Leap of Faith

Three nights on the hook. Anchored. A lost security bracelet (gate key) prompts check out from the marina. Sign from god: no more access to hot showers and wifi. Oh no! Am I ready? But maybe I don’t have to feel ready. Maybe I just have to listen. 

This has happened before. On Kaua’i, the 4Runner key flew out of my pocket into thin air at a north shore beach. In Florida, the house key remained on a bench outside a grocery store while I bicycled home. Always, a sign — time to move on.

I am highly anxious. Where am I going? Will I be okay? But then I remember: in the past, guidance has come a step at a time. Maybe I have to do it, to find out that I can do it. Roll from standing. Star in a play. Tow a tiny house across a continent. Write a memoir. Sail solo.

The next morning I’m up before dawn, walking to the bathhouse where I check messages and social media. Back at the boat, I stow everything and prepare to launch. I rinse the deck and fill the water tanks, then unscrew the hose from the dock spigot and store it by the mast. By 7 a.m. I’ve cast off, jumped on board, and begun backing out of the slip. It’s fairly calm, with an incoming current from the rising tide, and light shifty wind.

Free of the channel (the dredge tries to suck me in, but I throttle past), I motor over and successfully anchor east of Isla Lobos. Whew. I plan to stay a month. But, later, copious party boats (really!? you have to pass within a hundred feet of Habibi?) convince me otherwise, so the next day I move (slowly, carefully) down the coast. Here, too, raucous revelers zip around in the afternoon to battling bands on shore. But the anchor doesn’t drag, and no one threatens to run me over. 

Soon, after resting and puttering and reading charts and guidebooks, Courage and Curiosity will steer me south. Because I see myself sailing. I see myself anchoring with ease. I see myself happy. I can do it.