and then a cap matching the tube diameter was screwed on to the inboard side. This cap is what ultimately pulled the tube out of the boat. Washers on the rod centered it inside the tube. The rod had a weighted slide on the outside end, which was used to hammer the tube out of the fiberglass.”
I forage around the yard for scrap parts to build a slide hammer. A few days later, my extracteur is welded together, but the machine shop has made the cap from aluminum instead of steel. I know the aluminum will be too soft, but I agree to try it anyway.
I borrow a massive sledgehammer from the yard, since I hadn’t found a weighted slide, and wind up for the swing. The hulking head of the hammer meets the welded plate like a bad gong and reverberates through my body. The tube doesn’t budge. By the fifteenth hit I’ve broken through the welding on the plate. I go up to see what’s happening inside and find the aluminum cap completely crumpled. I carry the broken parts to the other side of the boatyard while workers and yachties stare curiously.
“Extracteur!” I yell. I’m like a bad rash that won’t go away.
I implore the welder to make me a cap from steel and reweld the plate onto the pipe. In the meantime, I grind off the recent fiberglass repair job all the way to the bronze tube. With the tube now exposed on both sides, I hammer at it to try to loosen its bond with the fiberglass. With no neighbors in the VIP yard, I’m free to pound on it anytime I please, which is often. When my beefed-up extracteur is ready to go, Taputu comes over to help. But within a few swings, the cap is sucked sideways into the tube. Fail.
Even worse, my baby bird is sick. Oli eats less and less, so I load him into in my bike basket and pedal off to find a veterinarian in town. He sells me a nutrient supplement and explains that very few young seabirds survive without their mother. I give Oli a dose of the supplement, but after an hour, he can hardly lift his wee head. It’s too late. He takes his last breath as I hold him cupped in my hands. I burst into tears and stroke his still warm feathers.
The fragility of life seems cruel. My little friend is gone. Swell feels terribly empty—no more chirps, no more stinky fish feedings, and no more adorable fuzzy head popping up to say good morning. Instead, only progress-less projects in this boatyard purgatory.
To make matters worse, the filthy bathroom is so far away that I’ve been defecating in plastic bags. There’s no end to the humbling around here.
On many days, I want to give up; Oli’s departure stirs my deep abandoment issues, but I when I look around, I remember I’m not the only one who is feeling lonely and unheard. The same small island kids from the rough neighborhood nearby wander in the streets every day. Stray dogs meander through, hungry and forlorn. Playing with the kids and feeding the dogs makes me feel better. I also use a technique learned from a Pema Chödrön book. It’s called tonglen: I sit and breathe in the pain and unwanted sufferings of myself and others, and breathe out feelings of relief, connection, and happiness for all beings. It’s a simple idea, but doing this meditation helps me feel less alone.
In the afternoons, hordes of young Tahitians blare music, ride bikes, play, and hang out under the coconut trees outside the new chain-link fence surrounding the VIP yard. When it cools off enough, everyone comes together on the forty-yard stretch of asphalt outside the gate where the day’s quarrels, crushes, and moods play out in a daily soccer match.
Teams fluctuate in number and skill—girls, boys, women, and men of all ages mix freely. No shoes, no jerseys, no referees, but street rules and common courtesy keep the game flowing much better than one might imagine. No one keeps score. Newcomers watch for a moment from the sidelines to determine the dominant team and then join the weaker side. The stuffy French yard owner lined the fence with barbed wire along the bottom to deter them, but they play on, making sure the younger kids stay clear of the danger. I’d like to join in, but I feel shy.
I know a lot of the younger kids by now. Daily, I offer treats, give them attention, and let them use my skateboard to glide back and forth in the alleyway on the other side of the fence. Their youthful energy and sincerity always gives me a boost. They’ve stopped calling me madame, to my great relief, and scream “Leeeeeeeez!” whenever I surface from inside Swell.
One afternoon my body badly needs to move. Today’s soccer match is already going on. I finally walk out the gate and ask, “Je peux jouer?” (Can I play?)
“Oui!” they scream, delighted, assigning me to a team.
The street games becomes my daily release. I saunter out the gate, filthy and barefoot after a day of work aboard Swell, and sprint back and forth until it’s too dark to see. Whether the clouds pour down rain or the sunset ignites the sky above, I feel grateful for the damp asphalt, the half-inflated ball, my callused feet, the warm salt-laden air, and the giggling, shit-talking, glowing faces of my new Tahitian friends.
In the tranquility of night, I often wrap up in long pants and a pareo to fend off the mosquitoes and go on deck. I don’t really know how to pray, so I tell my worries to the moon. I tell her everything: that I’m lonely, I miss my family and friends, I want to find true love, and I hate being stuck in this noxious, filthy place. And I am doing my best not to whine, to see the opportunities for growth, but it’s hard.
The first slender sliver of the crescent moon hears every word, gently reminding me to be patient and carry on with grace through the hardships. As the nights pass, she smiles wider and brighter and higher, as if it’s all some hilarious cosmic joke. The waxing half-moon tells me of good things to come and to look at the half-full side of the story. As she nears her full grandeur, she encourages me to be brave—that others are struggling too—and I must use the light inside me to find my way. The waning moon advises me to stop resisting and try a different approach. I even feel the new moon through the dark starry nights, reminding me that light follows darkness—go inward, wipe my slate clean, start anew. Everything is perfect, she says, so perfect that you can’t yet understand.
The Shaft Tube Challenge
The prop tube battle continues. I have a slightly larger steel cap made for the extracteur and use a hacksaw to cut the upper side of the tube level. Josh from the pearl farm I’d visited with Gaspar happens to be in the neighborhood and offers to help. He goes below the hull with the sledgehammer while I stay inside the cabin to make sure the steel cap is positioned correctly.
“My father always told me that your force comes from the mula bandha—the area right between the sphincter and genitals. If you tighten it, you can find power you never knew you had,” Josh calls up from below.
“Awesome!” I shout back. I’d just been reading about the yogic band-has, chakras, and nadis. Josh proves his father’s words, because on the third try, he hits the steel plate with a force that severs the upper threads of the cap and sends the extracteur flying across the yard. But the tube doesn’t budge.
I still can’t find anyone else to hire to help cut out the tube. Storage fees for the yard mount each day. I have to find another solution ... but how? Who? As I wander aimlessly through the rows of masts on a Friday afternoon, Mike, a lively British cruiser with his boat in the yard, yells down at me from atop his shiny blue hull, “Hey Liz! We just got my rudder shaft out using a hydraulic jack. Maybe this is your answer?”
He passes it down to me. Never has a girl sprinted faster carrying a fifteen-pound hydraulic jack as I do back to the VIP yard. I haul it up the ladder, pull off Swell’s stairs, and place it into the space just in front of the tube.
“It fits!” I cheer. “I’ll just have to remove the V-drive base and cut some wood and steel supports. Since it will have to work on its side, the jack might need some extra fluid,” I tell myself.
I race cheerfully down to the Friday gathering in the garage to announce the good news. “I’m tired of seeing you walking around here looking like a lost puppy,” Mike says. “I’ll be at your boat at 10 am tomorrow. If I can’t get that tube out in two hours, it’s officially impossible!”
I roll over at 9:45 am, hoping that Mike wants to postpone our appointment for the Shaft Tube Challenge. I’ve only slept a few hours; Taputu had knocked on my hull at 3 am to warn of an approaching tsunami. I headed for higher ground with my friend Simona and her son, but thankfully the impact was insignificant. I’m about to douse myself with the hose when the British film director-turned-sailor rolls onto the scene right on time. In lieu of my shower, he sends me running about the yard in search of scrap wood and metal to brace the jack.
Tick, tock ... tick, tock ... he will give exactly two hours of his time, no more. The scavenger hunt continues. I’m exhausted, hot, and hungry while scavenging under the blazing tropical sun. The clock strikes noon and we’ve only just finished building a mish-mash of metal and wood scraps to brace and fit the jack properly against the small area of vertical fiberglass.
Just as Mike’s overtime charges are about to begin accumulating, Adrian, the cheery six-foot-two Canadian aboard Cassiopeia, appears. He’s been borrowing my bike to ride to town for parts to fix up his newly acquired steel sloop. I praise Mike for getting things started. Now Adrian steps in. He needs cash; I need help. We make a deal, and after a few more hours of setup, we’re nearly ready to pressurize the jack.
I’ve borrowed a hefty, flame-spitting butane torch, and theorize with Adrian that if we heat and cool the bronze tube—without setting Swell on fire—we might be able to break the bond between the resin and the bronze. Adrian stands by with a bucket of water. The tube turns rainbow colors as I blast it with heat. When we agree that any more might cause Swell to spontaneously combust, Adrian throws on some water to induce a quick contraction of the metal.
After several rounds of heating and cooling, the true test begins. Back inside the cabin, Adrian pumps the jack’s lever, placing twenty tons of pressure against that stubborn old shaft tube. I can hardly bear to watch—for my fear of exploding jacks since my accident at Georges and Marika’s—and knowing that if this fails, the only solution is the lengthy open-fiberglass surgery. I decide to go down to ground level and survey the progress from the other end where I can see if it has moved: not a millimeter.
“Hit it with the sledgehammer!” Adrian calls from above.
“Great idea!” I holler back, slinging the beast of a tool over my shoulder, squeezing my mula bandha, and unloading a hefty swing on the exposed part of the tube. Wham!
“It moved!” he yells.
“REALLY?” I shriek back. Upon inspection, I confirm that the shaft tube has officially been pushed one millimeter in the right direction!
We carry on like this for hours, Adrian loading up pressure with the jack, and me swinging the sledgehammer. Millimeter by sweet millimeter, we make progress. When the tube finally nears extraction, the puzzling cause of the leak is revealed: a series of bean-sized holes corroded through the upper end.
Refugee Rescues on a Sea of Plastic
Swell hits the sea watertight after a series of miracles that followed the shaft tube extraction. When I emailed the news that the tube was out, Fin and Doug offered to ship me an epoxy replacement tube and cutlass bearing for half price, and cover the shipping! And then a willing glasser had appeared to install it. After two long years in and out of the yard, I can finally say that the leak saga has ended, but I feel depleted and a little lost.
The trade winds are out of breath today; I need to get back in the water. I have a hunch about a wave that might be breaking, so I grab my board and shove a pareo, a grapefruit, and sunscreen into my pack and jump in the dinghy. The worn-out hunk of rubber is barely hanging on, but again that day, it delivers me to the pass.
A few waves into the session, an enormous thunderhead swallows the high mountains behind me. Thunder cracks and cold rain pelts down so heavily I can barely see. I paddle back to the dinghy through the bullying drops and wait out the storm under my board bag.
By the time it stops, the squall winds have ruined the surf, so I slowly putt back toward Swell. As I turn the corner of the reef, the sight ahead is startling: a half-mile-long stretch of muddy brown water lined with drifting wood, leaves, and trash. The heavy rain must have opened the river mouth and flushed the debris into the lagoon all at once. I turn off the motor and row through it, collecting the scattered plastic trash.
As I pluck out bottles, bags, and wrappers, I notice movement among the flotsam. Creatures are everywhere. The geckos, lizards, grasshoppers, beetles, snails, and bugs must have been caught in the flash flood. They cling to logs, trash, and clumps of leaves. One by one, I catch them or offer my oar, and load them aboard. My dinghy quickly morphs into a refugee flotilla for life of all sorts—even a CD-sized cane spider. I spend two hours paddling like Pocahontas and loading my ark like Noah.
Amid the rescue efforts, a cockroach comes swimming frantically toward me, but all I can think of is that nasty family of roaches that had infested Swell. He struggles in the little whirlpool from my paddle. I look forward and try not to think about him. But how can I leave only him? I decide to turn back, but he’s already gone.
When we reach the end of the debris patch, my new crew and I head toward the nearest islet. All sorts of little feet grip the dinghy’s flexing, half-deflated hypalon tubes in the evening air; a salty gecko coolly tips its nose into the wind. I snap a picture of the amusing scene for Barry.
I set the creatures free, one by one, then collect even more plastic on the trash-covered islet. On the way home, the dinghy’s floor seam suddenly parts from the port tube and the boat fills with six inches of water. We limp slowly back to Swell just after dark, brimming with soggy plastic trash and a few straggling stowaways.
Money and Men
Swell’s dock lines slacken and then tighten again. I watch them for a moment, the water droplets leaping off as the lines pull taut. Stepping onto the dock, I stroll around the Tahiti marina. It’s a cloudy afternoon and the breeze softly animates the ironwood trees; rain sprinkles intermittently. I suck at the thick sea air and delight in the simplicity of watching my bare feet step rhythmically over the dirt, weeds, and puddles along the marina walkway.
It’s good to be back in a baggy T-shirt and cut-offs. It’s taken a few days to decompress from the rush and hustle of Southern California. I had flown back to finish up the book project, but despite the potential financial benefits, I ended it completely. It didn’t feel right, so I returned the advance money. I also broke it off with a really great guy I’d started dating. I had been torn about both decisions.
Sometimes I feel like I don’t fit in anywhere anymore. I’ve been doing this for five years now and friends have stopped asking when I’m coming home. Only when I’m aboard Swell or in wilderness do I feel a sense of true belonging. I try not to judge myself for still being single and nearly broke at thirty years old, but I constantly wrestle these irritating subconscious beliefs about needing a permanent partner and an accruing 401(k).
Of course, I want lasting love, but not at the expense of freedom. And a steady income would be nice, too, but only if it comes from doing something I believe in. Anything else feels like surrender, captivity. I’m now receiving offers to star in television shows and documentary films, but I cherish my anonymity and the purity of the experiences that come from voyaging like I do. The thought of constantly caravanning with a follow boat or film crew makes me cringe.
I feel committed to adhering to my truth, and making choices that feel right. I’m constantly working hard, but most of the time it isn’t for money. I stay up late responding to emails, encouraging people to live their dreams. I write blogs to inspire, research environmental issues, connect people, help my neighbors—without any paycheck. But it all comes around. It seems the more I live from the heart, the more my material requirements show up when I really need them.
Patagonia pitched in significantly for the final round in the boatyard. Achilles just sponsored me by providing a new dinghy. A variety of small companies and individuals who are inspired by my voyage often help out with products or donations. Just when I’m down to a couple hundred bucks, I get a request to write an article or sell a photo, or a check just arrives in the mail. A sweet family from South Carolina sends donations from time to time, signed with “Be Encouraged. Love, The Seshuns.”
I’m choosing this life adrift, even though it doesn’t make it easy to commit to either men or money. I’ve found that guys with good jobs generally have too many commitments. But men with few commitments often don’t like to work hard. Long-distance relationships are no fun, and language and cultural barriers have proven difficult with the few foreign men I’ve dated. Add the fact that my list of perfect man requirements just keeps getting longer. I’ve started to wonder if I’ll ever find the Yin to my Yang.
In the past, I always liked to have a relationship brewing. I needed a friend to adventure with, and often it was easier to find eager guys than girls. I gleaned confidence from having a man adore me, too. I drove a few mad because they couldn’t hold onto me. Other times I got clingy—my abhorrence of abandonment keeping me from leaving or making smart boundaries. Sometimes we both knew the romance was situational and purely for fun. There were excruciating heartbreaks too.
Whether it was just one date, a week’s fling, or a longer connection, I’ve learned from every man I ever spent time with. Some taught me what I don’t want in a partner, but most of them offered something positive. My first boyfriend taught me not to be a kook in the surf. A few others also helped me hone my wave-riding skills. The fisherman showed me the magic of generosity and nonattachment. The poet made me feel securely enraptured by his love. I had mad chemistry with the carpenter. The yes-man taught me how to have more fun. The lifeguard knew how to keep things light, loving, and simple. But these romances all ended for one reason or another. Paralleling paths are precious while they last, but holding onto a relationship for longer than it serves both parties does neither any good. Casual romance doesn’t interest me anymore; I want the real deal.
When will a man show up who really complements my strengths and my lifestyle? I’d like him to be tough but sensitive. Strong and charming. A surfer. A thinker and a romantic. A nature lover and thrill seeker. Positive and funny. A dreamer and a hero. Spontaneous yet patient. Confident yet not too prideful. Spiritual but not a know-it-all. I hope he enjoys dancing. He’ll have things to teach me, but also be willing to learn. Most importantly, he should make me a better person by setting my heart ablaze and forcing me to look at my blocks to fully loving and being loved.
While I’m waiting for him to appear, though, being single feels okay, spacious I guess. I walk on, watching raindrops hit puddles and finding great contentment in giving my whole attention to the present. My father is coming for Christmas. I have two months to get Swell dialed in, catch up on my writing, and enjoy some surfing and sailing.
Before long, while walking back to Swell after doing laundry at a friend’s house, I see a bunch of guys I know sitting around a small dock they’re building. A tall, handsome stranger is among them. They’re finished for the day and offer me a beer. I have a sip or two to be polite, but I can’t stay. I have things to get done before my departure tomorrow morning.
“Thank you, but I have to go put my dinghy on deck before dark,” I say in the local mixture of French and Tahitian.
“Tu veux un coup de main?” (Can I give you a hand?) the new guy asks.
I look at the other guys for approval. I rarely take the help of a total stranger, but four hands would make it so much easier. They nod and encourage me.
“Je m’appelle Rainui,” he says, sticking out his hand respectfully. It closes around mine, strong and callused. He picks up my sail bag full of clean clothes and follows me to the dinghy. Together, we quickly get the dinghy and motor on deck. He is quiet and gentlemanly, and I thank him sincerely before he swims ashore in the coming darkness.
Tubes for Breakfast
Offshore winds rip over the stacked swell lines, blowing water droplets off the wave faces into hovering rainbows as the lips pitch and arc into glorious indigo barrels. My eyes bulge as the quiet girl with long, brown hair and a slender, athletic body drives gracefully through another deep tube and shoots out right in front of me.
“Yew!” I holler from the shoulder. “That was unreal!” She shrugs it off.
“Thanks,” she says softly, “but you can totally do it too. You surf well. You just gotta commit early and swoop in behind it.”
“I don’t know,” I mumble, following her back up the reef.
I have tried hard to master tube riding, but I’m still inconsistent. I have moments when everything comes together but I lack confidence, which often makes the difference between making the drop or getting pitched over the falls. I have learned a lot about falling, though—like how to “starfish” underwater, cover my head, and just relax to decrease my chances of hitting the sharp coral. I can’t count how many times I’ve hit the reef. My legs, feet, and back are scarred with reminders.
I paddle for my next wave, get in early, and do some turns, but when it warps into a hollow section with jagged exposed reef sticking up only feet from the impact zone, I kick out like usual. Frustrated, I paddle back toward the lineup again, knowing I’m still missing out on the holy grail of surfing.
Kepi is a natural—smooth, powerful, stylish, and poised. She uproots my prior ideas of what a woman is capable of doing on a wave. Her reserve intimidated me when I first arrived in the bay, but since we both surf in the early mornings before the crowds, we’ve gotten to know each other. She was raised in California and Kaua‘i, chose this South Pacific paradise over a high-profile surfing career, married a local surfer, and has two beautiful kids. I dig her simple, unassuming style.
The swell keeps pouring in over the next week. Not too big, not too small, offshore winds, and just the right angle to produce flawless wave cylinders.
I have no excuses not to step it up. We meet at the peak after she drops her kids at school. I study her every movement. Little by little I gain more confidence.
“Go!” my tube guru encourages.
“Are you sure? I’m not too deep?” I hesitate.
“No, you’re good. You got it. Just paddle,” she affirms.
Finally, it happens: a breakthrough. I start trusting myself and the wave. Instead of jumping into the face or closing my eyes when it looks like it’s going to close out, I hold my line. I get clipped here and there, but falling inside the tube isn’t as scary as I had imagined. I start to feel where to slow down, find the pocket, and then all I have to do is hang on while the lip falls around me and I shoot for the light.
“See?” Kepi cheers as I come flying out of a deep one. “You’ve got it!”
Short but Sweet
When I return from island hopping a couple weeks later, Rainui keeps appearing. First he’s eating with friends by the waterfront and then he’s near the pineapples at the open market. A few days later he picks me up when I’m hitchhiking to town and asks if I want to hang out sometime. I give him my number.
After I’ve spent a long day taking apart my corroded transmission lever, crammed in a stuffy compartment with a tube of grease and a pile of wrenches, Rainui calls. It’s Friday and I feel like getting off the boat. He suggests walking to the lookout on the mountain above town.
“It’s almost full moon,” he reminds me.
“J’aimerais bien” (I’d like to), I agree. He picks me up and we drive to the trailhead, and start up the grassy path exchanging small talk. Soon we walk together in peaceful silence among the moon shadows, higher and higher above town. About three-quarters of the way up, I slip on a loose rock and plunge toward the ground. He lunges to catch me before I hit, pulling me back to my feet. We both laugh and, as we take off again, he reaches for my hand.
It’s a perfect fit. He holds it without hesitation—not too tight, not too loose. I feel safe; I would never do this walk at night alone. As a single female traveler I choose evening outings carefully, never forgetting the nights I’ve been chased by pit bulls on my bike or followed by lecherous or belligerent males.
We see each other several times over the next few weeks. He’s not pushy when I tell him I’m busy, but he’s available when I want to hang out. He’s six years younger than me, speaks no English, and has no steady work, but he’s polite and charming. Flowers and fruits appear in the cockpit some mornings, and I notice that our outings seem blessed—the wind turns offshore as we arrive to surf, a huge rainbow arches over the mountain when we find a waterfall, and on the next full moon together, we’re sitting in Swell’s cockpit intertwined, only to be surprised by a full lunar eclipse.
I have few obligations to take care of before Dad arrives, and I’m thrilled to have Rainui’s chivalrous company to explore the island. He carries the heavy pack on a four-hour mountain hike to go camping. We set up the tent near a small waterfall among the lofty green peaks with a majestic view of the open sea to the west. The orange flames of our little campfire match the blazing colors of sunset, while we warm soup and munch on the guava berries we’ve collected. When the wind blows the tarp off the stake in the night, he leaps up to fix it. I relax and enjoy feeling like a princess.
Rainui calls one day, sounding troubled.
“What is it?” I ask when he arrives. We sit together on the bow of Swell and he takes my hands.
“I signed up for the army and I’ve been accepted to the parachutist program in the south of France. I’m supposed to leave in three weeks.” He had recently returned to Tahiti after several years working construction in Marseilles when his dream of becoming a legionnaire was dashed.
The news takes me completely by surprise, but I hear his soul calling for this experience. I hide my selfish sadness and make sure he feels encouraged.
“Well this is great news!” I exclaim. “You must go. And tonight, we should celebrate.”
The Dadmiral
A few days later, my father walks off the plane with an enormous smile on his face. We embrace for a full minute. He’s loaded with all kinds of goodies, including a new refrigerator compressor to replace my dead one.
We are underway aboard Swell a couple hours later. Christmas Day has gifted us gentle trades, whisking handfuls of cumulus clouds across the grand ceiling of blue. Dad is in heaven; he has come from below-freezing temperatures in Michigan where he’s recently been working. We’re both glowing; this is the first time Dad has ever sailed on Swell. He’s spent more than his share of hours working aboard, but today he stands at the helm, steering her smoothly through the lagoon with his grand perma-grin.
“She takes off like a racehorse through the water!” he exclaims as a gust accelerates us. I leap about trimming sails and making sure all is in order.
After dropping anchor later in the day, we can’t resist installing the new fridge compressor, and an hour later he has a cold Hinano in hand. He works so hard; I’m thrilled he has this two-week vacation to enjoy the sea and nature with me.
We sail around the islands, and the ocean shows us a bit of everything— glorious fifteen knots on the stern quarter, some squally thirty-knot upwind slogs, rain and rainbows, gusts and lulls, and even a waterspout. Every type of condition thrills Dad’s pirate heart. He grows out his beard and relaxes into his favorite element.
I put up no resistance to his beer drinking. I don’t want my wish for him to live a healthier lifestyle to cloud our time together. I want him to feel comfortable and enjoy himself as he pleases. He deserves it; I couldn’t ask for a more loving dad.
I scowl out the porthole at the brooding sky, when we wake to pouring rain for the second day in a row. Dad cheerfully lights the teakettle.
“Oh Dad, I just wanted your time here to be so perfect,” I moan.
“That’s how it goes, honey. We can’t control nature,” he replies merrily. He breaks into the lyrics of a country song with a bold twang, “I love the rain, because the rain makes the corn, and the corn makes the whiskey, and I looooooove whiskey!”
He much prefers beer, but his point is clear. I hug him and we spend the day catching rain to fill the water tanks, then troubleshoot a problem with the bilge pumps, and enjoy a wet afternoon walk ashore holding hands and tromping through puddles.
After spending New Year’s Eve with his family, Rainui and I say goodbye. Dad is there to hug me when I come back to Swell with swollen eyes.
I’m thinking about setting off on another voyage to the outer islands, now that my French has drastically improved and my visa is sorted for a while. But I’m having qualms about going alone.
“It would just be so much more fun to share it with someone I love,” I tell Dad.
“I understand, Lizzy. Remember, you don’t have to do this anymore. You can come home tomorrow if you want.”
“I want to keep sailing,” I reply.
“Well then, keep sailing. You can do it. You sail this boat like it’s a part of you.”
I’m certain that the confidence behind his ever-supportive words is a huge reason I have come so far. Looking back, it seems mad that he’d backed some of my choices, but through the years his profound belief in me always gave me the courage to choose love over fear.
15,851
Nautical Miles Traveled
Just after the loaded car jack slipped and exploded in my face. LIZ CLARK COLLECTION
The bronze shaft tube exposed. Holes corroded in the upper part of the tube were the cause of the mysterious leak that led to three haul-outs and a year and a half in the boatyard. LIZ CLARK
Grinding the paint off the wooden skeg that a previous owner had through-bolted to Swell’s hull. I suspected that the source of the leak was coming from broken seals around the bolts, so I fiberglassed over the skeg to make it watertight. Unfortunately, this was not the leak’s source. LIZ CLARK COLLECTION
Facing my fears at Teahupo‘o, Tahiti, after Round 1 in the boatyard. TIM MCKENNA
Jessica and I sing backup for Jimmy Buffett in Bora Bora. Left to right: Mac McAnally, me, Jimmy, and Jessica Gow Tapare. ERIK IPPEL
Laundry day near the equator. LIZ CLARK
Mixed with pride and sorrow after killing this beautiful fish. DAVE HOMCY
Hanging with Kiribati women while they weave costumes in preparation for yearly festivities. LIZ CLARK
Some creative downtime in the boatyard. LIZ CLARK
Precious little Oli. LIZ CLARK
The never-ending boatyard to-do list. LIZ CLARK
Nato and his buddy showing me the true spirit of wave-riding in Kiribati. LIZ CLARK
Just like dessert, there’s always room for more; the superfluous, ever- fluctuating quiver. ADRIAN MIDWOOD
Trimming the headsail on day five of my fifteen-day solo passage from Kiribati to French Polynesia. LIZ CLARK
