When listening for your heart song,
listen for us as well.
— Email from Patti, sent just before I left for Chile
MARCH 1, 2001
It’s a restless day, with the wind up, the ocean moving, and the mountains in view. I sent a check-in email this morning. At first I couldn’t find a satellite, but finally connected with AORW FRANCE, located above Brazil, and one of two satellites available to me from here! Perfect. The communication system seemed to be working, which was a relief after all the hassle hooking it up, especially because I don’t feel confident of my skill with such devices. This afternoon I checked for replies so I’d know for sure my message went through. Nothing. I sent the message again and I think that one made it ok. I did pick up an email Patti sent several days ago saying they’ve been a bit concerned since I’d promised to send my latitude and longitude coordinates as soon as I found a place to settle. With all that’s been going on, I forgot to do it. But considering that they don’t seem to be very worried and also how much hassle it is to send messages, I don’t feel too bad.
Moved all my food into the cabin, and that frees up the tarps I need for the porch walls. I also emptied and dismantled one of the shipping crates to use for building shelves.
EVENING: It’s storming again and I’ll have to wait until the tide goes out to check the email. Wind is driving rain and spray across the sea in dense horizontal sheets. Even in my protected cove the water is roiling, and the boat yanking at its tether. Small waves break over my dangling feet as I sit on the platform in front of the tent. The water surging under me feels too close for comfort, and I’m ready to move to the cabin to put more distance between me and the sea. I’m glad this is happening in daylight. The mountains have disappeared. Ten minutes ago they loomed, forbidding to my eye, in misty silver light beneath a higher layer of solid grey. I saw a frog heading for higher pools a while ago, staying ahead of the incoming tide. Hope she made it. Hope I make it, too.
LATE NIGHT: God, what a storm out there. It’s unbelievable. Slamming in from the southwest, and I’m unprotected from that direction. This is even worse than the last big one. The roaring and howling are overwhelming, and the savage force of the wind and rain beyond words. I’ve been lying in my small refuge, flooded with anxiety and trying to separate my fear from the auditory and tactile energy of the storm. Struggling to accept my death. So far, I haven’t been very successful. Wham! The tent shudders in a brutal blast. I flick on the headlamp and peer out through the tent flap to check the boat, but can barely see through the swirling rain and spray. Oh shit! The boat is not where it should be. It’s broken loose and is up against the rocks on the far side of the cove.
I rush to strip naked and pull on chest waders, boots, and raincoat, grab my knife, and hunch into the storm. Staggering over slippery rocks through the froth of the waves, half blinded by wind-driven spray, I make my way to the boat. The tether rope is still tied to the bow, but has broken free from where it was snubbed to shore. I get a hand on it and drag the boat away from the rocks and back to the middle of the cove. I knot the tether around a stout tree and hope it will hold until morning. I also hope the motor hasn’t been damaged on the rocks. I hope ...for so many things. Tomorrow I must find a way to haul the boat up the beach above the high tide. I don’t want to leave it floating out there anymore.
Before shedding my soggy gear and climbing back into the tent, I check the plastic tarp for the tie-down loops I’d reinforced with duct tape. Miraculously, they’re still holding. Even in this howling wind, the cabin sits on its base posts like a rock. Well, I wanted adventure.
MARCH 2, 2001
DAWN: The storm raged all night. I looked out several times to be sure the boat hadn’t pulled loose again. It looked kind of strange, but I couldn’t tell why in the dark. Now at first light I see the boat floating upside down, both motors submerged in the sea.
This feels like the end, the last straw, just too much to deal with. I’m exhausted from all the work and tension of the past months, and I’ve had enough. I was right to feel anxious about leaving the boat tied out in the water, but I never imagined it would flip.
I’m not hurt or stranded away from camp, but this is still a serious problem. Other than fire, submersion in saltwater is the worst that can happen to an outboard. I guess I can survive without the motors, but two of the propane tanks still sit on the beach a mile away, and the tank I have here won’t last the year. Without the motors I have no way to gather firewood or go fishing and exploring. Looking ahead, this could be a long, hard year with no way to heat the cabin and not even enough gas to cook. Ah hell, the wind is coming up again.
NIGHT: Dinner is cooking and it’s dark. I’ve only now quit working, and I’m too tired to write much. At first when I saw the flipped boat, I felt numb and just sat there in despair. I had no idea what to do, but knew I had to do something, so I stripped naked again, pulled on the chest waders, and waded out to the boat. The tide had ebbed and I salvaged the 4 hp motor from the bottom where it had landed when the boat flipped. Then I unclamped the 15 hp from the transom and carried it to shore.
I cleared enough rocks from the beach to open a rough landing strip and gouged a hole in the brush with the chain saw. Flipping the boat over and dragging it up above the high tide line was a slow grind.
Then I had to face the outboards. Over the years, I’ve tinkered with different kinds of motors, but I’m no mechanic. In this case I had no idea where to even start, but luckily, I brought a shop manual and some spare parts with me. I checked the table of contents to see if there might be a section at least partially relevant to my situation, and at the bottom of the page I found a gift from the universe: a section titled “Motors Submerged in Saltwater.”
Following the instructions, I washed everything in freshwater, dried all the electrical connections I could reach, and used alcohol to absorb any remaining moisture. I squirted oil into the cylinders via the sparkplug holes, and also disassembled and cleaned the fuel lines, fuel pump, and carburetor. When I put everything back together, the fuel pump leaked. I took it apart again and managed to stop the leak. Then I dragged the boat back down to the water, clamped the outboard to it, and cranked it over. Nothing. But on the third pull, it caught and ran! What a huge sense of relief and gratitude. It doesn’t sound as good as it did, but at least it runs.
Question is, will corrosion slowly destroy the electrical connections I couldn’t clean? I forgot to bring a socket large enough to remove the flywheel, and some electronic components are hidden underneath. I brought a flywheel puller and spare components, but forgot the right size socket. Unbelievable. Anyway, the motor is working and I’m very, very thankful. I’ll fetch the propane tanks the next calm day. I also worked on the 4 hp for a while, but it showed no sign of life, so now I have no backup motor.
MARCH 3, 2001
MORNING: First full night’s sleep in a month. After yesterday I was worn out. I’d slept sporadically in the storm and woke to the flipped boat and submerged motors. I worked nonstop all day and didn’t eat anything except some coffee in the morning. Last night I taped my split fingertips with duct tape to ease the pain, put in earplugs to dampen the sound of wind and water, and tucked the blankets close around me against the cold. I crashed about 10:30 and slept straight through until Cat woke me at 7 this morning. Then back to sleep for two more hours.
I woke to broken clouds with patches of blue here and there. The mountains are semiclear, and my pen casts a faint shadow. A light breeze from the northwest is moving the sea, so I won’t be going for the propane tanks today. Yesterday, the weather went through radical changes, but rained and hailed only when I was in the cabin working on the motors.
Emails arrived from my contact teams in the north and from the Chilean Navy and National Parks Service. The parks official said he hoped the winds hadn’t bothered me too much, so I guess these storms are unusual even for here. I wonder: have the winds really bothered me much? I guess it will depend on whether the outboard continues to function for the year I’ll be here.
I want to explore the anxiety I so often feel. It’s deep and poisons my life. I’ve seen over and over that things work out — not always as I’d planned, sometimes much better — yet still I look ahead with fear. Instead of relaxing into life, I’m often needlessly tense and worried. This last storm was an example. I worried that the cabin wouldn’t hold together, that the plastic over the tent would tear loose, that the boat would break free, or that some other undefined bad thing would happen, but I hadn’t thought at all about what actually did happen. Once faced with a real problem, I dealt with it. Even when things get really nasty — like my foot getting ripped off in the motorcycle crash — life continues. So why not let go of the worrying?
Last evening two beautiful birds (Kelp Goose) about the size of small geese landed on the rock out front. I fetched the field glasses and edged to within fifteen feet of them. One is completely white with yellow legs and black eyes and bill. I think he’s the male but only because he’s largest. The other has yellow legs, a ring around each eye, and a pale pink bill. Her breast is dark brown or black-barred with white. Belly and tail are white, and the wing tips show some iridescent blue green. In flight she is spectacular. A black line runs down the center of white wings. Her back and tail are white with two dark lines.
MARCH 4, 2001
Tomorrow I’ll have been here a month, but I’ve been so busy that the effects of solitude aren’t very noticeable — at least not consciously. I’m still mostly eating oatmeal, peanut butter, dehydrated soup with macaroni, rice with lentils, and instant coffee. My cooking and eating gear consists of two old pots I’ve had for years, a cup, small bowl, tablespoon, and teaspoon. I’ll open the other foodstuffs and kitchenware once I move into the cabin where it’s dry. For drinking and cooking I catch rainwater that pours from the plastic over the tent and store it in two 2½-gallon containers. My reserve supply is in the washtub that has filled on its own straight from the sky.
The cabin is closed in and the floor is drying. So far, I see no leaks. Today I attached some of the inside plastic wall lining and built the major shelves, which filled immediately. Tomorrow I’ll put up the rest of the plastic. Then I can move in. I’m ready. I’d like to build a table and bed first, but the wood I need is under the tent.
Last night I woke to a nasty backache. I put a tennis ball under my shoulder and rotated my arm to massage the pressure point, which helped some. Patti taught me that. She is such a good friend, and I’m realizing more and more how much she ’s shared with me. So much of what I do is oriented toward what others will think. Over and over I wonder how Patti will see my work on the cabin if she comes to visit at the end of the year.
It’s raining and blowing, and the tide is surging up in the gathering dark. I’m tense with anxiety, even dread, toward the wind and sea — or rather toward the raw natural world. What if .. . Another huge storm hits and this time my tent is blown apart? A rogue wave strikes and I’m washed away and drowned?
MARCH 5, 2001
A delicate grass grows in the intertidal zone. Tall, thin stalks topped with seed heads bend in graceful curves, and the slightest breeze sends them into swaying shivers. On calm days, the soft pulse of the sea rocks them gently back and forth, hour after hour. When it storms, waves rush in and flatten them almost horizontal, back and forth, hour after hour. How can something so delicate be so resilient?
I’ve moved into the cabin, even though it’s a huge mess. Gear piled up, wood, sawdust, and tools everywhere. The bed and table are not built and no windows in yet, but this afternoon I had a sudden urge to move. I’ll cook on the stepladder and sleep on the floor. I’m so accustomed to being outside that I keep going to the porch to see what’s going on out there.
A while ago I went to the rock with the pint of deluxe ten-year-old whiskey Diane gave me as a gift for this journey and thanked Spirit for bringing me here; thanked all the people who have helped make this retreat possible; then thanked Diane for the hooch and knocked back the first drink since I arrived. I watched rain slanting against the rock cliffs to the west and heard the roar of a passing hailstorm drumming the surface of the sea.
MARCH 6, 2001
It’s so noisy here especially at high tide. The sea crumples and rushes against the rocks, the wind roars in the trees, rain pounds on the roof, and the sound of distant waterfalls swells or fades depending on wind direction and runoff. Strange that way out here where there ’s supposed to be peace and quiet I sleep with earplugs at times. I think this resistance to noise is linked to my resistance to meditation — to just being with things as they are even though they sometimes seem unpleasant and intrusive. I’m sitting for only half an hour in the evening and then my back gets very painful. Yeah, and so what?
My moods shift as fast and furiously as the weather: joy, thankfulness, peace, anger, fear, frustration, calm steadiness. I try to stay with it all, to keep watching and waiting.
Cat and I have been at it again. He sure is willful. Gets into the middle of whatever I’m doing. Seems to give up only once he senses real anger or pain. I haven’t hit him again, but a couple of times he ’s tried to claw me when I’ve squeezed him till he cried. Am I just getting his attention or am I mistreating him? He’s still very affectionate, but I wonder. Last night he was after a large moth on the porch, which seemed fair since I won’t let him hunt birds. But the moth fluttered against the porch roof and Cat clawed up the tarp wall trying to catch it. “No!” Won’t take long for the tarp to leak at that rate.
I was warm last night for the first time since I’ve been here, but what a hassle tucking the blankets and sleeping bag around the sleeping pad. I’d taken off my prosthesis to meditate, and decided to just balance on one leg to make up the bed. Then the batteries in the headlamp died and left me working by touch in the dark. Only thing is, six of my fingertips are split and wrapped in duct tape so I couldn’t feel anything. And of course right about then Cat jumped into the fray. But it was worth it to be warm.
MARCH 7, 2001
Peaceful low-tide morning and I feel much safer with more exposed beach. Spacious and free. I imagine the tide will flood very high tonight. A while ago I walked to the far point to look at some dead trees, and they seem too rotten to burn. Finding firewood could be a problem and fires a luxury rather than a daily event.
MARCH 8, 2001
Often when I tell people about going into solitude they ask, “But what do you do all day out there alone?” Sometimes time stretches on forever, usually when there is physical, emotional, or spiritual pain, otherwise the days zoom by. Yesterday I built a bed and designed shelves and sliding drawers for underneath. The cabin is small and I need to use the space efficiently. This morning I brought in the gear from the other crate and dismantled it to use for shelves. Now all my equipment and supplies, except the propane tanks on the other beach, are near the cabin and out of tide ’s reach. I got out more salt, and had to grin. I brought fifteen pounds of the stuff! That’s over a pound a month. So far I’ve used maybe an ounce. What was I thinking?
I found the thermometer today and it read 45°F, which felt like about what it’s been most days. Some summer. I’m getting very ready for a fire. The question of firewood looms. On the west coast of Canada there ’s a huge supply of driftwood logs and you can be picky about what kind of wood to burn. Maybe there ’s plenty here, too, and I just don’t know how to find it yet, but I’ve seen very little driftwood, and the trees in the forest are wet or rotting.
Tonight, after dinner on the porch, I walked to the low-tide water’s edge to watch the night. Moonbeams flared from behind dark clouds, dramatically lighting hills and sea. Then the full moon briefly showed through a ragged break. I bathed in the beauty and called to her. Imagine wanting to plant a flag there.
MARCH 9, 2001
I’ve seriously injured the rotator cuff in my right shoulder and can barely move my arm. Christ, this shit never quits. All it took was a moment of inattention and I slipped and fell. The low-tide rocks here are treacherous, probably covered with microalgae, and other than glare ice I’ve never been on anything so slippery. Even when they look dry there ’s little traction except on rough patches. Because of my leg, I use lightweight rubber boots that don’t have Vibram soles and so don’t grip at all. A nutria was fishing near the water edge and I wanted a closer look, so I went out onto the rocks. I was half watching him — moving when he dove, freezing when he came back up — and only half watching my feet. I went down hard with no warning at all.
The pain comes and goes. As long as I keep the arm supported it’s ok, but if I put any strain on it, oh fuck, it hurts. I can’t immobilize it, though. I know from when I tore the same rotator cuff three years ago that I need to move it within the pain range as soon as I can. I imagine there will be some nasty nights ahead. For now I’ve filled the hot water bottle with cold rainwater and taken an anti-inflammatory. So much for finishing the cabin, setting up solar panels and wind generator, building an outhouse, and fetching firewood. This could lay me up for weeks as far as heavy work goes. I’m glad to have built and moved into the cabin.
I’ve had about enough of the active life for a while and might rather like to be intellectual again. By the time I’d finished my PhD qualifying exam, I was sick of books and ready to get on with this project. It’s now been eight months of almost nonstop activity, and I’m fried. Would have preferred to get my camp completely set up before taking a break, though. Oh well, things are what they are. Now and then, usually in the middle of a storm in the night, I sense that in coming here I’ve maybe bitten off more than I can chew.
I guess if I had to bugger my shoulder, watching a nutria was a good way to do it. In Spanish, nutria means sea cat, and it’s well named: the face definitely looks like a cat. Not sure what it was eating, but if shellfish, that means — according to German — there ’s no red tide here. It was diving repeatedly but not cracking anything open on the surface. When it saw me it stopped and stared. Me too. In a sense it was greed that caused the fall. I wanted to see how close I could get.
There were two ducks in the water when the nutria swam into the basin. Boy, did they get up on the rocks in a hurry. Didn’t go back in until they were sure he had gone. I saw a condor (Andean Condor) earlier. Wheeling black and wild, high against the mottled sky.
MARCH 10, 2001
What’s that sound? Have I heard it before? It’s like a breeze bringing the roar of distant waterfalls, but not quite. A motor? Ah, the teakettle coming to a boil. I just got it out and I’m not used to its murmur yet.
The only place I feel safe walking here is on the narrow strip of beach I cleared for hauling up the boat. Interesting that I fell on the low-tide rocks. Just the other day I noted how peaceful and safe I feel at low tide and how vulnerable when the tide is high. Appearances.
Arm and shoulder still sore, but the cold water bottle helps. I kept it on most of yesterday and again today. The only time my arm is really comfortable is when it’s supported. Some movements are sort of ok, but if I forget and reach out to pick something up — ouch! I need to start exercising it today. If I wait even a few days the muscles will stiffen and start to atrophy. I can’t afford to lose strength, there’s still too much work to do.
This morning I checked the onions, garlic, and potatoes that were still in plastic bags. Good thing I did; a few are starting to rot. So the injury has an upside, since I probably wouldn’t have checked them for a couple of weeks yet and by then the rot would have spread. In finally cleaning up the cabin I found the carpenter’s level I’d been looking for all week. I also happened on the mirror and saw myself for the first time. Grizzled look: shaggy hair and grey beard. Eyes deep with pain. I’m tired of pain. Seems like I’ve had more than my share over the years — physical and emotional. Or maybe other people just shrug it off better than I do.
Songs keep running through my head. One repeats over and over, and then another takes its place. For a while it was “Now I Walk in Beauty,” the Navajo prayer song, then it was the old pop tune “Up on the Roof,” and after that the country-western “She ’s a Good Hearted Woman in Love with a Good Timing Man.” The last was particularly tedious since those are the only words I can remember and they may be wrong. Today I’m singing “Deep in December It’s Nice to Remember.”
And that’s the trick. Somehow in looking back, almost any situation seems to have been ok. The challenge is to live that acceptance in the present, not just in memory.
MARCH 11, 2001
62°F. It’s been a glorious day, with sunlight and scattered clouds over the mountains. First day without rain. Yet I’m still wearing thermal long underwear, two sweaters, a sweatshirt, and vest. Weird. Ah, the dolphins just showed up, and hummingbirds are working the feeder three feet from my head. They’re still nervous when I’m sitting here but getting used to me. God, what a place this is. I sit here and all these critters come by, living their lives. There are kelp beds and shellfish in the shallow basin out front, so I guess it’s a good area to feed.
Exercise and the cold water bottle are helping. My shoulder is feeling somewhat better, and I can use my arm for light tasks. I assembled the stove (dreaming of a fire), decided where to put the outhouse, stretched damp clothes out to dry, hung the onions and garlic in the open air. Just dubbing around.
MARCH 12, 2001
I was convinced it never did this here. It’s been sunny and warm all day with only a few scattered clouds in an otherwise clear blue sky. I wonder how many days in the year will be like this. For now, this one is enough. The sun inspired me to hook up the solar panels. I built wood frames to face north-northeast at 45 degrees from vertical and weighted the bases with heavy rocks to hold them firm in the wind. Eventually, when my shoulder heals, I’ll move them to the point, but for the moment they’re on the rock ridge in front of the cabin. If I cut down a couple of trees, the panels will get another three hours of sun each day, but I like the trees and they protect me from the wind.
I also took a sponge bath in the sun! Hadn’t bathed since I arrived but didn’t feel particularly dirty. I seldom sweat and there ’s no dust here. Winter temperatures will be a lot colder, and I’ll need to find at least enough wood to have one good fire a week to warm up the cabin, bathe, and do laundry.
The only novel I brought to Chile is Right Ho, Jeeves, by P.G. Wodehouse. It tells a frivolous story that I’ve already read several times, but I love the language and can read it again and again. Getting lost in novels is an escape for me, and I decided against bringing any others because part of my reason for coming here is to remove myself from the easy escapes human culture so seductively offers. But on a back street in Punta Arenas I found a hole-in the-wall used bookstore with one short shelf of dusty novels in English. I bought several to read in town and brought with me here the ones I hadn’t finished. I’ve now read Apropos of Dolores by H.G. Wells, The Perfect Storm by Sebastian Junger (I’m not sure that was such a good choice considering my small boat and the weather. Kind of like taking Jaws on a scuba vacation), and am in the middle of The Family Moskat by Isaac Singer. How different that world is from my present life.
Last night while meditating I opened my eyes to an orange moon glowing through the trees. I went carefully out to the rocks and soaked in the quiet beauty of it all. Now the mountains are shining with day’s-end light. The sun is gone, but I’ve hooked up part of the electrical system and will have light to cook by. So I sit here with no dinner started and watch evening fall and the dolphins play in the basin. Looking out over this quiet evening, it’s hard to imagine the weather I’ve seen these past five weeks.
MARCH 13, 2001
The rocks continue to do me in. I’m trying to be very careful, but I slipped and fell hard again today and reinjured my shoulder. It’s very sore, and I have the cold water bottle on it. Cat is sniveling, and I’m not sure what his lament is. I fed him the same rice and black beans that I cooked for dinner. He doesn’t like the beans and wants to eat only the rice, but he needs protein so I mash them together.
It’s been a nice enough day. Not like yesterday, but pleasant. Just now a mini storm rolled through. Strong wind and rain. The solar panels didn’t quiver, and all the water containers filled from the temporary gutter I rigged along the back edge of the cabin roof. This afternoon I finished the electrical system. The solar panels now charge two truck batteries that link directly to the satphone and a 12-volt light. An inverter, also connected to the batteries, converts the 12-volt direct current to 110-volt alternating current to charge the laptop and AA flashlight batteries. The cabin is still a huge mess, but I hung the door. Makes the place feel cozier.
The Simon and Garfunkel song “Cloudy” drifts through my head, bringing memories of New England colleges in the fall. Coeds, wearing boots and wrapped in scarves, move through swirling leaves on their way to private rendezvous. There ’s something mystical about them, a sense that they know the secret; not know as knowledge, but in the way they feel. Like they’re where they should be, doing what they should be doing; comfortable and confident with themselves in the world.
MARCH 14, 2001
Time changed pace today and the clock slowed to a crawl. Not the second hand — the minutes are still moving along — but the hour hand. I feel I’ve been here a long, long time and that a year is forever. Two days ago I marveled at how fast the weeks had sped by. Now, yesterday seems to have crept into the past. I suspect this has to do with physical discomfort. I’m feeling old, achy, and worn out. Maybe now that I’ve slowed down because of my shoulder, the last frantic months are catching up with me. I’m also feeling lonely and miss Patti and Susan. Like the wind and the rain, these moods come and go.
MARCH 15, 2001
This calls for a celebration. Out comes Diane’s whiskey. I also brought one bottle each of Scotch, Drambuie, and cheap brandy: enough for a small taste at night. But back to the cause for celebration. I’m sitting beside a fire! It’s just a tiny test fire outside, but it is burning wood.
I haven’t been out in the boat for a month, and have left this small beach only once. Today I walked the hundred yards to the point and — even though my shoulder seriously didn’t like it — chopped some twigs and branches off a dead tree. They’ve caught fire easily. This doesn’t mean finding firewood will be easy, but this particular wood does burn. I’ve worried about firewood since I talked to a man in Punta Arenas who used to dive for sea urchins along this coast. He said it never stops raining here and is so wet that clothes don’t dry and wood won’t burn. He was wrong on all counts. It rains a lot but not all day every day, clothes slowly dry, and this wood, at least, burns. How often I get caught in anxiety or hope based on false information!
I measured the distance from the cabin to the point, and the electrical wire I brought should just reach. A second cause for celebration! I’ll set up the solar panels, wind generator, and batteries down there where it’s open to the wind and the panels will have sunlight all day, even in winter. They say there is no wind here in winter, but they may mean no raging storms. Tough to imagine not even a breeze.
I picked up and straightened all the bent nails and still have about 350 of various sizes. Hard to believe that of all the nails I brought, so few are left. Most of the building is finished, except the outhouse, entry porch, steps, and awnings, so if I’m frugal the nails should suffice. I’ve run out of small-dimension lumber and had to use the chain saw to rip two 2×4s into 1×2s for shelf framing.
I finally opened the cheese and meat, and as expected the cheese was covered with mold. Scraped it off and gave Cat the scrapings. The smoked meat is fine, but the bacon shows some light mold in places. It’s probably ok, though. When I go camping I often eat salami that’s getting pretty odd. Washed it in hot brine and hung it to dry. The only perishables left to deal with are the potatoes, and except for a few moldy ones they’re in good shape. Little by little, things are coming together.
It rained earlier, but now the sun is glowing through the clouds. There’s a breeze and the ocean is on the move. Ah, the dolphins just came by. One of them leapt out of the water and swam on his back, beating the surface with his tail, so apparently they’re still in courtship mode. Or perhaps he was saying hello to me. I wonder if they know what humans are. I wonder if I do.
MARCH 16, 2001
53°F. Spitting rain. Breeze and whitecaps, mountains half visible. The two small windows are in. With luck, they won’t leak. My shoulder is sore, but at least it’s working. Writing is especially painful. I saw a mosquito in the cabin today and killed it without remorse. I like the door open and lots of bugs come in, but they usually stay against the translucent walls and don’t bother me.
MARCH 17, 2001
43°F. What a hailstorm. I saw an opaque white wall coming across the water, and then it was on me. Stones the size of small marbles are hammering the ground and filling me with anxiety. Will the porch roof hold? Sometimes I’d rather be in a cabin with wood walls and roof, but the tarp covering definitely puts me in closer contact with the weather. Cranky night with my shoulder, but the chill in the air today makes the water bottle colder, which helps. What a blessing to be pain-free for a while.
I hung most of the ceiling plastic yesterday. I knew the job would be maddening, and it was. I had to separate a thousand staples with side-cutters, then drive them in one by one with the hammer. I was working overhead, which caused my shoulder to hurt, trying to keep the plastic stretched tight so it wouldn’t sag, and at the same time holding the tiny staples in place with my duct-taped fingers.
Everything went wrong. I kept smacking myself with the hammer, or dropping the staples, or losing my grip on the plastic. The process provided an excellent opportunity to test the limits of my patience and the creative range of my profanity. There I was, an enraged lunatic perched alone in the middle of nowhere, cussing at an innocent piece of plastic — the peaceful afternoon shattered by bellowed profanity rolling down the waterways and echoing off the rock walls of Staines Peninsula. I decided to quit for the day.
Later, as I prepared to meditate, the physical world was against me again. I slipped the water bottle under my six layers of clothing, but it refused to stay on my shoulder. Then the blanket I wrap around me fell to the floor, and when I reached for it, the pillow I rest my arm on slid from my lap. When I reached for that, the water bottle shifted, and when I repositioned it, the blanket fell to the floor again. Of course pain was a background constant. I finally had to stop and laugh. Afterward I went out to see the stars, and even the Milky Way was shining.
MARCH 18, 2001
Strong gusting winds, but everything seems solid. Dead calm and then, wham, the whole cabin vibrates. The bookshelves are built and the books put up. I look so intellectual now. Already I scratch my head at some of the titles I brought with me, but who knows where my mind will itch in six months? I don’t know if I’m worn out and working slowly or it was just a fiddly task, but the shelves took much longer than expected. I’m not feeling well and suspect it’s a physical symptom of the anxiety I link to the wind. It would be useful to have a barometer to track whether feeling poorly is correlated with barometric pressure. Too bad the one Patti sent from Texas didn’t arrive in Puerto Natales before I left.
Cat is crying and repeatedly coming into the cabin even though he knows he’s not allowed. A while ago I heard strange noises and saw his box shaking. I hope it’s just dreams of adolescent disquiet and not some physical ailment.
I’ve been looking at how my frustration and anger affect me inwardly and how I express it toward myself, Cat, and my work. I miss so much and bring so much unhappiness to myself and those around me by being prickly and judgmental rather than content with the world as it is. Never mind the root causes, it’s just a habit to feed and express the anger. If I can come out of this year with a softer aspect and more patience, the journey will have been worth it.
MARCH 19, 2001
53°F. Calm and cloudy with some blue sky.
I mounted transom wheels on the boat to make it easier to drag up above the high-tide line, and I saw a small rock on the beach that looked like flint and sparked when I smacked it with a steel file. Triggered memories of being a twelve-year-old Boy Scout. One day I’ll try to start a fire with it.
Fwap, fwap, fwap. The tranquil evening is shattered by wings and feet slapping glassy water; a scattered flock of cormorants just now takes off, black backs and white bellies glowing in the evening light. A hawk flies by down low, and two eagles (Crested Caracara) circle higher up. A seagull swoops, calling, and Cat tries to stalk it.
All of a sudden the two resident nonflying ducks with pale yellow bellies and bright orange bills (Flightless Steamer-duck) start to frantically run flapping and squawking across the basin. A nutria in hot pursuit chases them for a long way out into the channel. She pops up for a breath and then back down, swimming fast beneath the surface. At one point she strikes a shoal of rocks, scrambles up, races across, then leaps back into the sea. The ducks finally escape, but that animal is a serious predator. Cat better be careful near the water’s edge. I wonder if the nutria would come up on land to rob my bacon. Better hang it high just in case.
MARCH 20, 2001
MORNING: 44°F and quiet but for the distant murmur of waterfalls. If the calm holds, I’ll go for the propane tanks. I long for silence, and hope there will be more still days in winter. The wind is often a huge oppressive presence in my mind. Planning boat trips in advance is impossible since I can’t predict the wind and it can so quickly turn on me.
EVENING: But today was joyful, a time to give thanks. The sky remained sunny and the sea glassy calm, I discovered the outboard still works, I now have enough propane for the year, and I began to gather a supply of firewood! The challenge, of course, is to give thanks no matter what the circumstance, but sometimes that’s not so easy to do.
This morning I assembled the survival kit and wheeled the boat down to the water. The outboard was difficult to start because I’m still not sure how much choke to give it. I went for the propane, and since the two-hundredpound tanks float, I just tied them on and towed them, rather than wrestle them into the boat.
On the beach not far from the tanks I found three large driftwood logs! Can’t believe I didn’t notice them before. Maybe the recent storms washed them in. I cut and hauled twenty small rounds of light dry wood from one log that should burn well for kindling and twelve bigger rounds from another that are solid and heavy, not as dry, and will be more difficult to split. From the butt of that log I sliced two skookum chopping blocks. The tide was down, and moving the rounds over the slippery rocks to the boat was a nasty task, but I wanted to take advantage of the calm sea. Humping the rounds up the beach here was also a grunt. The wheels helped for dragging the boat up, but it still wasn’t easy. I’m sore and not sure I’ll be able to sleep tonight or move tomorrow. I took a Tylenol 3 and wish I’d brought a hundred of them instead of only fifty.
It’s so still now I can see stars reflected in the sea. Two of them — large and low over the eastern mountains — twinkle from red to greenish blue, and far to the south I can see what I take to be the Southern Cross. I hear Diane’s whiskey calling.
MARCH 21, 2001
I think of all the wind and rain these past six weeks, and now this. The mountain crest cuts a sharp purple line across the pale blue sky. The early sun just shows through the trees and has yet to touch the western face of the mountains. But in the hollow of their shadowed mass, a single jewel is shining. I put the glasses on it to see a tiny wisp of cloud caught by a slanting sun ray.
Now the sun pierces from behind the scattered kelp leaves floating in the basin and sparkles in the frosted grass on shore. A large black moth clings to the white wall of my cabin. To the west, the rock cliffs glow in the golden light, and waterfalls shimmer to the sea. Further out there’s a light wind riffle, but here the water lies glassy calm. Seabirds call their foghorn honk, hummingbirds are feeding; Cat’s asleep, and I’m writing these notes.
I woke before 8, stiff and sore, but felt better after stretching. I’d intended to try fishing and bring in another load of firewood, but if the wind doesn’t blow up, this is a perfect day to cross the east channel and explore an inlet that leads into the mountains. I could use some rest and a treat, but my work ethic grumbles that I should take advantage of the calm to fetch more wood. For now I’ll finish coffee, prepare the boat, and rejoice.
EVENING: 44°F and still flat calm. It’s been clear all day, but now wisps of cloud drift over the mountains. I followed the inlet for five miles to its far end where a crystal river pours into the sea. Along the way I saw some pretty places and kept thinking, “I could have built here,” but on such a day as this, everywhere is alluring. It’s when the storms roll through....I wandered for a while along the first sand beach I’ve seen, and it was delightful to stroll blithely with no risk of falling. The motor worked fine, but the wheel mountings caused water to splash into the boat, which added weight and decreased top speed to only 11 mph.
Back here I went west to Staines Peninsula and found a driftwood log. Cut and brought home twenty medium rounds that need to dry because the log has been under water at high tide. On the way home, I stopped to sunbathe on another delightful beach. I was wearing thermal underwear and full rain gear, but I sunbathed nonetheless. This morning before I left, I put an extra container of gas in the boat even though sure I wouldn’t need it. But the load of wood radically increased gas consumption, and the main tank ran dry a mile from home. Sometimes I’m damn glad I’m anal about this “just in case” thing.
It felt great to be on the water. Now it feels good to be back in camp, ready to settle in and read by the fire. The cabin is a mess and I’m more and more eager that it be organized and tidy, but if the weather holds, cleaning up will have to wait.
MARCH 22, 2001
Arms and shoulders ached this morning, but I went for wood anyway. Cutting and hauling has already been a lot of work and I’ll need much more for the year. When I eventually light fires in the stove, I’ll need to take off layers of clothes. Does this make sense? Why not just keep on the thermal underwear, sweaters, snowsuit, toque, and mitts? It’s like Thoreau’s realization at Walden that using a horse to plow a field requires more land to feed the horse and more work to clear the land, etc.
I was motoring slowly back with a load of rounds when several dolphins appeared and started playing with the boat. They swam just underneath, spun and cut back past the bow so close I could feel their wakes. Then they roared off toward shore forty meters away, skidded into a tight turn against the rock wall, and, sometimes three abreast, race back toward me. The last instant before contact they dove and swooped just beneath the bow again. They did this over and over, and I think part of the game was to see how close they could come without actually brushing the boat. I got bumped a couple of times and could almost hear the others jeering at the clumsy one. If I hadn’t known they were dolphins and playing it might have been frightening.
During my first three-month wilderness retreat in British Columbia twenty-five years ago, I discovered something profound I couldn’t put into words. Now, I’m fairly good with words but don’t feel I’m learning or writing anything new. These journal entries contain descriptions of land and sea, weather, and daily life, but no deep shifts in consciousness or perception. In one sense this is ok, even perfect. If beauty and wonder are all there is, if there is no other manifestation of Spirit or God, so be it. This is more than enough. But I also feel I ought to have something to share when I go back. As Patti said before I left, “When listening for your heart song, listen for us as well.”
I guess things will work out. The Bob Marley song “Three Little Birds” is drifting through my heart and mind. “Don’t worry about a thing, cause every little thing going to be all right.” I have no idea where the Zen activity of “gathering wood and carrying water” (or in my case, carrying wood and gathering water) will lead me, but slowly I’m beginning to learn to trust the process.
I saw jet contrails for the first time yesterday far away over the mountains, but it didn’t seem to affect me. I don’t have a sense of super solitude here a hundred miles from the nearest town and the world of other people. I’m just here. It’s where I live now.
While looking for a place to build the outhouse, I discovered a small kingdom of delicate ferns and mosses; secret grottoes under the trees. I’m always facing the sea, the mountains, and the sky — the huge and awesome — but I’ll turn inward, too, before long.
MARCH 23, 2001
I sure hope it rains tonight. What? Did I just say that? Yup. I need more water, even though I can still scrape by for a few days if I’m frugal. Who knew there ’d be a four-day drought? Rain might also drown the black flies that savaged me outside today. I’m currently sitting on the porch, and while there are lots of black flies flying against the translucent tarp, none are around me. If I move three feet forward into the opening I’ll get bit, but back here I’m left in peace. This is very weird, but I’m thankful. I discovered years ago that in a translucent enclosure black flies and mosquitoes stay near the walls and ceiling. Inside the cabin, too, they jitter against the windows and walls and leave me alone.
Fish for dinner! Tasty, but small and very bony. I fished a shallow kelp bed north of here in front of a beautiful rock wall, stained red in spots and naturally etched into abstract hieroglyphs. First time I’ve tried fishing and I did catch dinner, but they were hard to hook. I also cleaned up the first sign of humans I’ve seen: a large fishing float and some plastic bags washed in by the storms.
A breeze is blowing and the ocean lapping the beach. The stars seem super bright and I think I’ll go bathe in them for a while. Often, as I go to bed deep in the night, I remember that it’s still early evening where Patti and Susan live. Being up late here is different from in society. Once it’s dark, it’s dark, and 10 PM feels about the same as 3 AM.
MARCH 24, 2001
This is great. I’m looking out my three-by-four-foot Plexiglas window and the world comes straight in to me. Now I won’t be able to hide from the enormity of the cosmos — unless I put up curtains. Perhaps curtains aren’t primarily to prevent others from looking in, but to allow those inside to not see out.
55°F. Cloudy with bits of sun and blue; strong breeze, and sea on the move. March’s weather has been much gentler than February’s. That was one dog bitch of a month to arrive here and set up camp. I’ve been out in the boat for the past four days, and it’s felt good to stay here today. I extended the rain gutter and caught a half gallon of a light sprinkle. Until it really rains again, I’ll use the water trapped in rock pools for washing. Fish and potatoes for dinner. All fried in grease! Yum! Cat gets the heads and bones.
MARCH 25, 2001
MORNING: Happy day, it’s raining! Am I losing my mind, saying that here? It’s only sprinkling, but the sound of water falling into the bucket has changed from striking bare plastic to splashing in liquid. So there’s at least enough for coffee and porridge.
“Worry Mind” is sure powerful. What if ...? Because it’s so cold and humid here, I need very little water. During the first week I just kept the large cook pot full of water I collected from a small area of the tarp over the tent. Now I have about five gallons, which could last ten days, and a catchment system that collects water from half the cabin roof. Yet I run what-if scenarios in my mind: What will I do if the sea remains too rough to take the boat to the nearest creek? Should I start using part seawater to cook my porridge? Do I need to boil the water I might need to use from the rock pools?
This is loony. Basic survival requires a competent ego, but it has usurped control and is no longer a servant/friend of my whole being — which includes spirit, intuition, and love, and finds joy and peace through relaxing into the flow of existence. The ego wants to dominate, and in order to justify its overbearing presence, it creates looming illusory problems to solve.
TWILIGHT: The sea has calmed but is still restless in a light breeze; tide coming in, mountains hidden in cloud. A kingfisher calls from the island across the basin, two hundred yards to the south. It’s been a lonesome day on and off. Not only do I miss Patti and Susan, but I miss being able to live harmoniously with anyone. Cat just jumped up for some loving. We’re getting pretty attached, and I wonder what I’ll do with him and where I’ll go when I leave here.
The water-worry inspired me to hook up a real rain gutter. Nothing like a five-day drought to focus attention. First I criticize the ego’s insurrection, and then let it do what it wants. All in a day’s activity.
MARCH 26, 2001
Here’s irony: unless I open the door when I cook, the windows fog up and I can’t see out. After spending so much time, effort, and caulk to make the cabin completely watertight, I now need to build small openable windows for ventilation. The black flies are inactive so far today, but I imagine they’ll be fierce later if the wind doesn’t blow. I hope it’s like Canada here and the flies are nasty for only about three weeks in fall and spring. Cat is dozing in the early sun. Ducks are in the basin. I’m glad to have them for neighbors and hope they stay all winter.
I wake each morning seriously stiff and sore, and feel I’ll be stiff and sore forever. It’s a challenge to live one day at a time and to meet physical pain with patience and compassion, rather than with fear and anger. Late last night I saw clearly that suffering results from holding on — physically, psychologically, emotionally, and spiritually. There are many ways to do it and many ways to talk about it, but basically I’m either holding on or letting go. Doubt, hate, certainty are ways of holding tight. Faith, love, wondering are open and loose. Yet aimless drifting can bring suffering, too. The trick is to stay open without clinging to the looseness.
EVENING: Even though it’s fall, today was the first time it’s felt like summer. 57°F with high light clouds and clear mountains. There was just enough breeze to keep the black flies down, and I lazed in the sun for a while. But it was too perfect a day for working to slack for long, so I stretched electrical wire to the point instead. Struggling through the dense brush above the beach, I tied the wire to a tree every fifteen feet or so. Amazingly, I brought just enough to reach from the cabin to an area open to both sun and wind. I cleared a place for the solar panels in a small hollow and figured out where and how to erect the wind generator tower. Pain slows me down, and it’s taking longer and longer to do each job. I also hung the bedding out to air for the first time and changed the mountings on the wheels so water won’t splash into the boat.
A while ago I turned off the light to save juice and went down to the low-tide beach. The sky had been washed clean by the rain and was strewn with stars. I could hear dolphins breathing in the dark of the basin.
MARCH 27, 2001
So much for summer. It’s wet, grey, cold, and windy. The ocean’s up in arms. Arms up in shoulders, sore and achy. When I leave here, perhaps I’ll head far north to the Atacama Desert to soak in the sun. Meanwhile, maybe I’ll make a second cold water bottle from boat patching material and Shoe Goo.
A condor flew over a while ago and I had time to put the glasses on it. I’ve never seen one so close before. Long splayed wing tips and white head. He hovered low against the wind, then hooked a wing and was gone. A rainbow built against the western cliffs as morning sun shone on a patch of rolling swells and roaring whitecaps. Ah, a hummingbird just flew so close I could feel the breeze from his wings on my face. Maybe he saw his reflection in my glasses.
LATE AFTERNOON: Broken sky of grey and blue; the wind and rain have passed. An elegant gull swoops to steal the catch from three diving ducks. All four are stark contrasts in black and white. What can it mean? Why did the scene seem so peaceful when the ducks were diving for fish to kill, but lose that tranquil tone now that the gull is after them? Perhaps because I identify more closely with birds than with fish. Or because I can’t see the underwater mayhem; out of sight is out of mind.
A longing and loneliness lie on me today, but it’s not much different from the ache of eating alone in a city restaurant. What I really want is a double-scoop chocolate and pistachio ice cream cone. The fat has melted off out here and all my ribs are showing. I’m eating plenty, but with the cold and work I’ve probably lost nearly thirty pounds.
MARCH 28, 2001
I’d thought perhaps the wind had gone until next spring, but it’s back down to business today and the sea is ripping and roaring. The trees are shedding their leaves, and some are turning color. I wonder how intense the color change will be. I’ll know within a month or two.
Hard to believe I’ve been here almost two months and I’m still not settled in. My shoulder has slowed me down, and once I moved into the cabin my drive to finish building lost some urgency, but now it’s time to get it done. After organizing the food, I need to set up the stove, solar panels, and wind generator. I also need to hook up the water barrel and propane light, design a better system to haul up the boat, build an outhouse, entry porch, steps, and awnings, and get more firewood. The list goes on and on. Then, before I know it, it will be time for the huge sad job of tearing everything down again.
MARCH 29, 2001
50°F. Grey and rainy, mountains hidden, strong breeze, sea neither calm nor super rough. Just another day. Now I remember, this is how it’s been most of the time I’ve been here — except that short magic spell when there were blue skies and calm days.
How immediate and intense life can be: get up, deal with pain, drink coffee, cook and eat, write in journal, read, listen to rain on the roof, watch the tide come in and slip away, watch the ducks and hummingbirds, exercise, meditate, dream, defecate, grumble. After two nights of good sleep and two days of not too heavy work, I feel better.
I’ve been sorting and measuring food again today: dividing all items into four portions — one for each three-month period. Each item has a month written on it. From experience, I know I can go around and around trying to remember how much I can use each week. Things like powdered milk come in large cans, so I’ve calculated that a small can needs to last ten days. I’ve even drawn lines on the block of cheese with a Magic Marker to delineate how much I can eat each month. If I die here, people will probably think, “Wow, very organized. Too bad he died of a stroke, or drowned, or . . .”
Food consumption looks pretty good even though I hadn’t figured Cat would eat almost 20 percent as much as I eat. The only thing I need to cut back on is oatmeal. Since I can’t count on getting picked up just when I’ve been here a year, I’m setting aside a reserve to last an extra month. When I came I was so focused on getting here that I thought very little about leaving at the end of the year. I just figured that somehow I’d get back out with the navy boat or a fisherman, but it may not be so easy to make arrangements via email.
My staple meals are oatmeal in the morning and rice with lentils, black beans, pinto beans, or peas in the evening. I also have bouillon cubes and pasta to make soup, enough flour for a small piece of fry bread each day, and potatoes — a few of which are already starting to sprout. I expected to catch and eat fish regularly, but often the sea is too rough, so I’m glad I brought some bacon and other smoked meat. Along with these staples, I have condiments, plenty of good old-fashioned lard, and various treats: popcorn, dried fruit, honey, peanut butter and jam, chocolate, chocolate pudding, coffee, cocoa, sugar, powdered milk. I supplement this diet with multivitamins, vitamin C, potassium, calcium, and iron. Since I’ve been here I’ve drunk only instant coffee, but I have seven pounds of the real stuff for that first morning cup. And good news! I brought thirteen, not seven, bars of chocolate.
As I was folding the sacks where I’ve had the food stored since Punta Arenas, I started to feel like this is an ending rather than a beginning. So much has happened: spending six weeks in Punta Arenas and finding everything I needed to buy; packing and waterproofing all the gear and supplies; locating transport to Puerto Natales and then out to here; having my food on a beach a mile away during ten days of rain, wind, and storm tides; visiting the bay where I originally intended to settle and deciding to stay here; building the cabin; having the boat flip and repairing the outboard; injuring my shoulder; being constantly in the presence of incredible beauty.
Keeping company with the cat’s-paws on the water, waves of loneliness and longing have swept over me all day. For whom or what? Susan, Patti, family, British Columbia and rainbow trout, Baja California and amberjack, sun and warmth? Perhaps the essence of longing is an awareness of the absence of people and places that have been important in my life; remembering the wonder I’ve been blessed to experience. I imagine I’ll also long for here someday: grey skies, rain, wind, and whitecaps; hummingbirds at the feeder, Cat on my lap, heart in my chest — lub-dub. It is enough.
MARCH 30, 2001
53°F. Cloudy but no wind, sea restless, mid tide and coming in. I wasn’t in the mood to exercise my shoulder last night so I let it go, but remembering the way it feels now may put me in the mood next time I’m not. I’m going to make and start wearing a copper bracelet, which I hope will help the arthritic aching in my hands.
Anxiety has gripped me today. I feel myself tighten against it, but know that only by surrendering to my own suffering and death will the clenching fear dissolve; only by letting the world come in and by flowing out to meet it. Of the teachings I’ve heard from meditation instructor Jack Kornfield, the need to acknowledge and accept anxiety has been most helpful. It’s not my anxiety. Anxiety is part of our human condition, and we need to learn to treat it as an old friend, or least a familiar acquaintance. Many therapists say to do something to avoid anxiety, but in such endless activity much of our experience — joyful and painful — is lost. Seems like a hard bargain.
MARCH 31, 2001
The weather affects my mood so strongly. I awoke this morning to the sound of no-rain and have felt good all day. A light breeze from the east-southeast is pushing a slight swell through a fairly calm sea straight in toward me. The mountains are veiled down low in broken clouds with peaks just peeking through. A high cloud ring circles the sun so it might rain again soon, but for now the air feels light. Tomorrow is April 1 (equivalent of October 1 in the North) and time to hook up the stove for heat. I want to move the solar panels to the point and hope it will be calm the day after tomorrow. Uh-huh. Order it up!
Today has been productive. I hooked up the propane light, which works fine but is noisier than expected, collected a sack of sphagnum moss for storing the potatoes to prevent rot and more sprouting, and got the chimney through the cabin wall and braced on the outside. Had to climb on the roof to do it. That back corner is muddy, unlevel, and risky to work on. I still need to hook the stove to the pipe, but the tough job is done. Next big job is an outhouse. It will be a treat to shit in comfort sitting out of the rain. Before long, I want to fetch a boatload of gravel from somewhere. The soil here — a tangled mat of fine roots — holds a huge amount of water and turns into instant mud as soon as it’s disturbed. Shoulder is, of course, painful.
I also built a tower for the satphone antenna close enough to the cabin that the cable just reaches and I can use the phone inside where it’s dry. Very cool. There must be a small break in the trees across the cove in precisely the right direction, because I can link to a satellite from only that one spot. If I move the antenna eighteen inches in any direction, the reception fades. I’ll write the “I’m ok” email in a while and leave it in queue to be sure everything is ready for tomorrow.
I saw two nutrias together a while ago, so perhaps it’s mating time. If I hadn’t looked just then, I’d have missed them. Maybe they come by every day but I don’t happen to look when they pass.