Second Wind Voyage: A Cellist Goes to Sea

We were thrilled to have Camden with us for his first open ocean passage and exposure to South Pacific island life! Though I took the photos, Camden kindly provided the text--allowing all of us to see this world from a fresh perspective.

After growing up in Seattle, you’d think I would know a thing or two about separation anxiety from the sun... but I never felt so aware of its comforts until the sun started to go down on the first day of our passage from Fiji to Vanuatu.
Before my first overnight passage aboard Second Wind, sunsets on the water had been enjoyed from a beach, or perhaps in the final moments of sailing to a new anchorage- beautiful, thoughtful moments wrapped in vivid colors and the sense that you were definitely on vacation. (Oh, and after age 21, often with a nice drink in hand, too!) That night, though, my hands were gripping the wheel instead of a beer, and as the sun withdrew its last melancholy rays from our imminent universe I silently freaked out just a little bit inside. “Please, please don’t go!” I thought.

After landing at Nadi airport the morning before, I had quickly been reacquainted with boating life- the smells of diesel; the oft-wetted foot; the incomparable focus on present company and, well, focus on the present itself. But as soon as I’d had a moment to sigh in wonder looking at the stunning mountains of Fiji, we were out on the water- and how beautiful that water is. Crystal clear blue- hugging you, inviting you to be comfortable, unlike the frigid waters of the Pacific Northwest where I grew up sailing. But as it came time to make our passage to Vanuatu, Mom mentioned: “well, it’s always hard leaving Fiji.” At first, I thought she meant because it was so beautiful- but, it turns out, she was referring to the wavy things below and the windy things above.

So here we were, on night one, and my parents are about to head down to get some rest before their shifts at the wheel. It’s my first time 1.) single handing a 44 foot boat; 2.) sailing in 25-30 knot winds with serious ocean swell; 3.) sailing in complete darkness; and 4.) meeting Jeeves, our well-meaning but gullible windvane autopilot. “Goodnight, hon! You know what you’re doing, and Dad’ll be up a little before 2:00 to start his shift! Have fun, see you in the morning!” ... gulp.

I actually can’t describe with words what it’s like to sail at full speed through complete blackness in the middle of the ocean. I can say that I have NEVER before been so in awe of the power of nature, and felt so vulnerable up against it.

But then came day two! And night two. The things that had been terrifying on night one were interesting and stimulating on night two, and between the nights were bright, sapphire days punctuated by multiple coffees and long, unwinding conversations. We grew closer, as a family, than we had had the opportunity to be for a long time, and seeing my parents at ease with their astoundingly challenging environment was inspiring and illuminating.

It was illuminating in the sense that after two weeks living on the boat in Vanuatu and Fiji, I definitely didn’t feel as if I’d been on vacation: I felt as though I had been fully awake, open to new experience, for the first time in a long time. Every day there were new challenges, great and small, and I felt a childlike clarity of experience instead of the adult-like clarity of self to which I’d become so accustomed.

It is also significant that a sense of presence in the moment and optimism that our culture calls “childlike” is not just for children in Vanuatu, and that the assumption that we will change and become more serious as we age is a cultural expectation that is not shared by the whole world. Mom has already written wonderfully about the people of Vanuatu, and if I began delving into it here it would likely become its own blog post in itself- but suffice it to say the people I met there challenged my assumptions of the world as much as sailing through the darkness.

Immediately after flying back to the states, I picked up my cello from the shop, rehearsed like crazy, and played a few concerts- the crazy American life had resumed. But I am haunted by the memory of that first sunset under sail. I don’t know how many sunsets I’d seen before in my life without really feeling the immensity of that moment, and the power of the night. So it begs the question-

What else have I seen a hundred times and not REALLY seen?

I’m not sure, but my eyes are peeled like never before.

PASSAGE FROM FIJI TO VANUATU