On the Move

Sometimes you want to do something that scares the feces right out of you. All the meditation in the world cannot help Anxiety, who has taken up residence on your left shoulder and is screaming in your ear. You can barely remember what Calm felt like, and yet you really want to do this thing — say, leave the marina in your sailboat.

You are recovering from a major crisis of confidence. The last time you tried to go out to sea, the motor failed and someone towed you back to the slip. It doesn’t matter that since then you have replaced the starter battery; you religiously clean the propeller, intakes, and rudder; or that you test the engine weekly. It doesn’t matter that just six months ago, you guided Habibi out of and back into this very marina channel many times, usually solo. It doesn’t matter that you came and went from the Puerto Escondido fuel and water dock many times, also solo. Your memories of your supreme successes over the past 15 months are inaccessible. It’s as if you’ve never set foot on a boat, ever.

A dredge works nearby, two in fact – a small one about 20 meters from Habibi’s stern, and another, larger one, a hundred yards ahead of her bow, in the channel. They are noisy, they are stinky, they are worked on ‘most the live-long day. I really really want to leave the marina. I really really want to go to the Pacific — in Habibi.

I watch the tides for weeks, and the hurricane site, of course. And remember that during half moons, either waxing or waning, the tides are not as extreme. I circle the dates when the depth barely changes. I want plenty of room for her keel, and less motion of the ocean, if you please. Just for now.

Half moon day arrives. I prepare. I stow and uncover. I check the oil, clean the impeller filter. Here goes: ignite the engine. Monitor temperature, revolutions, oil pressure, outflow — just like the weekly practices. And I cannot catch my breath. I cannot cast-off the lines. My body refuses. I am terrified. Engine off. Thank you.

But, I am not as… mean as I have been with myself in the past. Enough of that nonsense, five decades — seriously? Compassion arrives and I let her stay. I do not have to go today. There is another slack tide in two weeks. Besides, it’s still hurricane season. 

A week later, I make a list — a departure checklist, an unhitch list. It is quite detailed, and takes hours. Slowly I realize, Hey! I have done this before! With zero instruction! I figured out all these tasks alone! I do know a thing or two hundred!

Another half moon day arrives — today. There is a cable from the smaller dredge to my dock, but no one will remove it. I’m tempted to untie it myself, but I don’t know exactly what it’s attached to, or its purpose. I dive off the dock and follow the cable down to the marina bed, about ten and a half feet deep right now. I surface and note where I am in relation to Habibi. I don’t think it will catch her keel. There is at least four feet to spare. I really really want to leave the marina. I really really want to go to the Pacific. I ask the Ancestors for help.

Then I prepare. I stow and uncover. I check the oil, clean the impeller filter. Here goes: ignite the engine. Monitor temperature, revolutions, oil pressure, outflow — just like the weekly practices. Only this time, noting the slightly dropping tide, I cast-off the bow line. Jump aboard. Coil it on a lifeline. Debark. Cast off the stern line. Jump aboard. Coil it on a lifeline. I stand at the helm and watch and feel everything. The engine sounds good, idling in neutral. The weather is clear. The breeze is slight. The charts are online. I’ve tested the propeller. The rudder swings freely side to side.

So I turn the wheel to the right, starboard, away from the dock and the cable. Debark. Cast-off the mid-line and jump aboard. Sprint back to the helm and put her in forward. Glide over the cable. Pass the big dredge. Motor calmly out of the channel.

Into the Pacific. In my sailboat.

Sometimes you want to do something that scares the feces right out of you. And sometimes you don’t remember – down in your bones – that you CAN do it. Until you do.