My mom is perplexed. ‘You’re just bobbing around in the ocean,’ she complains.

My daughters are bewildered ‘I’m exhausted!’ my older daughter says with her career and single-parenting.

I should be there, offering support like most moms. I should be helping my own mom, taking some of the burden off my brothers.

But I do none of that.

Instead I live in the canopy of weather, blowing around like the fronds of a tree. I cannot separate myself from the motion of sailing anymore than the clouds can exit the sky.

Let me explain:

In 2015 I boarded a 50’ ketch in Dutch Harbor, Alaska. I knew nothing about sailing. I was alienated from my life, deeply saddened and lost. So why not board a stranger’s boat and head to Australia?

For the first month I sailed through the North Pacific, I cried, the huge ocean swells mirroring my despair. My life hung low, like the grey cloud deck pelting rain into my face. I was grief-stricken and awed, my heart molted into a sludge of slumber; I can’t believe this guy even let me on his boat, I was such a mess.

At one point the captain, a 75 year old Aussie, came up on deck and with great relief after searching for me found me straddling the bow, the swells washing over my feet. He breathlessly suggested I wear a life vest and harness in if I want to sit there.

Weeks later I experienced my first ‘land ho!’ —the mountain edges of Hawaii breaking through the early morning mist of the sea. I make pancakes, stunned this sailing thing really gets you places! I straddle the bow again—my preferred seat—and ride her like a horse as the boat punches through the swells, the islands claiming more and more of the sky as we lope near her beaches.

For the next seven months I sail south then west through the Pacific. The clouds dissipate and the sun turns my hair blond.

I see my first dolphins.

I catch a tuna and eat its heart while it is still warm in my hand.

I see clouds with such punctured beauty I cry.

I swim with sharks.

I drink water made directly from the sea.

I dive coral so brilliantly colored with so many creatures it dulls the world above the waterline.

I swing from halyards tipping into the sky, hang suspended for just a second, then plunge into the blue, blue ocean.

I play softball with little kids from an island that grows yellow pearls.

I drink kava from a village that makes it by chewing the roots and spitting the saliva into a bowl.

I watch weather systems claim the sky.

At some point, I have crossed the dateline of my sadness and entered into a new time zone of awed delight; where the calendar marks South Pacific islands rather than days; where there are no hours or meal times; where the sun rises and sets and nothing more is required.

I laugh and chatter. I eat and sleep and swim and lift like steam.

The Aussie captain, content with his beans on toast, is happy I’ve slipped into the magical world he’s been holding the door open to all this time.

I call my state the Epic Germany—a slur on ‘Journey’ after drinking too much rum with some of the first cruisers I meet one night. The name sticks and we jump naked into the water at night under a studded sky yelling ‘Epic Germany! Epic Germany!’

This chant, repeated many times in midnight swims, in jokes and years later in emails as we take pains to stay connected, begins to expand for me.

I spend the next eight years crewing all over the world, learning to sail. I buy my boat in Mexico and sail her across the South Pacific to French Polynesia and onward, anchoring in remote atolls and islands and falling deeper into a strange state I can only describe as prayer.

I’m not praying to anything, rather I am in the prayer; the oscillation of tides and swells, the pressing of wind and the cock of a bird’s head as it flies around my boat looking for a place to land. A frequency where cuttle fish ogle me at my swim step and coral can rip my boat to shreds. I’m in all that.

Sailing the seas has turned into an intimate benediction of sailing the seas of me, a communion of all I am and will be. Where the sails of my boat carve a cleave in the sky and open up the torrents of rain, the blaze of light and the depth of darkness of weather systems internal to me, yet outward around me.

I behold myself through the lens of surging seas, briny air, broken boat parts, brilliant sun and cranky weather. I create my time and space: The soursop flooding my mouth, the ‘aunty’ teaching me to make roti at the market, and the electrician magically anchoring next to me when I need help, is an outward expression of my inner terrain.

The dolphins peering up at me as they swim under my bow are as telling as the people I attract.

Sailing isn’t about ‘getting there’ for me—it’s become a map into the composition of myself where I meet me, kiss myself on the cheek and devote my best to my best, without any certainty on how it will all go.

Everything—my kids, my friends, my decisions, my businesses, my failures, my loves, my stubbornness, my ignorance, my gratitude—has brought me into this strange, and addictive world of sailing.

I’m awake when the sun rises and I watch fish feed around my boat. A hot shower is a gift from the gods when I can find it, and fresh food is never forsaken on my boat. I live as honestly as I can against a backdrop of South Pacific winds and swells and reefs that could well do me in.

I feel in union—in the middle of a prayer—with how I live.

So, I remain on my boat, recognizing everything and everyone around me is a mirror reflecting back to me the communion of my inner world. I never know what will happen next, who will show up next or what I will be facing next—I just know I somehow continue to expand with the prayer I find myself in.

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I was taken completely.

And like all good lovers, it was breathtaking in the beginning arcing to a domestic contentment then turning into a gas lighting experience where my own creative mind and critical thinking skills faded. I couldn’t even concentrate enough to read a book.

I don’t even know what to call this lover, destroyer of my time without admitting how deeply tempted I was by the charms, smiles, fascinating facts, and an unrelenting dopamine hits delivered night and day.

Instagram, Facebook, Substack, the news, and all things internet had my heart, my mind and my better judgement. In less than a week my unfettered access to the internet hooked my brain; before I knew it I was scrolling through Insta before I went to bed and found some platform to ‘inform’ me when I woke up.

The last few days before I flew back to Tonga, I realized I had entered a great seduction; a retrieval and co-option of my brain. So subtle and alluring I didn’t realize how deep-in I was until I was preparing to leave.

This ‘lover’, this weird flame who burned for me at all hours, calling my name in woeful or excited tones, anticipating my every move and desire was harmless at first until it closed its fist around my throat cutting off my breath with its demands for my soul.

All I wanted was to get back to Tonga, where people carry smiles rather than phones; where the kids play in the water or walk home from school in groups, not a device to be seen; where the market brims with fresh produce and there is no Uber or Lyft or Grab. Where the pace of life is tempered with open, empty time to watch the clouds, talk about the swell or complain about the mango tree pollen.

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Can you believe it? There are still places in the world where life is lived before devices took over our life. In Tonga, I still pay for things in cash—a transaction rich in social connection most of us don’t realize we have lost. In the states I tap my phone to pay, completely forgetting there is a person behind the counter.

I balk at the option to use my palm print to pay for groceries via a biometric system Amazon is rolling out. I couldn’t believe it! My palm print? What is happening?

I look around me, stunned our lives are losing the glue that keeps us human. This isn’t convenience—even though it feels like it—its highway robbery of our beautiful human nature. It’s the great train robbery of our minds, the Oceans 11 of our psyche.

And yet, if I lived in the States, it would seem normal. I wouldn’t even notice the theft of my thoughts. I would consider it ‘innovation’ and ‘cool’. I would remain tech fluent and upgrade my devices like everyone else.

I’d use AI like I used google when it first rolled out—access to all things-all things. I have a friend who says he writes an article then posts it to ChatGPT to ‘clean it up’. He also told me ChatGPT can make a picture of him with less wrinkles.

“What?” I said in protest. “Why would you do that?”

“My writing is better,” he said. “My photo looks better.”

But what’s wrong with just you, everything you? I want to shout.

It’s only because I live on a 39’ sail boat out in the middle of the South Pacific that I have a blueprint of a life architected at a humane pace. The internet isn’t so turn-key—I have to fire up my Starlink to connect and can only run it for a couple of hours due to its power demands. I have no bandwidth to scroll endlessly nor do I have the desire. I want to set my sails or fish or go snorkeling. I want to read in my cockpit or tackle a boat project. I feel alive and real when I do those things. I feel connected and inquisitive. I feel me.

That sounds inconvenient, against the backdrop of instant everything, but it’s not. It’s life saving.

I can dip in and dip out—my world is ruled by weather, sea state, sunrise and sunset; I drink tea in my cock pit as the sun comes up and I watch the birds swoop in early morning feeding frenzies. I read with great appetite, a novel’s world cuddling me to sleep at the end of the day. There is no food deliveries—I have to cook everything. There is no Amazon deliveries—I have to learn to be creative if I don’t have the right part.

But when I go back to the States, I watch my daughter roll her eyes when she explains how to work some new-fangled feature on my phone. I laugh, embarrassed, secretly feeling adrift in a culture that demands the exchange of a thoughtful life for a convenient life—the latter a decoy to a type of subjugation we are already used to, we are already blind to, we are already lost to.

It took less than three weeks in the States for me to hand over a good portion of my time and brain to the seducing forces of ‘instant information and dopamine.’

I feel like a dog shaking water from its fur as I gain my balance back here in Tonga, where the hardware store has an example of how to fill out a check taped to the top of the counter. Remember those little helpful small business prompts?

Every Thursday night a bunch of Tongans and expats get together at a little tavern here in Vava’u called The Basque—no one hangs out on their phone. People play pool, a woman cuts our hair if we want, dogs run through the place and kids hang over all of us. The waitress knows exactly what each of us drink and before I cross the floor to the bar she has a Heineken ready for me. We spend hours talking. I never recall seeing anyone dipping their head down to examine their phone.

I’m anchored now in my favorite little spot, no one around. It’s raining and my bananas are going bad—I’ll make banana bread, read and tackle one of my many boat projects. There isn’t enough solar energy today for me to fire up my Starlink—my internet access truncated by the lack of clear skies. In the States, access was 24/7, which was part of the problem. My ability to tolerate moments of boredom, stagnation or suspended action dissolved as I simply reached for my phone to relieve me of that nothingness.

Here I never feel stagnation or boredom. Yesterday a turtle swam around my boat, popping its head up, then diving down, then popping up. The starfish are so huge here I can see them spread across the sandy bottom from the deck of my boat. I watch this morning the rain clouds moving through the bay, taking turns dumping warm rain; I watch the wind ripple the water until it hits my boat, passes then ruffles the fronds of the palm trees on the hills surrounding me. Sounds boring, but it’s incredibly fulfilling to watch the world we have been trained to ignore. Last night the clouds blazed a pink across their cumulous towers; the only thing missing was the dramatic sound of kettle drums!

I am in such peace.

And at the same time, I am so sad we are en masse losing our ability to stay human, to remain remarkable and independent. I long for all of us the days before devices corralled and held our brains hostage.

Do you remember what it was like to wait for a letter to arrive?

Do you remember what it was like to anticipate something you knew nothing about because there wasn’t an internet to set your expectations?

Do you remember the exasperation of boredom that eventually spawned a fort in the backyard, or a ‘concoction’ in the kitchen?

Do you remember endless sleepovers on summer nights with only a flashlight for entertainment?

Do you remember what life was like before the unfettered access to instant dopamine hits?

And for a whole generation, there are no such memories. According to the Journal of Pediatric Nursing, digital addition occurs as early as the age of two, short-circuiting the beautiful evolution of a young brain, the blooming of curiosity and observation. Who are we becoming if a whole generation denies itself access to their raw, unfiltered, bored selves?

These are just questions I think about because I have a unique advantage of stepping away from a culture demanding instant everything. I can assure you, I lost perspective while I was in the States. I was almost gleeful accessing my instagram and loved settling in for a good scroll.

Returning to Tonga, back to my sailboat, back to a culture steeped in family connections, generosity, kindness and a pace filled with space is a balm. Anchored in town I hear a choir singing every morning at 5:30am. When they disband the men sing a final chant in deep tones. The sun is just rising.

Life is more challenging—nothing is delivered to me; I have to lug my backpack around as I shop for food and have to make multiple trips as I can only carry so much. I have to time the tides to make water and when the wind is going to pound, I have to move my boat to a protected area. All of this takes time, patience and space. There is no hot water to wash my clothes and my showers take place after a good swim using water warmed in my solar shower. I covet tomatoes as they are rare here. Cheese has been impossible to find until a few days ago when provisioning ship arrived. Gasoline runs out here. If I want good bread I have to make it myself.

All of this seems like a hassle, but for some reason I feel satisfied and fulfilled.

The other day as I rode my bike to the boat yard I was going down a hill and skidded on some loose gravel. I didn’t lose my balance, but a local watched me falter. He ran out and swept away the gravel on the road so I wouldn’t risk a fall on my daily route to the boat yard.

That guy wasn’t on his phone, he was gazing at the world as I flew down the hill in front of his house.

I wish this wakefulness and presence for all of us. When we are isolated and siloed into frameworks of social media and constant ‘information’, we lose these simple gestures born from just being present. Just gazing out the window. Just watching the world and keeping each other in good stead.

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I had spent the last year or so preparing for this day—the day I haul anchor and head 3000 miles west, crossing the Pacific Ocean by myself all the way to Marquesas, French Polynesia.

I had provisioned extensively; filled my bilges with cartons of my favorite grapefruit juice, prepared meals ahead and even had a cold pizza from the night before sitting in my fridge. I had new standing and running rigging, new batteries, fresh oil and polished fuel. I had spare parts for my spare parts.

In short, I dialed in this 39’ feet of floating fibre glass for my first solo open ocean crossing. The only thing I had left to do was hoist my dinghy up on deck, deflate it and cinch it down underneath my boom vang for the open ocean ride of its life.

I’m beyond excited!

But scared? I’m not scared at all.

I’m impatient! Maybe a bit nervous. In fact I do a short breath exercise to slow my breathing down, calm my nervous system. My excitement hard to reign in. I had dreamed of this day for years!

I walk slowly to the bow, scanning the other boats around me and lift my gaze to the westward horizon. I haul and sail off anchor for the last time in Mexico.

Friends honk horns and wish me well—I am the only sailboat leaving that day. Little kids film me and I even a friend escorts me a few miles west as he heads to some off shore islands, his racing boat too fast to stay at my steady pace for long.

By noon I’m all on my own, not another boat in sight, land no longer visible.

And still I’m not scared. I’m focused.

I’m absorbed in my goal of avoiding as much of the Intertropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ) as possible. I’m nervous as I sail ever further SW towards the equator, towards the gathering low pressure systems, towards the convective zone where the north and the south trade winds meet delivering all kinds of surprises.

And when I finally arrive, the squalls and schizophrenic weather are what I expect. I reef my sails as soon as I see a squall galloping up on me and I reef my sails at night regardless of the forecast.

I sleep. I suck on black licorice and read thick books. I make log book entries and wait the hour it takes for my Starlink to connect. I scan the horizon and watch the sun rise and then set. Not a single boat out here as far as my eye could see.

And still I’m not scared.

I sail day in and day out. I come across a dismasted boat, and feel alarmed as I check if anyone is on board—which there was not, as a rescue happened months ago.

I wake up to a huge whale—longer than my boat—skimming just under the surface of the water, barely moving not more than 50 meters from my boat.

I’m chased at sea by a ‘friendly’ boat. A sail drone passes me and I think it is a new ambitious pirate technique or a wind surfer going for a world record.

A line of squalls hit with drenching rain and keep me up for hours as I battle the winds and sea.

And still I’m not scared.

I feel in control, sometimes surprised, but grounded as I make my way west.

Until one night I stand on my cockpit seats, resting my elbows on top of my dodger and scan the horizon in front of me. It is dark. No moon tonight. I’ve been at sea, alone, for three weeks.

At the edge of the horizon I see a light! I’m sure it is another ship and the excitement of seeing someone else in the middle of the desolate Pacific throws me into a state of elation!

I didn’t realize how lonely I felt until I see that light, bobbing on the horizon. Nothing shows on my AIS or radar, but I watch that light, already amusing myself with a ridiculous greeting over my VHF: Fancy meeting you out here! You come here often?

As I sail along, the light dims then sinks below the horizon. A dark emptiness takes its place. I then realize the ship I thought I saw, was actually a star setting, moving over the horizon and forever out of reach.

I stare at the dark spot on the horizon, feeling tears well up in my eyes. Hello? Is anybody out there?

Now I’m scared.

I suddenly feel I am in over my head. Where is everyone? Why haven’t I seen another boat all this time? What have I gotten myself into?

I feel a deep dread, my chirpy ignorance giving way to a bottomless hole of fear. An insurmountable personal squall descends and blocks out all my light, my excitement, my fearlessness and leaves me shivering in my cockpit in a ball of trepidation.

Oh god, what have I done?

All around me the black sea glistens with rolling swells, the sky fills with lonely, cold stars. The wind moans through my rigging, creating a hollow sound I used to find comforting. My little boat, so little on such a big sea.

I am scared.

My heart begins to beat hard and I’m seized with a deep anxiety unlike anything I have ever felt. No one is around to ‘save’ me. No one is around to hear me wail. No one is around to comfort me or to talk me down. The night is deeply dark.

I am utterly alone in the vast ocean. It’s all on me. Just myself and my boat, doggedly making decisions and choices that hopefully are the right ones to get me the last 1000 miles.

I remain huddled in my cockpit, trembling and nauseous, unable to gain control of myself—which also scares me!

I don’t recall any squalls that night, just a very black sea and a sky so studded with stars I would normally stare in wonder; but that night I shrank from the sky in fear. It was too big and I was too small.

The sea is too deep and my pluck too shallow.

Who do I think I am, anyways?

I’ve dealt with lots of mishaps up to this point, but those were all short term moments with adrenalin rushing through my veins. Short hits of ‘holy shit’ fading into a normal day, into a story to tell later.

But this was different. This night a thousand miles from land, a deep, deep fear sets in. And it’s not shakable.

It never occurred to me to ‘train’ for this. In fact, I don’t recall even hearing anyone talk about expecting a looming existential crisis at sea. But I think one has been nipping at my heels for the last few days now.

Just a few nights ago I harnessed myself in around midnight to deal with a fouled reef. The wind was howling and the boat rocking heavily with the swells. I clutched parts of my boat as I made my way forward. As I reach my mast, I hug it. I’m suddenly hit with the flat fact the ocean could care less whether I fell overboard. It’s an obvious observation, but it hit me at a strange, deep level.

I felt completely dwarfed, insignificant.

It was an overwhelming feeling and I quickly brushed it aside, only to have this sense of meaninglessness—a deep sphincter crushing feeling of mortality—rush back a few nights later.

This new profundity is downright terrifying.

With another eight hours until sunrise, I moan my way through the darkness.

I don’t recall being more grateful for the sunrise than that morning. The monsters in me subside; the sky blushes a beautiful pink and the swells glimmer gold as the following seas urge my boat forward.

The day opens up broad and expansive. I make tea and relax, a feeling of contentment rising in me like the sun. But things will never be the same.

The fear rattling through my rigging to claim me that night—even now, almost two years later—is like another part on the boat I must look at, polish and check for corrosion; it serves its purpose, it’s comprehensible.

I’ve metabolized a kind of awakening from that night, driving me to be really honest with myself and admit how fake and damaging my worries are; I prioritize what is important and I have little tolerance for my own laziness. I respect my limits and I don’t make reckless assumptions ‘that nothing will happen to me’.

I now feel an even deeper level of responsibility to myself. My relationships have more meaning, and I sit longer with ‘moments’ like sunrises or the flights of birds or little bugs I would’ve squashed.

I also fight a paralysis just hanging in the wings. I had friends who barely out-ran a severe lightening storm and shortly thereafter they left their boat for good—the balance of wellbeing never quite able to eclipse the fear they experienced that night.

I understand that, now. I’ve become aware—really aware, at a deep deep level aware—that I live, that I will die.

Sailing is no longer the same. Gone are the days of blissful ignorance sailing through the seas, content and confident ‘nothing will happen’.

Because, in fact, almost anything will happen. Intellectually I’ve known that, but at a deeper level I’ve accepted the true and honest fact I’m limited, I’m vulnerable, I’m alone…and, I’ve buried the lead: I’m not panicked about it.

I am who I am, and fear is part of what makes me work well. Fear severs the frayed edges of my life and drops me deeper into whatever moment is in front of me.

It ignites presence, survival and meaning in a world where I could have disastrously expected a rescue when none was coming.

I’ve sailed thousands of miles since I bought Makani back in 2021. She has endured a hurricane at anchor, violent squalls with lightening, heavy seas, thousands of miles of Pacific swells, aggressive, battering wind; busted rigging, worn switches, failed transmission, tattered sails—I could go on.

I keep a list of my repairs, and I’ve had over 33 repairs or new installed equipment, totaling around $44,000 over the four and a half years I’ve owned Makani.

Most of you would shake your heads and say ‘why do it?’ And it’s a valid question…but consider all the money I’m not spending on things I don’t need when I lived on land, I accept these ongoing costs.

Makani is my home, everything I possess, dream about and realize is on this 39’ of floating fiberglass.

Salt water is punishing and the constant motion eventually wears away equipment. Last year I left her for three months in Tahiti during cyclone season where she was protected and attended to. Nevertheless, the rain and humidity did such a number on her I had to replace my autopilot controller, fix new leaks in the portholes and deal with massive mildew—even though I had prepared her for the hot and humid conditions.

This year I have several issues including replacing a thru-hull fitting (a piece of hardware creating a sealed opening in my boat’s hull), hunt down an electrolysis issue, replace my water maker solenoid, paint the bottom (again) and teach myself how to repair damage to the fiberglass sustained against a cement dock in Samoa.

It’s beyond a labor of love. It’s a devotion to this inanimate object keeping me alive as I roam and pursue my dream of seeing this unique and beautiful planet.

But that doesn’t amend for the frustration and exasperation I’ve felt when I have to address another repair. At times I’ve cried in frustration and have felt like giving up.

Moreover, the further west I sail, the more Makani shows her wear and tear and the more expensive parts become since I’m no where near a supplier for anything. I have massive amounts of spare parts, but often it’s never the one I need.

Against this backdrop I have to learn how to do everything myself. Sure, I ask for help or guidance, but most sailors have their own projects and I’m sensitive to being the one who draws from their time. Additionally, I’m often the only single-handing woman around and I’m sensitive to scrutiny—I’ve had men challenge me severely if I don’t know how to do something. Conversely, I’ve also had generous men help me out, like my buddy boater Ron Kucera of Mar de Luz.

That said, my biggest fear isn’t storms or cargo ships or even pirates, it’s losing my engine, or my steering or being hit by lightening which would take out all of my electronics.

Adhering to a maintenance schedule on top of repairs gets overwhelming, and I often remind myself—no, congratulate myself—on how much I’ve learned to do on my own. Aspects of repairs I had no idea how to do four years ago now seem easy.

In fact, problem solving has eased in its demands as I can now connect-the-dots easier when pin-pointing issues. I’m no longer ‘scared’ of my electric board, no longer intimidated by my Yanmar engine. Little new sounds give me information on what is going on with my boat and I never ignore a little tick or little tock anywhere.

I’ve spent hours learning how to make catch-block molds out of silicone and then learned to use epoxy resin to pour into those molds—very few were successful as I had to learn the hard way how important it is to get the epoxy ratio right; I’ve spent gobs of time on Youtube learning how to rebuild a water pump; I’ve reached out to friends to ask electrical questions and Ron taught me how to use my volt meter, how to test for resistance and how to install butt-connectors on electrical equipment. My friend Owen on S/V Rumi spent so much time on the phone with me trying to help me diagnose an electrical issue with my cockpit ‘party lights’.

I’ve learned so much I’m now aware and intimidated of the vastness of what I don’t know. Just a few weeks ago my friend Ken taught me how to use a rivet gun for the first time. I barely had enough strength in my hands to work it.

And the stuff I can’t figure out, I’ve had to hire someone. I can’t tell you how often I’ve been ripped off that way. A new transmission install was astronomical and a guy claiming to install new Strataglass lied and installed some clear vinyl that clouded over within months. I’ve had new rigging installed improperly, costing me a fortune, only to have it fail 3500 miles later. I often feel I’m at the mercy of ‘professionals’ and have very little power to assess the costs.

This vulnerability fuels my desire to learn to repair as much as a I can on my own, despite the tears of exasperation of not knowing even how to verbalize the issue at hand.

And let’s not forget, I’m not always at anchor when a problem pops up. It’s an overwhelming feeling when I have five more days at sea to deal with an issue before I drop the hook.

But I still wouldn’t give it up for anything. Learning how to manage my frustration of not know how to fix things is it’s own journey. It’s own crossing of an empty ocean where I must be my own mechanic, plumber, electrician, fabricator and doctor without an idea of where to begin.

But begin I must.

It usually starts with Youtube—and someone has taken the time to film how they addressed and fixed the same problem I have. I cannot tell you how indebted I am to those fastidious people.

I’ve learned how to change my oil, repair my electrical board, change my impeller, clean my heat exchanger, fix my water pump and even clean the inner lining of my stove window. I’ve learned how to turn my engine off at the engine block, how to make molds and what the white smoke means coming off my outboard.

Unlike sailing as a couple, I don’t have anyone I can work on a problem with—and this in itself is deeply frustrating and equally rewarding when I fix something. Just the other day my pull cord on my outboard broke. I had no idea how to fix it.

YouTube did…and I followed some guy who demonstrated how to repair it. Within an hour I had it fixed and my outboard started right up! My face was in absolute disbelief—a friend took a picture of me with my mouth hanging open!

The way I’ve chosen to sail—alone and far from turn-key civilizations—has not only brought me vast beauty, connected me to deeply kind people but it has also challenged me in overwhelming ways when it comes to ensuring my own safety. Instead of avoiding problems, I’ve had to face them square on and incubate a depth of patience in dealing with my ineptitude towards an issue.

Sailing my boat is directly proportional to how solid my boat is, and that includes my stepping into a deeply uncomfortable space in learning how to repair Makani. There are tools on my boat I don’t even know the names of, nor do I know what they are for. That’s the deficit I work from.

But it also doesn’t defeat me.

The desire and ambition to sail around the world overrides the urge to quit when a problem seems overwhelming. The quiet mornings with a hot cup of tea and the rising sun leapfrogs my pangs of incompetence.

The breaching whales and dolphins at my bow, the gleam of a white sandy beach and the stunning cultures I interact with emerge to be the winners in this equation, forcing me to find peace in the world of sailing where my skills only have up to go as I address the next problem I face.

It’s now gotten to a point that before I do something relaxing like reading a book or going for a snorkel, I have to address at least one project on the boat. This discipline keeps my boat in check and develops in me an allegiance to the bigger picture of my dream—one a broken part or an overwhelming issue can’t eclipse. Although it damn well tries.

I have been sailing around Vava’u, Tonga for months. Long after most of the cruisers arrived then zipped away for New Zealand, Fiji or Australia, I remain exploring the more than 50 little islands making up the Vava’u island group.

Originally, I wasn’t even going to sail to Vava’u, but a friend convinced me to sail the 200 miles south from the little island of Niuatoputapu, which required tolerance for the confused seas, squally weather and occasional lightening.

The passage was challenging as expected. The moon is just rising as I finally arrive on the outskirts of Vava’u, her white cliffs and mounded islands casting a chiaroscuro of light footnoting the dreamy drama of this place.

Normally, I would never enter an unknown island pass in the lulling darkness, but I am frantic to get out of the weather and the punishing swells.

A friend moored securely at the main town of Neiafu guides me in through the thick darkness over the VHF. The pass is broad and I sail between steep cliffs into protected waters, the sea soothed to a shiny, flat surface. What a relief!

Two hours later I’m tied up to a dock in Neiafu, the midnight hour marking my cheer and exhaustion. I immediately crawl into my bunk and fall in a deep sleep—safe, secure and drained from the sail.

The next morning I wake up, walk into my cockpit and take stock. I’m surrounded by a huge bay with sailboats bobbing on their moorings, the smell of coffee wafting over the dock and the sun warming my face. I’m immediately charmed by the place.

Last night as I made my way into the bay, the owner of a the restaurant Mangos welcomed me to tie up to his dock, eliminating my need to blindly sail through the bay looking for an open mooring. My gratitude for this small gesture is immense and I quickly throw on my shorts and a t-shirt to go and thank him.

He invites me to have breakfast and while I scarf down a full meal of eggs and toast and coffee and fruit —solid food I hadn’t had in days— his gentle voice tells me to not worry about docking fees. Just rest. This former Tongan airline pilot runs this restaurant, doting on his cat ‘Big Red’ and even months later his soothing deep voice always offers some form of comfort either in a meal or a simple beer.

I suppose this kindness and ease is the seductive component which drove me to stay in Vava’u, long past most people who sail here, and make a short stay. The sailing around Vava’u’s island is superb -all the heavy ocean swells are blocked by the coral reefs, creating champagne sailing conditions. Each island holds a mystery and I never get bored finding a new place to drop the hook.

After a few months, I had my favorites islands and I gravitated to them over and over. One had a sweeping sandy beach—the quintessential South Pacific image of soft palm trees and coconuts rimming a brilliant blue shore. Other anchorages sport coral bommies, large mounds supporting all kinds of fish, sea creatures and vibrant coral resting in brilliant turquoise waters.

But my favorite was Lisa’s Beach, or Pangiomotu as the locals call it. To get to this little spot, I have to sail between a coral choke point (as I call it) navigating carefully through a narrow area marked with islands on one side, and sharp coral on the other, then sail up a channel, avoiding another coral shelf as I head into the bay.

The bay itself is small, almost womb-like, anchored by towering jungle cliffs, with a little dilapidated house sitting at the waterline holding court at the head of the little bay. I learn later that an old man lived there before a cyclone ripped his home apart and his daughter is named ‘Lisa’. Now just the structure and her name remains, not picturesque, but a strong reminder of the bite the winds have on this place.

The water here is a captivating green/blue, with a clarity down 20-30 feet below. Often while anchored there I could see huge starfish, Trevally kicking up huge hunting splashes and needle nose fish slicing through the waters with an occasionally a turtle lifting its head to look at me. My favorite little creatures are the cuttlefish. They roam the bay in a stretched-out line, never really grouping up like a typical school of fish.

When I snorkel the cuttlefish often come up to me, their curiosity mesmerizing, their skins dark—the exact color of my wetsuit. They ogle me like curious children wearing coke-bottle glasses. They come close to me, then back off. If another fish enters their investigation they immediately turn the color of the water and disappear!

I swim back and forth across the bay looking for them. One time, a little baby cuttlefish followed me back to my boat and paddled at my swim step, peering up with its goggly eyes, staying there even hours after I had climbed on board.

I was in love!

But the cuttlefish, amazing water and absolute protection from high winds wasn’t the only thing about Lisa’s Beach that had my attention—it was also the only place in Vava’u I had deep and ongoing dreams at night.

Often I would dream about an old lover—we would be drinking an espresso in Rome or be meeting up in Morocco, him approaching me in a cerulean blue smock with unbelievable embroidery. I had dreams of sea creatures reaching up to me in gestures of kindness and dreams of me flying through steep canyons in a plaid shirt. Always the dreams are unforgettable and I remember them with such clarity even weeks later. I have never dreamt like this anywhere else.

And so I would find myself coming back to Lisa’s Beach often, seeking the unknown dream, the adorable cuttlefish and relaxing as I know no matter how hard the prevailing SE winds blow, I am safe.

One day I head to a little beach on the north shore of Lisa’s Beach. I drag my dingy up onto the sand and prepare to hike a trail which will take me to a road where I can hitch a ride into Neiafu for some necessary provisioning.

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I start to bushwhack toward the trail when my eye catches something. There, tucked in among the dried up leaves of the jungle is a little puppy, not more than a month old. Curled around itself, she appears barely alive, her fur scarcely there and her skin crawling with fleas. I pull out my water and try to give her some. She drinks cautiously, trying to escape me in her weakened state.

I couldn’t just leave her here. She would most certainly die.

I haul my dinghy back into the water and head back to my boat and grab food, more water and some medicated soap to wash her. If I could nurse her back to health, I know a local who would take her.

Back to the beach I go. I feed her softly cooked eggs and water. She eats voraciously and lets me touch her. I bathe her and wrap her in my shirt. I put her in my dingy and she lays there, anemic, shivering and never taking her eyes off of me.

But like a good sport, she arrives in my cockpit, curls up in my shirt and sleeps. I hover over her, watching her and clean up her mess when she vomits then releases a diarrhea of whatever else she has inside of her. She is sick and weak.

I spend the rest of the day nursing her. I keep her wrapped in my soft shirt and hold her in my arms. She nuzzles her nose into the corner of my elbow and sleeps for hours.

The bats hovering in the trees take flight as the sun sets. I continue to nurse her, feed her, water her. She’s not interested now in food and her breathing is labored. Perhaps I am too late, I think. But regardless, I stay in the cockpit with her. She no longer wants to be in my arms, but curls up in the corner of the cockpit.

The moon rises and casts a blue light across the bay. It’s so very quiet now. Her mottled skin reflects the light across the curve of her spine. She has crawled out of my shirt, seeking the open, warm air.

All of a sudden she yips twice and bares her teeth. Is she dreaming? I look at her in alarm. Saliva runs from her mouth and her body stiffens. She’s dying. Her breath is very shallow, heaves and then stops. I touch her, talk to her. But she is gone.

This sweet little puppy, somehow abandoned, found again and then now lifts off into a death that most likely would have happened anyways. At least she wasn’t alone, I said aloud to comfort myself.

Heartbroken, I wrap her up again in my shirt, her body already growing stiff. I place her gently in a nest in an open bag. I’ll have to bury her in the morning.

I head to my bunk and fall into a deep sleep.

I dream she is in my cockpit, a full formed puppy at least three months old, sitting there waiting for me, her tail wagging. The dream lasts a long time. I watch her watch me, her tail wagging, patiently waiting for me to come up from inside my boat and join her in the cockpit. In the dream I run up the companionway stairs and as I reach the cockpit she disappears.

The next morning I wake early and check to see if I was dreaming she died.

She was dead.

I place her in my dinghy and head around the point to bury her—although I couldn’t bring myself to dig a hole. I survey the high cliff walls of the shoreline. My eye catches on a coral ledge running north and south along the cliffs, offering up a protective shelf.

I paddle over and take a closer look. The coral shelf opens up into a small cavern, rimmed on top with lava formations looking like dripping pearls. The ledge forms a lip, with the bottom of the shelf dropping a bit like a curved arm.

It was perfect. I lift her body up onto the shelf. I notice her mouth no longer shows her bared teeth, and is relaxed as though she is sleeping. Her body is stiff but a lob of her head is noticeable when I pick her up. I gently place her inside the cavern, my shirt tucked around her.

Rest easy, little one.

I paddle away, not really sad, but melancholy. Feeling like this is still a dream or dream within a dream—a hazy story to remember like a dream, coming in and out of focus. A coffee in Rome, a cerulean blue tunic, adorable cuttle fish with coke-bottle glasses and a dead puppy wrapped in my favorite soft shirt, gracing a coral shelf for all eternity.

I’ve sailed to Lisa’s Beach many times after that. Occasionally I would paddle over and examine the coral shelf for her body, but she is no longer there. Likely crabs or birds got to her.

I still dream vividly when anchored at Lisa’s Beach. Unpredictable dreams ferrying me into strange worlds equaling the strange worlds I find myself already in.

Sometimes a local I’ve made friends with will come down to the dilapidated house from her farm up on the cliffs and give me watermelon she grows in her garden. Sometimes she’ll edge herself halfway down the steep jungle covered cliffs and call to me, asking in Tongan how I am.

I answer her in the little Tongan I know; “Sai pē,” I shout back. “Sai pē, fefė?” I’m well, how are you?

She always laughs at my Tongan and I can hear her machete strike the jungle as she makes her way back to the top of the cliff.

I am often now the only boat here, anchored in a small bay in a group of islands surrounded by coral barely making a dot on a map in the South Pacific Ocean.

This is the dream of the dreams I still seem to have here—sailing by myself, anchoring in spots most people never see, always feeling like I’m dreaming and living this dream of where I’m supposed to be.

The kindness here is almost unbearable. I went to the local pharmacy to find something to treat a headache I’ve had for days. The pharmacist, seeing the discomfort in my face, reached across the counter and tenderly took my hand.

“I have something for you,” she said kindly.

She gave me some Panadol, but instead of pushing the package across to me, she came around the counter, handed it to me, explained how to take it then gave me a hug.

For someone who is alone as much as I am—where solitude is like another person on my boat—this act of kindness, this risk of touch and wave of empathy was better medicine than the Panadol.

I’m in Vava’u, Tonga—a little island often a stopover for sailors on their way to Fiji. I decided to stay here instead of sailing to Fiji, as its beauty, simplicity and the ever present breaching whales urged me to slow down.

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Sailing is ruled by weather—I’m always seeking weather windows to carve out a safe passage and even then I seem to be ducking from squalls and lightening. Taking root here relieved me of the pressure to move on and offered me a chance to get grounded.

But slowing down also has its downside. I’ve become more engaged with the outside world. My little bubble of life aboard a 39’ sailboat is punctured and I find myself weaving back into the complexity of the world.

Guilt sets in and posting beautiful shots of silken beaches and turquoise waters seems flippant and off color. My world is beautiful and kind, yet it sits crooked against the backdrop of a global siege, setting humans against each other in waves of slaughter.

Even the word ’slaughter’ is too kind for what I witness. Even the notion of me ‘witnessing’ online isn’t correct—but I could not find another word that describes my act of online viewing another person’s horror.

I have noticed being out in nature as much as I am, constantly surrounded by the sea and sky and weather, incubates a sensitivity in me. I’m quick now to read a person’s energy; I’m touchy around too much noise and I always look at the stars and when I don’t see them prepare for rain. I lose track of time—days especially—but I always know the time of sunrise, sunset, high and low tide.

It feels right to live this way. But I can tell you, it also gives me perspective that I don’t always welcome. Going online to view Instagram is like a bolt of liquid terror. It’s no longer a dopamine fix, it’s a super highway of atrocity that leaves me feeling helpless. It’s not lost on me this is a deliberate and intended outcome. Social media has become a necessary evil—I can’t choose to not see but then I feel guilty of my inability to do anything.

And that’s just it, a new sensitivity incubates inside of me. I no longer feel comfortable easing out my sails and gliding through the waters solely focused on my own experience. I know I am living the luck of the draw.

I am saddened by the sorrow of You. The collective You. The You who lost your life; the You who starves; the You who is ripped off the streets by masked men. The You who has no childhood. The You who has no home. The You who is raped and disfigured. The You who is six years old seeking water and food. The You who survives alone.

I am surrounded by blue water and at the ongoing mercy of the weather. I meet people who live removed from the impacts of a world I was raised in. Their kindness to me, a stranger, makes me realize how crucial humanity is, how critical small gestures are against the backdrop of a brutal, overwhelming world.

It also underscores a helplessness when I think about You. If I could, I would sweep You up and carry You to a place where You would feel the relief of safety and the pleasure of a calm life. I have a canyon of sorrow I cannot do this for You, and I deeply wish I could.

As the rain shifted to a lazy drizzle, I eased through the pass and dropped my anchor. It’s always a relief turn off my instruments, clean up my halyards and sheets and tuck my main sail into her lazy bag, as I now can rest properly and still myself from the constant attention necessary to sail single-handed.

Ten years ago I was in this same anchorage, only crewing on another boat. Not much has changed since then except customs did not eat any of my food this time like they did ten years ago.

I remember the official boarding the Halberg-Rassy I was crewing and eating the fish we just caught along with our last onion and a coveted green apple. There was nothing to be done, as he had all the power. Later I learned the island had not seen a provisioning vessel in a while, so the customs officer’s hunger was forgiven.

But now I see the island as a single-hander. I take my bike ashore and ride the riddled roads waving to all the kids who say ‘Bye!’ as they see me approach, and again “Bye!” as I flash a wave and peddle away. The locals are incredibly kind and open, and laugh when they see me watching the pigs -which roam everywhere- and cross the road or flee from me with a squeal.

One day a local, Balavi, approaches a few of us and suggests taking us around in his truck, “A tour of the island!” he says. We eagerly agree and the next morning a Danish family of five, another single-hander and myself climb into the bed of his truck and we bump along the roads, stopping at a papaya farm, a hidden beach; swimming in a fresh spring and pulling over to acknowledge the solar ‘farm’, providing the island with power. Everywhere we went we heard the sing-song “Bye” from kids, eager to practice their English.

The day evaporates and the tour ends. Balavi does not ask for money, but we all give him gifts of rice, beer and sweets. He drives away, his arm flinging out his window waving good bye (‘Bye!’) as he recedes.

The next day we learn his mother died. Just like that. Unexpectedly. A rapid loss we all understood. A strange, unifying layer we all touch at some point in our lives and for a moment this little island in the middle of nowhere is no different than my neighborhood street I used to live on. Someone died -a bruise of a reminder we suffer the same.

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We are invited to the funeral. It seems strange to go to such an intimate event. An all day event that starts early in the morning, breaks for breakfast and continues throughout the day at the deceased’s house.

I’m on the fence about going as I feel like an intruder, yet I’m curious how the Tongan culture pays homage to a passing life. I was planning to leave that morning, catching a weather window for Vava’u, an island 200 miles south of me.

I decide to go to the funeral with my buddy-boater. We wake early, wear black clothing and bike ten minutes down the rode, our tires crunching quietly through gravel. We veer delicately around a horse standing in the middle of the road. A dog sprawled in the road opens her eyes as we glide past.

We arrive and are greeted by someone in the family who heard we were coming. We are escorted to chairs stationed near the main mourning area, where family members weep. Only later do I realize that the body is interred in the house, with many more family members inside. A long wail erupts from inside and continues, wrenching my gut -there is no mistaking grief in any language.

Children are respectful, but play and frolic on the lawn. A group of men gather and talk softly, their ‘lava-lava’ or Tongan skirts punctuated with a straw-mat apron of sorts, worn as a sign of respect.

Occasionally, someone would emerge from the house, covered completely in a woven mat -a type of traditional clothing, their head obscured, their grief obvious.

I feel like an interloper, but the family wanted us to take pictures and send them. They wanted us to stay for breakfast, but we had to leave after a few hours as we were already running late for this weather window of departure.

We said our goodbyes, softly padding across the lawn to where our bikes leaned against a pole.

“Bye!” the kids chanted as we rode away, drowning out the cries from inside the house. “Bye!” they said as they ran behind us. “Bye!” they cried one last time as we disappeared around a curve, our tires once more crunching quietly through gravel.

It’s the same story in many parts of the South Pacific and in some areas justly fuels a reservation and distaste for foreigners -including cruisers.

But not here in Penrhyn. You would never think this place had a violent and disturbing past as the balance of kindness and generosity against the backdrop of limited resources is the driving force of a gentle vibe permeating everything and everyone.

Shortly after I arrived, I was invited to a 21st birthday party held for a young woman. The center of the village is decked out in brilliant pinks, with tables covered in pink table cloths, brilliant pink balloons and three huge quilts depicting the beautiful atoll landscapes -all hand stitched- and hung as a backdrop to the table of honor, where Lana, the birthday girl, is escorted by her father while being regaled by an amazing hula dancer -maybe her sister or cousin.

We feast on roasted pig, raw tuna in coconut and lime, rice, roasted chicken, potatoes salad, cassava and more cake than I’ve ever seen! We drink coconut water, some of the sweetest I’ve ever had.

The whole village is here and the abundance of food is astounding! A small atoll, in the middle of the vast South Pacific Ocean where fish and coconuts are a staple, fresh veggies and fruit not easy to find and everyone living off solar -this feast is beyond belief! It is certainly more food than I’ve seen in months!

While we eat, male leaders of the village, the church, and male relatives give advice and encourage strength to Lana, all in Cook Island Polynesian. The women erupt into song, these mystical tones rising and blooming, edged by the deep baritones of the men. Behind Lana sit four of her friends, all dressed in very beautiful pink dresses made from fabric that Lana had dyed and block printed with broad Polynesian leaves and flowers -I love these dresses so much!

Every woman wears the hats they make on this atoll - a harvest of coconut tree fronds that undergo processing that -when I ‘helped’- my hands we’re raw and fingers cut with the exertion of taming these broad leaves into a silky, woven material. I was told later these hats sell for $300 and I believe it. They are unique and very beautiful -underscoring the generations of skill required to make them. Even the men help out.

The party lasts all day, and before I leave, someone gives me leftover potato salad and fish and cake all boxed up. I’m in heaven! My food stores on the boat are the lowest I had ever seen them and I am eating one meal a day to stretch my food -so this windfall is deeply appreciated.

Every morning I slip into the water around my boat, the black tip sharks curious, but harmless. I snorkel, then dinghy to shore and hang out with Kura, the heart and sole of Penrhyn.

Her kindness and ease of nature draws me into a languid state of mind. She patiently shows me how to score the palm leaves in order to remove the inner membrane -not easy at all- and her deft hands reveal how sloppy my attempts are.

She is the mama bear of the island and is also raising her grandson - a fourteen year old boy who dodges his chores amid her frustrating calls.

“Cina!” She would call out and only silence follows. “He has to feed the pigs,” she says as she shows me once again how to score the fronds.

“Cina!” She would shout another five minutes later - on and on this went until she dropped her palm fronds in her lap and says “Shit!” -her annoyance peaking at her grandson’s silence. Eventually, he emerges from the house and ambles off to feed the pigs -a scene every parent no matter where can relate to.

In fact, the family structure in Penrhyn is very inspiring. It is not uncommon for a parent of a new born or young child to ask a favored friend or relative to raise the child. Cina was an example of this, and Kura herself was also raised for awhile by some one else. Peter, a handsome eighteen year old, is raised by Tamu -Kura’s brother- while his own biological father lives nearby, a joyful man by the name of Tee.

There is also a sixteen year old boy named Patrick with amazing athletic ability. One day the guys took some of us to another part of the atoll and Patrick jumped from the boat, running at full strength through shallow water to tackle a fast moving turtle. A catch rare for almost anyone.

Another day we were snorkeling the reefs and I watched Patrick as he dove down, then grabbed coral, placing his feet on top of one mound and effortlessly leaping forward, propelling himself swiftly through deep water. Inspired, I tried this myself and the amount of strength and agility required for such elegant propulsion was beyond my ability.

It was a Saturday afternoon and we had all gone to Kura’s weekend get-away, a beautiful chalet like place painted a bright violet that offset the green palm trees and coral water perfectly. Over an open fire her brother Tamu grilled tuna and onions and a table was laid out with sponge bread, coleslaw, shashimi, chicken and the fish from the grill.

Another feast! We ate until full, Kura pushing more food at me until I couldn’t possibly eat anymore. Some of the men - Tee, Patrick and others had taken their skiff to catch more fish and showed up after we had finished, sitting down and gorging on the ample food that remained.

As I lay in a hammock, the boys play fantastic music on their guitars and ukuleles, Kura and another woman hula dancing. Little kids play in the water and always, someone is processing coconut fronds for hats.

The days run easily into each other and I am reluctant to leave. There is a harmony here I haven’t felt anywhere else. A serenity that invades my blood and latches onto my innards like a friendly parasite.

One day the boys were told to fetch lots of coconuts and in the afternoon they began chopping them open, draining the water into a big cooler and making a pile of the meated shells. Soon, people from the village started showing up, sitting cross legged on an orange tarp and scraping the coconut out of the shells.

They laughed and talked and definitely put me to work as well. By the next morning, Kura had taken the piles and piles of coconut meat and made a huge quantity of coconut pudding -a sweet chewy delight- wrapped and ready to distribute around the village or send to another island.

This ease of life punctuated by a loving vibe and open armed acceptance made me want to give them everything I have; it made me want to lie under the stars while they play music, it made me want to weave myself into this seamless life of fishing and chores and craftsmanship - as how they live awakens a familiar taste of how we all used to live - before politics, economies, greed and power dissolved the easy nature of kindness we all so easily and naturally dial into.

The next day after shelling the coconuts I hauled anchor and slowly motored my way out of the lagoon. I was so sad to leave, but a weather window presented itself and I had to press on. They all came to the shore and waved goodbye, blowing kisses.

This leaving, this departure and tearing away of how we are all supposed to live - is the hardest leaving I’ve done. I felt like a petal plucked from a flower, drifting once again on the wind and missing the scent of the garden I came from.

The sail from French Polynesia has been riddled with drenching, high wind squalls that left such light wind in their wake I’d furl in my headsail and motor -over and over throughout the five days at sea. This extreme of too much wind and not enough wore me down to the point I feel blistered on the inside, headachy and depleted.

But the moment I see Penrhyn on the horizon all is forgotten and and I can barely hold Makani back from her all out gallop.

Ten years ago I was crewing a 50 foot yacht Drina, sailing with the quintessential old salt, Michael Thurston - a distant family friend whose boat I joined in Alaska to accompany him on his final leg back home to Australia. My life had changed unexpectedly and my deep despair made sailing in the middle of anywhere a good idea. I knew nothing about sailing, and he asked very little of me. My company was enough.

I remember spending hours on deck in the cold North Pacific as we made our way south, eventually shedding layers and buckets of tears as the air warmed. I remember him mainly staying put below deck - at one point he emerged to find me sitting on the bow and quickly outfitted me with a harness -my ignorance and sadness so profound I had no compass for my own safety. But Michael did. He was like a mystical ferryman escorting me across the Styx, placing me directly in the path of an underworld destiny I was unarmed for.

May 5th, 2015 we passed effortlessly through Penrhyn’s narrow pass. He asked me to go to the bow and direct him through the coral bommies riddling the water. I stood at the bow and pointed to the bommies as he urged the boat away from them. We made our way to Omoka, the little village where we were to clear in.

Two guys from customs and immigration came out to the boat, checked us in and for some reason I asked Michael to take a picture.

And now here I am, May 6th, 2025, exactly ten years later easing my own boat through Penrhyn’s pass, a single-hander dodging coral bommies and making my way to the same little village to check in. Two guys come out to my boat and I show them the picture taken ten years ago…they were the same guys and we welcom each other back to an earlier decade. My delight is balanced with a soft melancholy, heavy winds leaving a light breeze in its wake.

Penrhyn is quite remote, and yet I feel once again the energy of being ferried across the Styx for a destiny I’m unarmed for. Which is the best way to enter the future - resistant-free, even ignorant, innocent as the waves of life take on a tidal charm and claim me, washing me me back out to even deeper seas of my life.

I can feel Michael Thurston handing me a harness, gently patting my arm and saying “It’s Ok” as he often did during those days of despair.

But this time he adds, “Sail on, mate, sail on.”

Days before I left Raiatea I had studied the pass, marking way-points and texting friends who had made it through seeking comments it wasn’t so bad. None were forth-coming. As the sky lightens, I break away and sail the last few remaining miles before I drop my sails and nervously grip my helm, scanning the breaking waves and reefs for the entrance.

Maupiti is Bora Bora’s, Bora Bora. Turquoise water ring lush peaks and shear cliffs slice the face of rocks into elegant bolts of green silk. Under water, large manta rays glide like flying spirits, their mouths wide open as little fish surge in to clean surfaces in a dental dance.

A single yellow church with a red roof anchors the little village, it’s gates decorated with blue flowers and ribbons. At night you can hear the people sing their haunting Polynesian hymns as stars spill into the sky.

The only hardware store on the island sells baguettes and is open from 6am to 9am, underscoring a pace of life undaunted by commercial clamor. Kids flush the single road in the morning for school, always waving as you pass, and dogs press their body affectionately against your legs, a long lasting dog hug and I am smitten.

There are no grocery stores with aisles and carts and check-out lines, rather you lean your body against a counter that always feels like a neighbor’s window sill and ask for what you want - rice, cookies, Brie, beer, mouse traps, tooth brushes, pens. Sometimes a grapefruit from the tree in the yard is offered for free. The only gas station sells eggs.

Maupiti feels almost like a secret dream. The beaches are a fine sand and often an early morning swim can take you to a motu where you can wade down secret watery channels that reveal hidden homes cloaked in palm trees with a little cat stretching and mewing out to you.

There is no Hilton hotel or fancy restaurants or luxury shops marking a honeymooner’s territory; rather you can find a rough table on spindly metal tube legs draped with a Polynesian table cloth selling the best cream puffs or coconut pie you’ve ever had.

Cell phones don’t dominate the palm, parents carry their babies and people wait their turn at the post office without there ever being a line. A single road rings the island with water stations every half a mile, a communal fountain of sorts for drinking water and gossip.

The dead are buried in the front yard with simple temples marking their graves. Flowers, garlands of shells, fruit, and gardens cultivate these lavish home-made cemeteries, paying homage to a unity spilling beyond this life.

Maupiti is so enchanting that it makes sense the pass is almost invisible as I struggle to find it. Mar de Luz, my buddy boating friend slips in front of me and I watch as his boat bucks like a hobby horse as the waves throw him around. I follow him and I almost choke on the adrenalin surging unchecked through my body, my light boat tossed around like a ball by the surging waves.

Later, I hear one cruiser describe Maupiti as a mouse trap - once you’re in, conditions need to be perfect to exit that pass.

But I see it differently; Maupiti is a privilege and her volcanic slopes and friendly people and mystical underwater life is a seduction that you must heartbreakingly tear yourself away from…and weeks later as I exited the pass it seemed right I had to work hard to get out.

It was time to cast off. Time to see what was around the corner, over the hill, around the bend and in our case, more than a day’s sail from Tahiti.

We decided to cast our lines from the docks of Papeete and head for the Australs, a chain of islands 300 miles SE of Tahiti. Off the beaten track, especially in November, the Australs are rumored to be fantastic. Well, Somebody Has to Do It, we decided. A Perfect Adventure, we said.

We congratulated ourselves on breaking through our marina malaise. We provisioned the boat like we were heading for the Antarctic — perfectly reasonable, we argued — Do they even have brie there? We set a sturdy bearing of 198 and saluted each other as though we were Jack and Stephen from Master and Commander.

Rurutu

Our passage was what one would expect — a true test of getting our sailing legs back in shape. Little squalls here and there blocked out the vast starry sky and one of us had the ridiculous idea to hand steer a portion of each watch to conserve batteries.

Nonetheless, on the morning of the third day we sighted the NE shores of Rurutu. The most northern of the Austral islands, it’s marked by hovering cliffs that either drop without warning into the sea, or slope gently upward into rounded peaks. Ahoy, we said feebly to one another.

Our arrival coincided with the off-loading of the provisioning ship that supplies remote islands with everything from food to cars to vast stores of fuel every two weeks or so. No brie though, we thought with satisfaction.

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Like a small puppy, our 43’ Hallberg Rassy sniffed around the large provisioning ship anchored outside of the harbor; we were unclear if there was enough room to navigate the pass as the ship took up court on the pass’s northern edge. Terrified, we slipped past her port side and smoothly navigated the short harbor pass. We chose a Med anchor method — anchor down, two stern lines to shore. There! we said. It’s always exciting to look like we know what we’re doing!

As we settled in, the locals began to amble towards the quay; church was over and the explosion of brightly colored dresses, striking Polynesian floral shirts and beautiful hand woven hats charged our senses to such a height we grew inches taller. It was unusual for locals to see a cruiser this time of year — particularly a couple that seemed perplexed they weren’t in Tahiti anymore.

After a quick recovering beer and some cheese, butter and a little bit more cheese, we set ourselves on shore. There are three villages on Rurutu, with Moerai anchoring the largest (but small) harbor on the island. Three families ‘run’ this island, each family securing their own village. A French nurse befriended us (clearly no one warned him) and told us the backstory; not a lot of ‘new blood’ settles on Rurutu, and marriages between the villages secures peaceful relations. He continued: The locals change their name frequently, as the long arm of the law can find a few renegades here. All rumors of course, he assured us. We eat it up. After all, nobody wrote any of this stuff down!

After checking in with the Gendarmerie — a requirement after one checks out of Papeete — we were told, retold, then maybe out of exasperation, shown a series of grottos accessed via an obscure jungle trail. The coral surrounding the island lifted over time — in some places over 500 feet — creating tremendous caverns burrowing into the island landscape. For centuries, these protected caverns have been used as storm shelters and the locals huddle together here during cyclones. They are indeed beautiful! We looked at each other, impressed like when we launched the spinnaker correctly for the first time.

We stumbled out of the lush hillside, blinking and amazed. Our Austral Adventure had just taken on new heights. As we walked back along the paved road to the boat, It was possible to pick grapefruit, soursop, chilies, papaya, lychee nuts and mangos from the side of the road. We were too shy to do that, but we were often invited to. Eventually, we tenderly picked our first avocado during a hike. Then, more daringly some chilies. Then we found ridiculous ways to harvest papayas until our shyness dissolved and we began disagreeing how ripe a grapefruit had to be before we picked it. Things were getting out of hand.

And then we found out about the coffee. Rurutu has a coffee plantation nestled up in the hills, and we saw coffee plants heavy with unripe (which we argued about) beans. The coffee farm was closed, so we bought four pounds of coffee with the intention of sending it off to friends and family. They’ll Love It, we said, nodding our heads, pleased with our benevolence. After weeks of ‘test tasting’ the coffee we decided prudently it would be illegal to send this stuff abroad; It’s Good Stuff, Man, we said.

Weeks passed — a testament to the hold this place had over us. After school the kids wander down to the tiny port and jump into the water with their clothes on. We delighted in their exuberance and jumped in with our clothes on too! The adults seemed to be particularly fond of watching us during these ‘expansive’ times.

One day we rented electric bikes that took us high into the hills on over-grown forest roads. We were grateful for the electric assist as some of the inclines were steep, but really we were just out of shape. We rode the backbone of the hills, capturing views of the north and south ports of the island. The trails can be razor thin and in some areas we left our bikes against a tree (because would insurance cover this?) and hiked up. The views were stunning with the Pacific Ocean stretching for miles in either direction, a reminder of how unique and isolated this island is.

Near the last few days of our visit, we decided to solve a mystery we noticed during our stay; locals collected dead, white coral and piled them over a foundation of cut logs, forming huge lodge-shape mounds along the beach. We placed a bet with each other what these piles were about. ‘A shrine!’ I said, inspired by a documentary we saw the night before. ‘A burial site’ the captain said, probably thinking about what to do with me.

As it turns out, once a month a heat searing fire is set and the coral burns for days, eventually being reduced to a white, powdery substance used for whitewashing buildings, road barriers and other structures.

Tubuai

The winds turned in our favor blowing from the NE and it was time to depart Rurutu for its sister Tubuai. It was hard to leave, but mouthing Adventure to each other was like a whip to our flanks.

An easy overnight sail 115nm SE delivered us safe and sound to Tubuai’s shores. Her ring of coral reef opens up to an easy pass with ample locations for anchoring opposite the little village of Mataura. We followed the pass markers, then veered into open territory, dodging bommies with highly effective Oh My God yelps. We dropped anchor and took stock: Beautiful motus bloom around the island — some of them just strips of white sugary sand, others more developed providing shade and camping spots for the locals. We learned a ‘little lesson’ the hard way; seeking permission before exploring motus is akin to requesting the car keys — ask nicely and be home before midnight.

Going ashore, we discover our foraging habits thwarted. Adorable veggie stands ring the road selling everything we had become accustomed to picking for free on Rurutu. Fresh greens are plentiful as the climate shifts noticeably, creating an agricultural mecca here. Horses and friendly pigs tied here and there watch us amble by while two volcanic peaks hold court from above. Local homes facing the sea sit behind lush gardens, some with small shops where you can buy anything from fuel to flip-flops. We bought both!

Hiking Mt. Taitaa to the east was next on our list. The groomed trail lulled us until occasional bush-whacking and reignited our fear of ‘crawly things’. We climbed beyond the pine trees and into the mist of the clouds. We ate our lunch (mostly brie) on the peak of a rock overlooking the entire island. The view was magnificent with edged green peaks sloping down to arable land with creeks and valleys blending into the turquoise sea.

From there we continued our hike down the other side, towards the college. The altitude coolness gives way to a more static heat. It was here on the back trails that we assured each other everything ‘might’ be for the taking; like an old habit hard to break, we ‘foraged’ sun-warmed bananas, happy to be picking food with our own hands. It wasn’t brie, but we weren’t sure cheese of any kind was a contender anymore.

Not to be outdone, we also ascended ‘l’homme couché’, or ‘Sleeping Man’. This hike is more advanced — that is to say ‘don’t look down’ — with steep inclines and only branches and your guts to hold onto in some parts. The last few meters of the trail feels like you are hugging the mountainside, however my Swiss captain took it like a walk in the park. Damn him!

Ravavae

Reluctantly, it was time to move on. We provisioned with as much fresh produce as we could; there would be few fruits and veggies as we moved further south.

Ravavae aligns to the very idea of saving the best for last. We had been told this island rivals Bora Bora and is the Pearl of the South Pacific. After an easy overnight sail on NW winds, we spotted Ravavae’s jaw-dropping plush peaks. As if this wasn’t enough, we were escorted to her shores by an amazing display of trade wind clouds hovering over the water like epic portraits. All that was missing from this regal reception were kettle drums and trumpets!

The north pass was easy to navigate and we found anchorage near the provisioning dock in Rairua. Standing on the stern we looked at the village under grey skies; low government buildings slung like peasant legs across the shore and a huge satellite dish yawned like a dog. A stocky cement dock barely had tired charm. This didn’t add up to the Bora Bora vision we expected. Perplexed we asked each other, Is This The Right Place?

We hauled anchor and headed under engine power east around the island. As we rounded, Ravavae opened up in all her majesty —our awe and relief was louder than the engine! Soft, undulating white sands of ‘Motu Piscene’ flowed like wisps of seaweed through turquoise waters. Palm trees swayed and mixed with pine trees along the beaches. Isn’t That Illegal? we asked each other.

We anchored on the far eastern side of the motu and counted over twelve cruisers hunkered down for the hurricane season. Kite surfing is a draw here as the winds slide down the mountains, creating dependable drafts the kiters seize to skate the bay. But it wasn’t until we climbed Mount Hiro — more than 1400ft above sea level — that the full magnificence of the motu and of Ravavae stunned us into picture-taking silence.

Like any inspiring viewpoint, the path to the top is usually worth the climb. Mount Hiro was no exception. The trail on the south side is quite steep in the beginning and locals have secured ropes to help with the ascension — challenging but not scary. Ferns as tall as an average adult can make you feel like you’re a bug in the grass, — oddly curing us of our ‘crawly things’ phobia.

Once at the top of the peak, a full 360º view of the island and the surrounding reef confirms it is as beautiful as rumored. Verdant peaks and crests frame the gorgeous white sands and turquoise waters of Moto Piscine; deep blues of the sea surround the coral ringing the island, — the entire composition delivering a postcard beauty that one often ponders behind their desk in a nine-to-five job.

We headed east along the descending ridges, and finally dropped down the sloping flanks of the north face, the trail easing us gently into someone’s back yard. Or at least we thought it was the trail…

Days turned into weeks and our reluctance to sail away grew. Onward! we finally said, licking our fingers and testing the wind.

As we moved out of the north pass and back into the sea sailing towards the Tuamotus, it was clear the Australs had left a deep impression. Each island was an expression of its own charm and uniqueness against the constant backdrop of Polynesian generosity and beauty. Each island was hard to leave, and yet each new island whetted our appetite for more.

To the Australs! we said as we raised a mug of water — it’s all we had left. That and maybe a scrap of brie.

Did you know? In 2014 I quit my job and started sailing -an uncommon thing from where I’m from. Since then I have sailed Alaska to Australia (took me seven months!), all over Pacific Mexico, and spent several years sailing the Med, including Cyprus, Greece and Turkey. You can find my images on instagram: rubyatsea.

I now own my own boat and am circumnavigating single-handed, one of the few women in the world doing such a crazy thing.

Julie wanted me to come to St. Maarten, West Indies to meet her and help her deliver her new-to-her boat back to Mazatlan, Mexico. I asked my friend Ron to join me as I also anticipated she wouldn't be able to make the full trip -she has no open ocean experience and short of being traumatized or recently divorced, no one does a 2000 mile journey out-of-the-box. Her boyfriend, Greg, was to join us as well.

That said, we inked the deal in February and agreed to arrive April 5th for what we expected to be a 40-45 day crossing! I was to teach her sailing along the way, and Ron would teach her navigation and weather -all while we took command of her boat for the journey.

As much as I like Julie, I have never liked her men. And the current boyfriend was the worst of them all. Good looking (sort of) and smart, he carried himself with such importance and conceit that it made me want to spit juice on his shoes.

Greg (or 'Gregory' as he liked to be called) arrived in St. Maarten a full month before Julie did. Julie had the boat surveyed and its outstanding but minor issues addressed. Greg was supposed to arrive and prep the boat -test the batteries, calibrate the instruments and overall assure the systems were in good working order before Julie arrived.

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Perhaps this was the biggest of many errors rearing its head on this delivery -Julie trusting Greg to take charge of the boat.

Greg by all standards is an upright fellow: his pedigree hails from wealth and ivy league, his nightly discussion of foie gras a constant shorthand for his exotic pallet. His whimper when the wine isn't just right underscores the vast wine cellar he has hidden somewhere. He worked as a paralegal addressing intellectual property, so his front row seat on all things legal was constantly underscored in daily discussions regarding un-legal things like fiberglass, engine mounts, soft shackles and bottom paint.

His sailing career, some would say, was over-blown. His story about riding a laser in 60 mph winds trapeezed out over the water was one for the books. In fact, he assured us many times his lack of open water -or really any kind of sailing- wasn't to be considered minimal because his laser racing career covered it all.

Oh, and he had an ivy league education which we were never allowed to forget. Ever.

But once a normal, inquisitive person smudged just below his Pledge-shined surface, Greg was nothing more than a broke, divorced guy who had somehow hooked up with a young, rich French girl and he was going to do anything and everything to keep himself relevant.

And so one day, about a week before Julie arrived in St. Maarten, he took Julie's boat out into the bay and ground down the bilges and stringers. For the non-sailing reader, this is like taking a sledge hammer to a wedding cake.

After his destruction was complete, Greg motored the boat back to the marina and had the boat lifted from the water. He casually strolled to the keel and pushed on it. He then called the yard manager over and said (triumphantly, I was told ) there is a keel wag! The recently weakened structure of the boat due to the grinding down of the stringers weakened the keel hold, causing it to wiggle like a tooth in a six-year old’s mouth.

Greg calls Julie. “Work needs to begin immediately on the boat! -the keel will fall off [it will now, that's for sure] and we will all die!” he says urgently.

Off to the yard stands the boat goes! A team assembled! Fuel and water tanks removed! Grinding of fiberglass commences! A massive repair process begins to repair the damage Greg had purposely created.

The surveyor who originally inspected the boat before the sale went through is shocked -a keel wag? Impossible! He eyes Greg with suspicion and later, he would stroll by the boat in the yard and I would watch him shake his head every time.

When pressed about the survey, Greg (I cannot call him Gregory) pontificates solidly, his voice swollen with importance like a forgotten plum in late summer and he assures anyone who is in earshot that surveyors have no integrity and are in cahoots with brokers to sell the boat. So of course the keel wag wasn’t identified in the survey -who would buy the boat if that were the case?

As a final note, Greg takes a finger and draws a line in the air -for a signature? It’s never clear, but usually Charlie Brown’s teacher’s Mwah mwah mwah voice takes over and all I hear is “mwah mwah Ivy League mwah mwah mwah”. I feel I’m in a stuffy classroom trying to keep my eyes open during a boring lecture.

The yard guys are beyond gleeful. The season for work has dried up. Cruisers are either heading south to Granada or preparing for the journey to the Panama Canal. All the bottom paint, welding, sanding, fiberglass, engine work, hull repairs and refits have prudently been completed. Off-off season and even last minute projects are also ghosts, phantoms to roam the yards next year.

But not Julie’s boat. The yard guys suit up every morning in white hazmat suits, still sweat-soaked from the blazing heat of the day before. The money is good (thanks Julie!), and the guys hold themselves collectively. Even they know they benefit from this erst-while sabotage and who are they to shirk the good money? But hooo-boy doesn’t this take the cake and their eye-rolling are like marbles spilling all over the yard.

Greg is just short of wearing a general's uniform and commandeers the yard surrounding Julie’s boat as though an invasion of first world assets is on nigh! His verbal abuse, humiliating tactics and roaming eye for hazmat-suited targets dampens the usually cheerful and good natured workers.

One guy named Tony from Guyana has been doing fiberglass, hull repair and painting for twenty years. His smile is broad whenever I see him and he talks about how he’s usually in New York this time of year working the boat yards there. His diplomacy towards Greg’s micro-management often makes me wonder if Tony is constantly stoned or a saint. I couldn’t decide. It was clear that this job was on an Olympic order of sucking it up and keeping your head down.

Ron and I continue prepping our boats in Mexico for our absence. Our arrival date to St. Maarten is pushed out by 15 days, but both Ron and I know it's not possible for a project of this size to find completion so quickly, yet we have been seduced into thinking that Greg must know what he’s doing. He seems so…so sure of himself.

Daily Whatsapp texts assure us of progress, complete with pictures and back-patting congratulatory comments on how well managed and on-track this project is. Meanwhile, Julie is shelling out over $40k in expenses and paying Greg for his time.

We rebook our flights and two days before we leave we receive another update: The boat will be ready to ‘splash’ in just two days after we arrive. Ron and I both look at each other with raised eyebrows. They wouldn’t have us show up if things weren’t near completion, would they? That would be madness, we exclaimed!

To complicate matters, Greg manages his new empire via Gannt charts, which befuddles everyone. These Excel spreadsheets slice and dice each task of this unnecessary (but now necessary) project, using color coded boxes like a suite of Granimal clothes splayed over a twelve-year old’s bed.

This laboratory of sterilized time lines and neat boxes and clinical dates for completion is a vacuum-packed fantasy set against the backdrop of heat, dust, grime, temperament, supplies, thirst, muscle and blood forged into the men sweating in hazmat suits trying to make a dime with dignity. Every morning Greg updates his Gannt charts, and sends a new link out to the shared doc. “It's in the Gannt Chart!’” he would tell us repeatedly in his sophisticated but 'tired' tone.

We land in St. Maarten, the Caribbean heat flat and pressing as we descend the plane stairs to the tarmac. Julie meets us at the airport and takes us to the apartment we will share with her and Greg. Ron and I are in high moods, excited for this adventure. Julie takes us out to eat and promises to take us to the boat the next day. We barely unpack as we know we will be relocating to the boat soon.

The next morning we rise early, do a little yoga on the balcony overlooking the marina and have tea. Greg makes an appearance then leaves for the boat yard, swatting an imaginary switch against his thigh. An hour later, Julie herds us into the car and we head to the boat yard. Our chatter excited and our mood light and infectious.

As the car pulls into the yard, the guard waves us through -I remember his face well as his eyebrows shoot up past his forehead when Julie introduces us as her new 'Delivery Skippers'. He’s clearly aware of what we will see ourselves in a few short minutes.

The car rounds into the yard and among the few boats on stands, sits Julie's boat. We get out of the car and stand there in part disbelief and part confusion. From a quick five-second assessment this boat is not ready to splash in two days. Ron and I exchange glances and walk to the bottom of the ladder propped on the stern.

Off to the right, staged under another boat in precious shade is massive amounts of fiberglass and templates. Empty water bottles roll around in the breeze and a huge tarp is at the ready should a downpour threaten. Julie is chattering away in her french-laced accent. We don't hear a word.

We climb up the ladder slowly, masking our trepidation as caution. We pick our way over containers and boxes and tools and cardboard to the companionway entrance. We peer into the cavern of the salon -no furniture, no flooring, just vast bilges and stringers as far as the eye could see. A worker sits hunched over a grinder and Greg looks up beaming...I think we whispered “Hi”.

We are stunned. There is no way in any universe, in any gannt chart, in any way possible this boat could be possibly ready in two days. Ron tries to salvage our stunned moment and comments on the fiberglass work.

“Nice job!” he says a little too loudly. “Great work, man!”

I look at a beaming Julie and I look back at Greg then look at Julie again. I put my sunglasses back on, relieved they cover my eyes as they are a dead ringer for what I think: This little missy is paying us $350 a day to wait for this boat to splash and somehow out of 8 billion people in the world she has managed to hook up with the one guy who has Macgyver-ed his way into her bank account.

We climb down the ladder and Julie waves us away, a hand gesture she picked up from Greg: Dismissed!

Ron and I shuffle our way out of the yard and start to head back to the apartment. We both agree this boat is going nowhere soon, and question why they had us come at all. I want to talk to Julie to make sure she understands she's paying us per the contract, but Ron disagrees, pointing out our $7k deposit covers us for now.

We decide to offer our help in whatever way they need to accelerate the project. However the next day, Ron is recruited to cut fiberglass and I'm taken shopping with Julie.

We head over to the French side of St. Maarten where she shops for sunglasses! A bathing suit! Aren't these pants cute! This hat is très stylé to wear when working the helm! Shoes to wear on the teak deck! Another hat! In some way Julie’s rabid shopping attack feels like an attempt to make it all real; an effort to will this boat into splashing. If she looks just the right way maybe we can splash tomorrow! Another vacuum-packed fantasy to keep Greg’s gantt charts company.

Back at the yard Ron is fuming. The amount of work and micro-management has him itching out of his skin. Most likely that's the fiberglass, but an apt metaphor that plagues us for the coming weeks.

The next day, Julie wants to take me shopping again but I suggest I help with the fiberglass. Her look of disappointment and annoyance is obvious. I stop myself from laughing out loud. For God's sake! I want to say, That Louie Vuitton bag can wait! We’ve got a boat to launch! But I refrain myself; this is a farcical universe and I must maintain self-control. Or drink amply.

For the next three days Ron and I huddle under the boat cutting fiberglass and doing everything we can to accelerate the project. Julie is conveniently ‘allergic’ to the fiberglass (It makes me itch, she whines.) When we exhaust our efforts there, we are sent in the dinghy over to the french side to pick up water and other project supplies from the chandleries there. On one of our excursions we are asked to find out about the supply of copper coat paint.

Whaaaaat??? You mean you plan on sanding and redoing the bottom, too? Oh and redoing the hull paint includes peeling the old name off the stern and replacing it with the new name Julie chose for her boat: Aetheling -meaning of ‘Noble Birth’ (eye roll). These off-season projects need to be done now?? We have a boat to deliver over 2000 miles with hurricane season breathing down our backs.

That same day Greg plunks himself down on a turned over milk crate, his street clothes ironed and blushing with sweat. He sits next to Tony as Tony grounds down the keel for bottom paint. Greg is lecturing Tony on how to do his job, pointing at little specks and pocks, his words flinging spit everywhere and his arm waiving a sander around like it was a battle flag.

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Tony sits on the crate, his eyes glazed, his back hunched over in his soaked hazmat suit. He wearily catches my eye. I raise a middle finger and scratch my nose and look at Greg. Tony grunts a smile -I shake my head slightly and grimace in sympathy. This whole situation I’ve found myself in is worse than a train wreck. I think Tony thinks the same.

This is a Tuesday with a 'splash' date of Saturday. Gantt chart certified. By Thursday night at dinner I've had enough. Over charcuterie I ask Greg to 'walk me through how we're going to splash on Saturday', as the fiberglass work isn't done, the water and fuel tanks not installed, the off-season hull and bottom painting work still to be done and we are now two-plus weeks into this situation of ongoing projects and endless, endless promises and gantt chart updates of splashing on Wednesday, no Saturday! no Monday! Wait -Tuesday! Ah sorry guys, Friday! No Saturday!

I thought this was a reasonable and overdue question. At the very least, we are quickly approaching hurricane season. Fortunately, I had not been drinking in five or six days, opting for the self-control plan over losing my senses, so I keep my gaze steady on Greg.

“Well”, he begins, flustered and pushing his chest against his shirt buttons. “In terms of the bottom paint, after sanding -that'll take a few hours- the molecules adhere to…”

And just like that the sound of Charlie Brown's teacher takes over again and all I hear is a muffled “mwah mwah mwah ivy league mwah mwah mwah masters in chemical engin mwah mwah mwah mwah legally binds mwah mwah mwah ….” just ongoing layers of concentric circles painted in the air by a pendulum without any meaning, any purpose or any intention of stopping. Finally the room goes silent.

I turn to Julie. For someone who owns her own sailboat, she has completely handed over her own due diligence, her pocketbook, her practical thinking and even more sadly, her personal power to this dink-bonger of a guy who has manufactured this project that was completely unnecessary to begin with. And he's costing her a fortune.

I say to Julie “Your boat won't splash on Saturday. It's just not possible.”

“Well Gregory would never put me in harm's way”, she says looking over her glass as she sips her wine. “I believe him. What Gregory says must be correct.”

All right then. I shrug good-naturally. I slide off my chair and wash my plate and say “Let me know how I can help tomorrow.”

I'm worried. I am getting a strange feeling that Julie doesn't understand the contract she has signed. Our $7,000 deposit is almost up. And although Julie isn't my responsibility, and has terrible taste in men, I feel an obligation to make sure she understands what is going on.

Ron doesn’t agree, he hates to ‘rock the boat’; he prefers a more copacetic approach to this sinking ship.

Being nice isn't enough, you have to have nerve, says Georgia O’Keefe. I’m going with her.

By fate, an act of God or universal mercy, Greg has actually left St. Maarten to tend to his dad who had a stroke. He still runs the project with a now ridiculously long stick; Trumpets in the morning, roll call three times a day and the fictitious switch hitting his thigh roams like a ghost in the apartment. It's morning, May 9th. We've been here in St. Maarten for eighteen days now. Julie is walking down the hall towards the kitchen. I hear the slap of her bare feet and I slide off my stool.

“Julie”, I say, making my way over to the sink, keeping things casual. “Do you have a sec?”

I face her and Ron circles the counter and stands by my side. “I just wanted to chat. You know, our deposit is up today and we should talk next steps. It seems like the boat just isn't ready.”

Julie's face goes blank. “The deposit?” she asks.

“Yeah, the deposit.” I say, trying to stay gentle, but I know the outside of my words are blushing red. “You understand we are being paid our daily rate while we wait for the boat to be ready. Its outlined clearly in the contract.”

She blinks. Then blinks again. Finally she recovers herself and says “Oh. Well, send me an invoice and we'll go over the numbers.”

We know the second she is out the door she will be calling her all-around hero of a boyfriend for guidance. She leaves swiftly after that and I tell Ron we should start looking for flights. This ship has sailed.

Julie doesn't come home that night, but texts us to be available for a meeting at 1pm with Greg conferenced in. Ron immediately fumes, and says he refuses to talk to 'that guy'...but Greg has not only taken over Julie's pocket book and boat, he's taken over Julie as well. There is no Julie unless Greg is in the room or in this case, on the phone.

Our phone conference consists of us listening to Greg redefine the contract, reshaping our fee, massaging ‘expectations’ and ‘roles’. He spends an hour stuffing this swelling problem and mounting fees into a wetsuit five sizes too small while Julie pouts at the counter.

We leave that night to spend the night in a hotel, catching a flight out the next day. We email Julie our invoice again -a second attempt to recover money we spent at her request on her boat, our marina fees and travel costs. Her only response to that was an ad hominem attempt, claiming we were often found drinking in the bar. If only.

We return back to Mexico. Our mood is sour and I feel humiliated.

For the next several days I keep thinking of these dogs I found hiking five or six years ago when I was sailing in Greece. A couple I had been sailing with and I had been hiking for hours in unbearable heat. We came upon what seemed like an empty monastery at the end of a road, miles outside of a village.

We entered through the rusty gates, the wind blowing dry sticks around. Perched on a cliff, the air was thin and the sun very hot. The walls of the dorms were painted a deep cerulean blue, and large swaths of stucco had fallen off. There was a pickup parked on the yellow grass, rusted and dented, looking like it had been there for a long time.

On a rocky swell off the edge of the property five dogs were tied up -no water, no shade. I approached them. They whined. They were miserable. I gave them all my water and all my food. As I stood to look around -wasn’t there some friar wandering around somewhere?- one of the dogs -a female- wrapped her front paws around my leg, her face staring up at me, pleading. I bent down to untie her.

The couple with me stopped me. “You might get arrested doing that! This isn’t our country! Don’t untie them! We’ll get into trouble!”

I freeze. Can’t they see these animals suffer? The captain comes over to me and places his hands on his hips. “Don’t you dare”, he seethes.

And despite my solidly better judgement, I walk away.

I have been haunted by that decision ever since. And ask those dogs often for forgiveness.

Three weeks later I place a lien on Julie’s boat for the full contract value -over $22,000.

I don’t know what those dogs have to do with Julie, but I have been in Julie’s situation many times; I have been taken advantage of, I have been lied to, I have surrounded myself with the wrong men. And I have also been the perpetrator, delivering no mercy or justice when it was within my power to do so. Both these sides of me strangely knit together now as I attempt to reconcile what I witness against the things I have done.

The next day I set sail from Mazatlan to Isla Partida, crossing the Sea of Cortez under perfect conditions. I had filed the lien with the US Coast Guard that morning.

The dogs have disappeared and Julie’s face has receded. I feel light. The wind rinses me through and dolphins leap toward my boat like golden retrievers, spinning and playing at my bow.

But the number of boats here astounds me. When I arrive, I travel six miles up the inside pass and it takes me two hours to find an anchor spot. The first time I drop my anchor, I slip my boat up into a field of boats. The sky is grey and it is drizzling. I can see the huge southern swell crashing over the reef, creating a fetch that scuffles the water. I drop my anchor, pay out about 120 feet of chain, test my hold. So far so good. I attach my bridle - a thick nylon rode designed to remove tension from my windlass -and survey the scene.

I am just arriving from a three day passage from a little atoll, I’m sleep deprived and hungry. Anchoring in a new place is always stressful as everything is unfamiliar and the stakes are high - coral, a rough sea bed, wind direction and other boats can create foul situations. I turn off my motor and I take a closer look around me. I am particularly close to one boat, but that’s not unusual in these parts. I head to my bow and squint my eyes - are those mooring balls? Have I anchored in a vast field of boats all tied to mooring balls, freed from using their anchors?

I am. Ruh roh.

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For those of you who don’t sail, anchoring around boats that are on mooring balls is like wearing stripes with plaid; it’s like pairing red wine with a delicate white fish or wearing your shoes on the opposite feet. It’s like driving the wrong way down a one way street or showing up a day late for a job interview. It’s like asking a woman when she’s due, and she’s not pregnant. There is no recovery from the faux pas and the only option is to leave. I’m on 120 feet of chain, meaning my boat can swing that length in all directions. Those on a mooring ball have a much tighter radius, meaning if the winds change -and they will- I surely will plow boats down in this crowded field.

Up comes my anchor and I swing my boat out of that tight area. All of the designated anchoring spots are packed with boats and I don’t know where to go. I have never in my life seen so many boats in one area, taking on shades of a Super Bowl parking lot. I head back north, returning down the long channel and edge through another field - this time most people are anchored with a few derelict boats on mooring balls. It’s tight, but I have to carve out some space for myself. I remember a trick I used in Mazatlan, where the conditions were similar. I dropped my anchor just at the edge of the traffic area and the wind set me back away from the channel. I played that card and carve a spot out for myself.

I finally turn off my engine and wearily start putting my lines away and cleaning the boat up from my passage. Everything is salty and dirty - a state hard to avoid when at sea, and overwhelming when you arrive exhausted. Sailboats are everywhere and power boats buzz by at alarming speeds, rocking my boat to and fro. This will be home for awhile as I start some much needed projects on my boat.

I’m not excited like one usually is arriving in such an exotic and beautiful place. But after a pizza, lots of beer and a good night’s sleep, I see how lucky I am to be able to sail almost anywhere I like, watch the waves pound the coral and wave to my neighbors, smiling at each other as we know it’s not ideal, but it’s not less than ideal either. It’s just sailing.

This type of isolation could really unnerve people, but for me it settles me - unless I think too deeply about it, then a strange fear creeps in. We are so used to being around people that when they no longer surround us, it can feel empty, or freeing. Or creepy. I have felt all three.

While I was anchored in Kauehi, there were only five boats in total there - an Italian couple, two Americans, a French man and a guy from Switzerland.

One night we all went to shore and built a bonfire. We sit around the flames, drinking Saki from small cups one of the Americans brought. He said he had been carrying this bottle of saki for years, and now was the time to drink it. We munch on coconut marinated in tamari and cooked in the flames. Someone passes around pistachios and and potato chips - both a real treat!

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We play Two Truths and a Lie - a game perfect for people who don’t know each other well. Each person tells two truths and a lie about themselves, and must answer one question from each person, then we guess which is the lie.

I learn one of the Italians, a beautiful seventy year old woman who wears bright pink bikinis and is a monkey researcher, used to be married to a famous actor. I believe her lie that she was a dancer at ‘La Scala’ as her nimble and lean body suggested dancerly qualities. But no, that is her lie.

The Swiss guy says he had been arrested once for reading the newspaper while on duty in the army, but I think where he was born is the lie. The arrest is the truth.

The Frenchman says he had owned a total of three boats - and somehow I quickly guess right that is his lie. Otherwise, he has five kids and two passports.

The Italian man says he went to an IBM interview dressed in jeans, sandals and a t-shirt. I think that is a lie as the Italians would never stoop to such casual attire for such an important moment. That ends up being the truth.

The American says he ran a homeless shelter, is fluent in Japanese and was invited to join an expedition to climb Mt. Everest. The homeless shelter is a lie.

As for me, I say I owned a bakery, ran a dog kennel on my property and lived in France for two years. Everyone thinks the bakery is the lie, but the dog kennel fools them all.

The game goes on for awhile and after we empty the Saki bottle, we pour Baileys Irish Cream into our little saki glasses.We laugh and joke and poke fun at one another as the flames die down. The stars are everywhere and our anchor lights melt into the night sky, looking like the rest of the stars sparking the dark.

We throw sand on the fire, smoldering it. We all smell of smoke and we gather our stuff up. We shuffle into the water guiding our dinghies around shallow coral and head off to our sailboats.

Out of 7.8 billion people in the world, it’s just us that found our way to this little remote atoll and anchored near one another, seeking shelter from a big wind that lasts two weeks -most of us complete strangers to one another.

A simple bonfire and a game fuses us. Just yesterday the Italian couple reached out to see how my sail was going. We are like three year olds when we meet each other, fast and immediate friends as we play on the playground of a dangerous sport, all of us sharing frustrations, fear, joys and the mysteries of this strange life of sailing the sea.

The next day the Swiss guy leaves for another atoll, the following day after that the Italians and the French guy leave. We slowly pour ourselves out of this atoll, heading in different directions, bonded and loyal through the truth and lies we tell one another.

I notice rutted tracks - a ‘road’ that goes all the way to the village, some twelve miles to the north. The next day a friend and I bring our foldable bikes to shore and head to the village. We are out of fresh food and eggs, and clearly we’ll ride miles to find some.

We grease our chains, pump air in our tires and we’re off, bumping along in a good natured fashion down a barely visible road.

The wind continues to howl, but the palm trees protecting the lagoon muffle most of it. They arc at least thirty or forty feet into the sky, waving like crazy kids at a concert, their palm fronds spewing from the tops of their heads and littering the rutted road with a carpet of their frenzy.

We bump along, stopping now and then to pull bits of fronds eaten into our dérailleurs. Coconut crabs as big as a dinner plates occasionally block the road, clicking their claws, staring us down in defense, then scurry into their gaping holes as we continue to bumble along. The whole ride is like this, with round coconuts adding a layer of dodging we eventually got good at. We weren’t even half way there, but exhaustion starts to show.

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A squall moves in with such precision and discipline it is pure fortune we see an abandon shed and take shelter as the rain beats out a wild call on the tin roof, causing us to shout to be heard.

This is no longer a bike ride for fresh lettuce, it’s now an expedition that fortunately doesn’t require us to suffer leeches or hidden leopards; however, the now soggy almost invisible rutted road, filled with crabs, coconuts, palm fronds and now occasional fallen palm trees reminds us we are forging a path along the Amazonian like trenches of this only trail to the village.

We are too far in to turn around…and what is worse, I forgot my water, sitting innocently on my galley counter - and neither of us brought food, thinking the other would. We were one thirsty, hungry, soaking biking disaster.

After two hours the rutted road turns to pavement and we ride into a sleepy village where the kids blow us kisses and the two small grocery stores are closed. There is one main road and a long dock. We ride out to the end of the dock and sit down, almost falling asleep with our low blood sugar.

The stores don’t open until three or four or five o’clock…we heard. We had to head back soon as daylight would not be on our side for much longer. We find a snack bar. They’re closed. But a woman sells us two cans of coke and some potatoes chips. We scarf it down with a satisfying voraciousness.

Finally, one store opens up. There is no fresh food except for onions. I buy cookies and something to drink, a total focus for the return trip. We have twelve miles to ride back and we are no longer naive to the ride.

The light is starting to turn to the soft afternoon hues that make one think about pouring a glass of wine to enjoy the sunset. My friend and I look at each other as we straddle our bikes. Riding this path in the dark would be one for the books. I joked I was worried a crab would grab me. He laughed, but not very hard. I wasn’t really joking. We take off, heads down and speed up.

On we ride. The closer we get to where we landed the dinghy, the more the light left the sky. No longer were we dilly-dallying and artfully avoiding the debris in the ‘road’, now we bulldoze our way through, night just behind our shoulders and all the crabs remaining in their holes.

We make it back just as the sun sets, our boats silhouetted by the waning light. Our hopes for fresh food forgotten, but our hunger for adventure satisfied.

In the short bursts of sleep last night I dream of a white bird throwing a shadow over my boat. She caws like a cat and the underside of her wings reflect the sea, with pitches of blue so deep I see turtles, whales, parrot fish, puppies and my best friend peering out from her feathers like kangaroos mewing from their mother’s pouch. The bird swoops and soars and rides the drafts just above my boat. In the dream we have a conversation about the sea swells breathing me deeper into a something I can’t remember. At some point we eat chocolate and then she lifts high into the sky, disappearing into a sun-like oyster, tucking herself away as a pearl I might find later.

I feel calm and happy when I wake up,.

I am sailing to this atoll to avoid an approaching system that will throw 40+knots of wind at me from the Southeast. These systems are called Maramus and this one will last for almost a week. All the sailors in this area are scurrying like beetles for cover. The atolls are so flat we all seek out a SE bank holding a cache of palm trees that break the wind. Some sailors are high-tailing it to Tahiti, 350 miles to the SW. Others, like me, roam the charts, use google earth and swoop in like a bird to identify good protection, hauling anchor to sail on calm seas before the teeth of this Maramu sink into the skin of the wind and sea.

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This wild wind will take no prisoners, and the art of finding protection is normal. It’s the seatbelt of sailing, strapping yourself in like a Ralph Nader acolyte; It’s the closing of shutters, the tucking of lawn chairs, and the charging of flashlights of owning a boat -our literal homes, holding our possessions, our dreams and our anguish should we lose them. So buckle up, kids, and hunker down for the ride.

The wind is light now and I’m motor-sailing. I’ll arrive at Kauehi in about four hours, a bit early for slack tide to enter the pass, but these calm seas and light wind will make the entry and jog across the lagoon to a protective anchor like reaching across the table for a kiss -simple and uncluttered.

I’m buddy-boating with my buddy and although five boats left Makemo yesterday, we all sloughed off in different directions, leaving just the two of us sailing almost side-by-side like two sleeves of the same shirt.

He radios me, I radio him. When either of us fall off course we always reach out. Each of us always claim we are holding course and that the other is imagining things. We bicker over the radio like kids in the backseat of a station wagon.

There is comfort in this familiarity as we head into unknown territory of a new atoll. One time during a Chubasco in Mexico he rowed over to give me a headlamp, as mine had busted. Its a rare sailor that is completely alone. Eventually we all clump up in small clusters, like the menagerie I saw in the bird, peering out, hovering in just the right way, delivering light in the night.

If the sun is overhead or behind me, I can see the lethal coral bommies ahead, but there is always someone hitting a submerged bommie, and it’s the hidden world that has a grip on my throat when moving through an atoll.

I plot my course using Open CPN - a program that layers Google, Bing, Navonics and Arc GIS charts - a great visual to the bommies from whatever satellite flew overhead a year or so ago. But when in my cockpit, I can only use my iPad, so creating a route on a program on my iPad is the next best thing.

Regardless, it’s just plain stressful. As I leave Raroia, a big catamaran calls a ‘Pan-Pan’ over channel 16. He has two look outs on the bow and still hits a bommie! As I sail west, I hear him say he is stuck solid on the bommie, no water ingress -yet. That’s right folks, those bommies will tear your boat up like a dog to a rag doll, and you don’t want even a button popping off of your rig in those conditions.

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I sail west with, turns out, a slew of boats taking advantage of the light winds to sail to Makemo, an atoll about 70 miles to the southwest. I leave mid afternoon, catching the slack tide perfectly and ease out of the pass. This will be an overnight passage and I kick-back into the light motion of the boat as she moves gently through the waters like a bird well fed, riding the warm drafts of the sky.

The night will require vigilance as so many boats are around. My buddy-boater and I take turns resting in one hour and a half increments, and watch each other’s boat. If one of us heads off course or another boat gets too close, we’ve got each other’s back. We arrive to Makemo before dawn - hours before dawn- and heave-to for five hours, waiting for slack tide before entering the long throaty channel of Makemo.

The small anchorage is packed, and it’s hard to find a spot to drop my anchor. I find a spot in the back of the pack and drop in 40 feet of water over sand and coral. I pay out chain and once I’m set, I’m grumpy. I’m way too close to a coral bank and if the wind shifts I’ll be like that guy calling a ‘Pan-Pan’ over the VHF. I haul anchor and try again to seek out another spot. It’s raining and a squall has lovingly thrown more wind at me, making conditions annoying. There’s a guy sitting over there off his stern watching me.

“Hey!” I shout. “Want to help me with my helm?”

He jumps in his dinghy and comes over. There’s a real possibility this wind could have me swing into another boat once my anchor is off the sea floor and I will still have another 40 feet of chain to haul in. It’s impossible to work the helm and bow at the same time… and this is a time when they both need to be dancing partners on the same beat. Plus, Makani is so light a little breeze will have her sniffing boats like a dog.

I re-anchor, float my chain (attach floats to my chain to keep it from wrapping around coral) and am satisfied. I don’t plan on staying here for long, as Monday the winds turn light and it’s a good time to leave before a buster of a 30-40 knot Maramu hits the atolls next week. There is no real protection where I am, so off I go, hunting down a motu wielding shield and saber I can duck behind.

Ah, the life of sailing… and you thought it was popping bon-bons by the light of a bon fire on some exotic beach. To be fair, the stress is the universal tax for accessing some of the most remote spots in the world by boat… but you do have to pay the piper well and be at peace with losing your home unexpectedly.

The prevailing saying when waxing a by-the-skin-of-your-teeth sailing mishap? “Well, at least I didn’t die!” A somber statement, but you’ll find us all nodding in agreement.

(Read Part I & Part II)

It wasn’t, of course, but I was salty and grimy, my lips chapped, my throat dry, my thumb throbbing and my teeth gritty from not brushing them; I was so spent everything was starting to seem overwhelming.

I studied our route through the atoll. Our plan was Mar de Luz would lead the way, I would follow close behind. Promises Kept would stay in radio contact and direct us verbally through the coral fields. But first, we had to make it through the pass.

About 45 minutes had passed since our first attempt. The white froth of the out going current has eased off and we decide to try again. There is a narrow window to enter and exit these passes and as a boat comes flinging out the pass towards us, we realize now is the time.

We both gun our motors and head straight in against 20 knot winds and four knots of opposing current. Our boats are like rugby players with their heads down, teeth bared with a growl from the throat; the determination is equal to the fear of engines seizing -as they are known to do when you need them the most. We push on and on, hoping we are making progress. The clutch of the current starts to ease and finally we are through, making our way east across choppy, bommie filled waters.

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It’s late afternoon and the light is dim. Skies are cloudy and heavy with rain. We are are suddenly the VHF channel everyone is listening to as we provide the lagoon a heap of bommie drama. Mar de Luz leads the way and I follow along like a little sister keeping up to her big brother. Promises Kept nudges us if we are even a tad off course, and identifies the coral bommies ahead - one to our port, one to our starboard, another to our port; make a hard turn to starboard, then swing around to port. We’re like Cassius Clay dodging punches as we stay nimble at the helm.

The sun sinks below the horizon, twilight descending. We are almost there. As we pass boats safely anchored, people come out and wave and shout their relief. There is a camaraderie among sailors when it comes to things like this. We all want to see a happy ending as we all undergo our own tests and know the strain and toll it takes to not only avoid a bommie collision, but to enter under crappy conditions as well. Two single handers, to boot.

By the time I find a place to anchor, it’s dark. The first time I release my anchor, she doesn’t drop and I’m blown off into unknown bommie territory. I have no idea what is in the water under me. My keel scrapes something and I gringe. I grab my headlamp, head up to the bow, fix the anchor and point the boat back into the wind to roughly where I was before. Its deep here and I’ll have to release a lot of chain in the beginning just to nail a hold. I release my anchor again in what is now pitch dark and the anchor falls. I head up to the bow and wait for the anchor to dig deep, pulling the bow back into the wind. She finally bites. I let out more chain, back down on it, and satisfied I turn the engine off.

I head down below, dig into one of my storage areas under my setee and find a bottle of tequila I was saving. I take a shot, invite Mar de Luz over for another shot and then another, the stress and intensity melting away like the missing ice in our drinks.

The next morning I walk the deck. During the rough passage I had heard a ‘crack-bang’. A sound like that is never good. As I walk around, I test the rigging, pull on the shrouds, looking for anything out of whack.

And then I see it -a bulge coming up through my deck on the port side. A large bolt connecting a tie-rod to my chainplate had sheared completely off -there was no support for my port shrouds, meaning my mast and all my rigging is very fragile.

In other words, I was lucky my mast didn’t come down in those heavy seas -spelling sure life-threatening trouble for me. I look out over the lagoon. I’ve never had a problem like this before nor have I ever been so close to losing my rig.

I go down below to make coffee and etch a plan. I’m over 350 miles from Tahiti, the only place with services to make these kind of repairs. Sailing under any wind will be risky. Moreover, soon I will have to seek out a better atoll as the hard blowing Maramus will arrive -huge winds from the SE that create difficult sailing conditions. Finding protection in these barely-above-sea-level atolls means in a few days I’ll have to head back out to sea and aim for an atoll with a wide band of palm trees that will provide a much needed wind break when these big winds hit.

I’m tired already thinking about the next leg -I finish my coffee and radio Mar de Luz with the news. The day opens up and the sun climbs higher in the sky. I dive off the boat and swim, accepting that this problem, like all others I encounter at sea, is solvable and even more, I’m safely anchored and in one piece.

Despite it being the worst passage ever, I know I have even worst ahead. If my rigging is to break, better it be now than later. I dive down and swim around a coral bommie and watch the fish. A black reef shark lazily drifts nearby, uninterested in me.

A white spotted Puffer fish is curious and bobs in front of me, turning its body to face me. We float suspended, watching each other, lifted from troubles and hovering in water so warm and clear that for a moment I don’t care about anything. I hold my breath for as long as I can, then shoot to the surface. My lungs fill with air, then I dive down again and linger with the fish.

Read Part I & Part II here on The Worst Passage Ever

(Read Part I)

For some back story, atolls are low lying rings of coral surrounding a lagoon usually riddled with large coral ‘bommies’. From a sailor’s perspective, they are tricky to enter -as timing is everything and losing my boat is a real possibility.

I study the water’s flow in the pass. As the tide rises, water rushes into the lagoon and similarly, when the tide eventually drops, water rushes out. Both instances make entering an atoll impossible -so timing an approach has to be at slack or ebb tide -the short time between tidal changes. I’m nervous and unsure what the tide is doing -tidal charts aren’t accurate in these parts and I have to rely on judgement.

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To understand even further the timing of an atoll pass, think of arriving at a train station. The only train schedule is some graffiti on the bathroom wall suggesting arrival times, looking like ‘Call me’ phone numbers; there is no platform to board the train, and the train doesn’t stop. The only ticket that gets you on is your ability to run alongside, swing your legs up and hope you make it.

This is the Raroia pass, an ‘easy’ pass, but on the day I arrived the wind blows in the 20’s from the southeast, the worst direction I could possibly have for entering this pass. During the night I slid further west, and even though I am almost to the atoll, I am too far out in the wrong direction to make entry easy. If I wanted to head straight to the pass, I would have to sail directly into 20+ knot winds, and would make no progress; my only choice was to sail as close to the wind as possible and tack in.

Friends inside the atoll happen to be on AIS and told me later they saw two boats out in those messy seas and said “Who are those numb nuts?” - only to realize my boat Makani and a buddy boat, Mar de Luz, might be in a bit of a pickle. They radioed our boats and talked us through the bathroom graffiti tide estimates. We had two hours to make the entry window. Not a lot of time when you are sailing close to the wind in waves so stiff that when Makani slams into the sea an impression of her hull is hammered into the swell.

These were probably some of the most aggressive seas I’ve been in, as the swells pummeled my boat, causing the bow to lift and slam into the sea with a gut wrenching ‘bang’. At one point I heard a ‘crack-bank’ and knew something broke. At the time, a quick scan of the boat showed nothing, underscoring how beneficial my ignorance was at the time.

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I turn on my engine to motor sail, increasing my speed so I can arrive in time to make the entry. Mar de Luz is further to the east, in a better place and tacks to the entrance with ease. Or what looks like it. I hammer on, heeling to starboard as much as I can to keep my speed up, sailing so close to the wind we’re practically dating. My bandaged hand is soaked with blood, and three spoons of peanut butter is all I’ve had to go on for the day. I’m thirsty and focused, so much so I have to talk myself into leaving the helm to get more water.

Up ahead are palm trees, lying low over white sand edges, the atoll appearing benign as it sits just a few feet above sea level. I’m a horse galloping towards the barn and its beginning to feel like I’m galloping at all costs. Time is running out. If I miss the timing of the pass entry, I’ll have to spend the night in these seas fighting to stay near the atoll without running into it.

I finally tack north, pointing Makani to the opening of the pass, a wide, coral-less slide of water. The only entrance. I’m shaking when I finally drop my sails and sidle up to Mar de Luz. Our boats sling their arms around each other in greeting while we size up the pass.

The water is rushing out like a run-away train and we eye it. We will have to wait to enter. Another problem lies ahead - the coral bommies. These big masses of coral lie just under the surface of the water inside the lagoon, and can be hard to spot if the sun isn’t overhead or behind you, or if it’s cloudy. Just last week, five boats ended up hitting bommies, a sure-fire way to lose your boat.

I watch the sky. To the west squalls draw curtains of rain; overhead, the light is dim, the sun popping out between clouds, occasional sprinkles teasing downpours. Whelp, we had the cards stacked against us -22 kts on the nose, a guess on slack tide and compromised coral bommie sightings. A beautiful wine pairing to the rough passage we just completed.

Our friends on Promises Kept anchored inside the lagoon -a father raising his daughter on his own- radios us latitude and longitude coordinates of a dependable, coral bommie-free passage through the atoll. He is going to talk us through once we get through the pass, and we will follow his way points. Mar de Luz is anxious to get started. The water is still rushing out of the atoll, but we decide to dip our big toe in. Mar de Luz enters the pass first, and I follow closely behind. We hit the current running against us and I’m not even thirty seconds into it when I peel off and head back out. The fast outflowing current pushes me back like I was a kid in the way.

Mar de Luz spends the next thirty minutes fighting the pass, gunning his motor full throttle and making no forward progress. He remains stalled in space until he finally gives up and let’s the current swish him back out, joining me as we wait for the tide to abate. The sun is growing lower, the weather is growing worse and time starts to condense; our chance to a safe anchorage inside the atoll is growing slim.

(Read Part I and Part III to find out what happens. This sailing stuff is not all bikinis and cocktails, you know.)

I was sailing from Oa-Pou to Raroia, an atoll 435 miles south made famous by the Kon Tiki landing. All the weather models showed solid 15 kts winds, maybe a little rain. Nothing too crazy.

Around 6am on a cloudy Saturday morning I hauled anchor along with Mar de Luz, another boat heading the same way, and we sailed out of the Hakahetau Bay into light winds, common on the lee side of an island.

I sip my tea as I sail almost due south, watching the smoky, white light of the early morning sun punch through the clouds like headlights through fog. As I leave the shadow of Ua-Pou, I’m happy for more solid wind as I need to maintain a certain speed to make it to Raroia in time for slack tide, four days out.

But what looks like solid, bring-home-the-bacon wind turns into something akin to a teenage tricker treater bent on taking all the candy out of the bowl and returning after lights out to throw eggs at your house. The sneaky and conniving wind conspires with the swells, sending two-plus meter waves at the beam of my boat.

By nightfall on the first night, my girl gallops across the seas at a solid seven knots and I’m harnessed in the cockpit wondering what have I got myself into. The seas are thick and the swells roll under the boat, tipping her enough that my heavy five gallon jug of emergency water sitting below deck dances to the other side of the boat as though this was just another light-as-a-feather Lindy class.

On the wind blows -at times reaching thirty knots- my reefed main sail opened up to dump wind so my speed doesn’t get out of hand. I have just a hanky of a staysail out to push some power to the center of the boat, but who knows if these tricks make a difference. It’s so dark out I can’t see the swells coming at the boat and I’m grateful - I don’t want to see them as I can tell they are bigger than before. I stick my little ostrich head back into the sand and sail on.

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Finally the sky begins to lighten - the relief of morning is a calming, fresh sight. Or usually. The swells reveal themselves and dipping in and out of the troughs is Mar de Luz, about a mile off my beam.

We radio our exasperation over a rough night, our voices no longer upbeat and hopeful with a new passage -which is now moving from its wild teenage status to a growing animal deep in the forest, grunting and snapping limbs from trees, fur pulling away in tufts as it moves through thorny brambles in a gaping run to beat my boat up even more.

And she indeed catches up to me, breaking my water pump switch with her teeth so I have no water- just my dancing five-gallon jug to pull from. She roughs my batteries up so they no longer fully charge despite a day of bright sun. I shut my refrigerator off to conserve power. She tangles with my hydrovane, causing me to slide west as though my boat slips across an icy road.

And then, finally starving enough to make some food, I open a can of tuna and slice a deep cut across the base of my thumb…blood quickly spills out into the galley. I abandon the tuna and pull out all the fixings for a blood staunching night of gauze, tape, hydrogen peroxide, and tolerance…I am hitting my limit. The boat is clawing to stay on course and the swells relentless.

But, by the third day the winds have lightened up enough for me to write ‘Smooth sailing’ in my log book. A notation I write with my cobbled hand, and naively doesn’t reflect what lies ahead the next day -the Raroia atoll pass.

Tomorrow, part two…