10 February 2009
Carlsbad, CA
My fifteen-year
high school reunion is quickly closing in and the only thing I have done since
high school is to spend the last decade or so being ordinary. I now drive a
minivan, have two kids, spend my days as a teacher and live in a small house by
the beach.
Not that any of
those things are bad; I really am enjoying my life. But my life was supposed to
be something bigger, filled with great adventures and travel. It should have
great moments of glory, like climbing a mountain or sailing the Seven Seas.
Maybe even a little professional surfing.
I should have
studied sharks and lived for months at a time on a research vessel. I might
have my PhD. and teach at a major university. I would have done some great
things. Instead I have become overwhelmingly average.
Anytime the reunion
comes up, this scene keeps playing over and over in my mind. I run into old
friends and time and time again have to answer the inevitable, "So what
have you been doing for the last fifteen years?" Surrounded by doctors and
lawyers, UN representatives and CIA agents, I will have nothing to tell.
My life is
unremarkable. Nothing more or less than every other average American has
accomplished. A few tables over a few guys from one of my classes will begin to
chat. "Do you remember that girl who used to study with us in AP
Chem?" the music manager will ask.
"The one
who never actually studied and barely stayed awake in class if she decided to
get out of the water long enough to show up?" the C.E.O. will reply.
“You know, I
think she only came to study group to get us to do her work for her."
"Karen or Mary or something—”
"Erin. Erin
Roberts." He takes a long draw from his beer. “Wasn’t she going to be a
shark biologist or something?"
“I think that
was Plan B, behind pro surfer.”
"She here
tonight?"
"Nah.
Probably still out surfing somewhere."
"What ever
happened to her?"
"Oh, she
did the usual; grew up, got married, had some kids. She probably won’t show her
face here tonight."
That image has
to change. I can't go out like that. I need to do something to make those guys
finish their conversation with, "But she woke up one day, looked at the
cards she had been dealt and stepped up to the table to bet."
I have to find
something big. And quick. Far too many years were spent muddling through the
ordinary. Now is the time to do something grandiose. Or at least somewhere
closer to grandiose than where I am right now. And I have to start planning it
today.
Saturday gives
me a few hours off from Tony and the kids to find my favorite table in the
courtyard of a market near the water in Cardiff by the Sea. On the table lies a
book that I’ve been meaning to pour through, but I just can’t concentrate. My
mind repeatedly wanders off into thoughts of what I can do to feel alive again,
to leave behind the stone tied to my leg threatening to drown me.
Diabetes has
been holding me under for the last few years. In the beginning, diabetes was a
minor nuisance. It was nothing. My self-care had become, just like the doctors
and nurses told me it would, like brushing my teeth. But thirteen years in, it
overwhelms me with responsibility and fear and depression and I need to do
something about it.
Growing up, I
was always up for any sort of challenge. But now I am tempered, not wanting to
push too hard. The fear and frustration of diabetes fences me in. It has slowly
worn me out. I have to get back to the girl I was before all this diabetes shit
started. The girl who feared nothing, except being weak. The girl who always
accepted a challenge and was ready at any time to go on any journey that
presented itself.
Of all the
journeys I could take on, the Australian Aborigine's walkabout intrigued me the
most. When a boy is ready to venture into manhood he takes off on a journey to
unite with the land of his ancestors, to prove that he has the skills and
knowledge necessary to fend for himself. When
he returns he has proven that he can be a valuable member of the tribe, one
whom others can depend on and trust. He has had a spiritual experience that he
can look back on as proof that he can handle whatever life throws his way.
That is the kind
of thing that I need. It has been twelve years since the diagnosis. Diabetic
adolescence has hit. I have gone through the happy-go-lucky childhood days,
when my pancreas was not entirely dead and would at least help to regulate my
sugar levels a little bit. It evened out the highs and lows. Those years passed quickly and the next three years taught
me more of what diabetes does to a person. I was more responsible and knew the
power the disease had.
The following six years brought on the usual
teenage depression when everything was wrong and I was overly touchy about the
subject. I am ready to move out of the teenage moody years and move on to
adulthood when I can have a better outlook, more maturity and a healthy
perspective on who I am because of diabetes, not in spite of it.
A walkabout looks like the perfect rite of
passage to usher me into this new phase. The only problem is I do not have the
Outback at my disposal and I wouldn't know how to survive in it even if I did.
What I do know is the ocean. And in all its vastness and danger, it easily
rivals the outback.
The aborigine walkabout is done to merge with
the land. The boy endures it and enjoys it, and it urges him to extend his capabilities
as far as possible. I need something to allow me to become part of the ocean
and something that would be just at the end of my grasp. I need a risky goal
which calls for a major extension of my talent. A goal that I am not sure I can
accomplish. One with an opening for the unknown to step in and test me.
I need to go out to sea.
Beyond the borders of the land, where my feet
can no longer touch the shore, I can follow in the footsteps of my grandpa,
Captain Jack, and sail into the horizon. I loved hearing his stories as a kid,
and it is just about time I start stocking up on my own stories to tell my kids
and future grandkids. To do this right, though, I need a long journey. And I
need to do it alone.
The stories of solo sailors have always
engrossed me. My desire to solo was first stoked by reading Close to the Wind
by Pete Goss, and Godforsaken Sea by Derek Lundy. They both tell the same story
of the 1996-1997 Vendee Globe race. It is a grueling, four month sailing race
that pits solo sailors against each other as they race 24,000 miles around the
world. Most races have sailors drop out or lose their boats. Some lose their
lives.
In this particular race the competitors
encountered a fierce storm in the Roaring Forties and Rolling Fifties, the
latitudes around the bottom of the world where waves and winds whip themselves
up, unencumbered by land to stop their growth.
Raphael Dinelli was wrecked in the middle of
the storm. His boat had sunk and he was holding on to life in his little raft
amidst icy air and sixty knot winds that whip the sea into fifty foot waves.
His life was being sucked right out of him.
When Pete Goss heard the MAYDAY call he turned
his boat around to sail into the hurricane force winds to save his competitor. He
risked his life to head directly into the storm that he had spent the last two
days trying to outrun. And he made that decision without hesitation. It is the
way of the sea. When someone is in trouble you do everything you can to help.
That was a tradition I wanted to be a part of
and I wanted to do it alone. Shortly after finishing the book, solo sailing a long
distance went on my Someday-I-Will list. Now is the time to take it off the
list and place it firmly into reality.
Now that the decision has been made to go
sailing, I need to start planning. First on the list is finding a place to sail
that is warm and safe. Warm because I absolutely hate to be cold and I love not
wearing much more than a bathing suit all day long. Safe because I have a
husband and a mother who tend to be scared by my adventures.
I know they will be reassured if I stay in the
United States. This leaves San Diego where I currently reside, which doesn't
make for much of an adventure, or the southern portion of the Intercoastal
Waterway in the Carolinas, Georgia or Florida. Captain Jack had come back from
a trip down the Intercoastal Waterway and I loved hearing the stories he told.
I would love to follow in his wake.
On the Intercoastal Waterway, I need to find
someplace that has natural boundaries so that my starting and stopping points
don't feel arbitrary. After a quick glance at the map, I decide on the Florida Keys.
One hundred miles of warm water, plenty of islands to navigate by sight, and a
very end-of-the-road feel. You can't get much more southerly than Key West.
I need at least a year to prepare for a trip
like this. One of the many benefits of being a teacher is three months off in
the summer to adventure. Next summer should be a great time to go.
Stay tuned for the last installment tomorrow morning or just go grab a copy for yourself right now. It's available at Amazon.com.
