Juneteenth

“It’s only a lightbulb,” said my mother. She was asking me to enter Jazz Hideaway’s bathroom and change the bulb, but when I opened the front door of the studio under her house, the scent of deep mold wafted out and I recoiled. The body remembered almost asphyxiating due to my ignorance of its mortal toxicity. 

But she wasn’t interested in my health; she treated her own with extreme disrespect, masked as stoicism. And once again, I acceded to her wishes, putting myself in danger. Fifty-five years old, still trying to make her happy.

Yesterday was her birthday, which some celebrate as Juneteenth, the official end of slavery in the United States. But she remained enslaved to her beliefs, some of which were I’m unlovable, I’m damaged, I’m not good enough. Sex, alcohol, food, movies, and books were distractions from Pain, not uncommon in our society. Been there, done that.

Don’t get me wrong: I love my mother. And, just like her, I’m an adrenaline junkie. Which is why I found myself sailing 29 hours straight. Why not? The wind was 11-18 knots the whole time, and I wanted out of the hurricane belt. Occasionally I thought of anchoring, but every time I tacked closer to shore the swell height increased and scared the crap out of me. So back to deeper water and a calmer sea. Not to say it was calm. But neither was I, entirely.

After 12 hours of motorsailing, I dared to cut the engine. The training wheels are off. When we cross latitude 25 an hour or so later, I whoop and do a little jig. 800 miles from the latest tropical depression!

We sail slightly north of the setting sun, enjoying the swish-swish of the hull against the sea, and the ruffle of the jib. Now I don’t have to worry about the engine overheating or exploding or conking out. I conked her out myself. I go below to remove my itchy contacts. Scramble eggs with spinach and pepper, then burrito it with a tortilla. Brew tea, a chai named Voyage.

So many times I’ve put myself in danger with people and places – am I doing it again? I don’t think so. I love the ocean. The sails are trimmed. Peace descends as I eat dinner. I can do this.

We pass no tankers or cruise ships or shrimpers or ferries. No vessels of any kind, though I scan the horizon, and check AIS frequently. Town and city lights flicker to starboard, five miles away. A white bird, lit by the white stern running light, drafts us several miles. A larger, darker bird shape cruises above the mast. To keep the wind at a beam reach (fast, baby!), the swell smacks us broadside sometimes, and the sea sprays me. Shower the people you love with love, sang James Taylor. I laugh. When I don’t get my ass in the ocean, the ocean comes to me.

It’s easier to rest without the diesel noise and fumes. I meditate and catnap and watch the celestial show as my planet turns. Familiar thoughts cross the brain, Am I doing this right? It’s so fucking hard! All I want is to swim and make books! Yet here I am in the Gulf of California, heading deeper into it for protection.

When dawn breaks, I flip the numerous switches to start the engine: four, plus a button. She springs to life immediately, a relief. And then I notice the mountains of Topolobampo. Spare and sere, no vegetation or human abodes. As usual in the presence of mountains, I am filled with a deep contentment, a quiet joy. Ocean and mountain clan, I am.

Twelve hours of sailing sans motor, the longest stint to date. Gleeful, I carefully turn into Topolobampo’s channel, marked with green and red buoys. Do not cut corners because the depth changes quickly here, with many shoals. I hear my first sailing instructor as I always do, “Red right returning.” Returning to land, keep red buoys on the right. It’s been a long night, a long week, a long month, a long year. A long life. The mountains welcome me, as enslaving beliefs fall away.