Not Done

I was climbing the swim ladder on the port side after cleaning the hull. (Not completely, never completely – Jesus, Mary and Joseph — just another section, like painting the Golden Gate Bridge.) Off the starboard stern quarter, beyond the boom and solar panels and cockpit, a whale dives under the boat. Where I was a few seconds ago. Big tail. Adrenaline shoots through me, and I grab a rail to steady myself.

“Please stay away from the boat, sweetheart,” I say. “I love you, and wish you well – a few more meters away, please.”

She surfaces beyond the bow – a few meters away. How kind. Then she breaches, breaches, breaches in a stretch of open water. A youngster. Is she grinning? “Thank you!” I laugh, and catch my breath. I did ask for a wilder life.

Sometimes the whales wave a langorous pectoral fin in the air. What happens when I try it during a backstroke? I relax. Wow, super relax. The ocean embraces me, and, oh! there’s a jellyfish. And another. Long, dangling tentacles. I swim back to Habibi, patiently anchored in the same spot for weeks.

After watching another sailor clean his anchor chain while remaining anchored, I do the same. Using the electric windless, I bring up a few feet, leaving enough rode to connect me to the ocean floor. And find barnacle heaven. Anxiety arrives. No way can I clean the entire chain (150 feet) in one go before the wind picks up and I need to drop it for safety. Then I remember the time before, after six weeks at anchor. Only fifty feet or so–maybe fewer!–were encrusted. And today I don’t need to leave the anchorage. I have time. So I do what I can.

It takes several sessions with vinegar, a hammer, screwdriver, and big metal spoon to remove the jagged, pretty-in-pink creatures from the links. Thick neoprene surf gloves come in handy on this project. While I scrub and scrape, epiphany. As with cleaning the hull, there is no “done.” There is no finito. So often I get caught up trying to finish task after chore after errand. But it’s endless, really. And – hunh — deadlines are self-imposed; they always have been. (Though many felt external, I agreed to them.) Most of my life I have been in such an all-fired hurry to finish, that I missed the journey. Inherited and accrued beliefs kept me racing through the days and months and decades. 

When the wind picks up, I drop the cleaner lengths of chain back in the sea with a satisfying rattle. It’s my boat. Can I relish the maintenance as well as the shelter? Those langorous, playful whales are a reminder: can I revel in my life more often? No matter what I’m doing? Or not doing?

There’s always more to do. And do and do and do. I want to wave my pectoral fin in the air as the ocean embraces me. I want to leap out of the water, grinning. I want to watch Orion wheel across the sky while sailing at night. I want to scour the propeller and rudder so they function as designed. I want to pull that truculent lobster out of the through-hull, dammit — get off of my cloud! I want to laugh at the jumping school of fish and curious dolphins. I want to swim in clean, clear water. 

I don’t know how much longer I’ll have this body, but I’m not done yet. I am just learning to enjoy the trip. It’s not a race.