Deliverance

The rules of physics shouldn't apply. After hurtling over the seas for ten days, stars planets clouds fixed overhead as we pass below, stopping that motion seems impossible. As if I would skim over the clear Caribbean water once we dropped anchor, my feet touch land and unsure of the relative solidness (these are rumbling volcanic islands) they trippingly fly over the dark historied soil of St. Lucia. I would keep treading up forested hills and through towns and meet the sea on the other side.
But no.
We sailed into Rodney Bay and dropped anchor at 2am.
The motion all but stopped.
Only a slight rocking of the hull, the wind funneling through the hatch, hands reaching for a well earned rum and tonic with lime.

The delivery. The passage. The boat trip.

It was magnificent. Horrible at times. Much needed to remind me, inspire me, calm me.

This is a briny taste:

Days 1&2:
Stars blah blah blah. Wind on my face blah blah. The majesty of the sea blah.
What the fuck am I doing here? I am never going to do this shit again, I don't care if I'm getting paid. I am wearing five layers and foul weather gear and haven't showered or changed my clothes since we left and I'm starting to get a rash on my ass (where's my Gold Bond?) and my hair is dreaded and I am so tired. Three hours of sleep at a time after four hours staring at the horizon? And that's if I actually get to sleep because of all the pounding into 15 foot waves, the heeling of the boat in 30-40 knots of wind. I can't read or write because I'm a bit queasy. I'm making dinner every night for the rest of the crew because no one else volunteers. OK, so that's kind of fun. Cooking on the diagonal is a distraction and a challenge. And I get a respite from constant salt water in the face. And all this thinking. The memories, the should haves, the worries. Thoughts jumble together, repeat, disappear in troughs, surface again on the next cold wave.

Day 3:
On deck at 6am as we sail into a squall. Finally a change of scene! The fresh water on my face is a welcome after this constant pelting of salty drops. At the ready on the winch to let out the main if the wind climbs, but it doesn't. The rain stops and a spectrum of color bows across the sky from west to north horizons. I still wonder where the pot of gold may be.
Whale! He spins out of the way just before kissing our beam as we cruise close to the Bahamas.
Porpoises! At the bow, spinning, leaping, playing in our bow wake. I stand grinning and clapping and whispering to them as warm waves splash up and drench my legs.
I am in love with sailing, with saltwater in my hair, with flying fish skimming the waves and sometimes landing on deck, with living at 45 degrees, with life (sun moon stars water).
When's my next delivery?

Day 4: I couldn't stand it anymore. I took a shower and washed my hair after stumbling down below after my 10pm-2am watch. Refreshed I fall into a salty bed and sleep until 5:45am. The plump waning moon is setting as the sun rises through cumulus pillows. It is a beautiful day of sailing south. Then north as we have to tack to avoid some islands. It doesn't feel right to be heading 35 degrees when we really want to go 160. But that is a sailboat for you. It's OK because it gives me a chance to snuggle on the leeward hull as opposed to the leecloth I've been pinned up against so far. I'm feeling fine again and can read now, write, make lists of all the things I want to do. My thoughts have run their course through the should've would'ves (process, absorb, forgive) and have transitioned into dreaming, planning, conjuring. The sea is sorting me.

Days 5-10: Is there a life other than this? Is there such a thing as land? Was I a farmer? We four talk and laugh and don't have to sleep for all of our off-watch time. I lay in the forward cockpit, bare foot hanging over the combing towards the water buried leeward rail. Book in hands with a notepad full of ideas fluttering in the stiff breeze, I breathe in deep and look up to watch the ocean.The wind calms to the low 20s, the waves decrease to a gentle 4-6 foot swell with occasional doozies drenching us over the bow.
Humpbacks! They breach and flap their tails and I wish I could hear their sepulchrally tinged underwater voices.
Feet on teak, still staring at the horizon, at the constellations overhead, into my mind.
I am happy.

We weave our way past Anegada and St. Marten into the Caribbean Sea.

We trade stars in the night sky for bobbing pinpoints of light on the mastheads swaying in the harbor.

The motion all but stops.

But my mind, my heart sail forward.

Humility

Yes, I'm a little bit scared.
I get a little cranky, a little irritable with the fear. But I also get giddy and the butterflies race in between my heart and lungs.
A certain light shines in my eyes that only comes with the specific mix of anxiety and excitement that a 1500 nautical mile passage can incite.
So yes, I'm a little scared. Who wouldn't be? You would be stupid not to be. Sometimes we forget that everything can change in a minute: the wind, the waves, the life you have.
It is all that more apparent on the sea what we tend to take for granted on land. That is why I am rocking to sleep on a boat this night, hoping to fill up on sleep and dreams before a week or more of sleep snatched in three hour increments. Of a bed raked at 45 degrees forcing me to starfish on the salty sheets or become entangled in blankets and leecloths. Of granola bars for breakfast and lunch (if I can hold it down) and perhaps a bite of bland noodles under brilliant stars. Of night watches watching the helm watching the charts watching the silent moon pass overhead above the cacophony of waves against hull.
When I am on land I take for granted the security I (usually) feel in the streets, in a car, with family, with friends.
On the sea we are alert, the nerves alive. Yet simultaneously more relaxed, more in tune. Neptune is a fickle one. He can whip up whales and dolphins or waves and then doldrums. I learn to appreciate the appreciation of each moment. I feel and emote to the passing breeze.
This can all change.
Yes, this is why I am a little bit scared. And a little bit giddy.
And full of love for what I leave on land. Yet most of all looking forward to the insights that only the ocean can bring.

Departures

The next three months of my life are packed into ziplocs and mesh and scattered across the floor. They have been rolled and squished and stacked and prioritized. Taken out, put back in.
Taken out.
A duffel bag heavy with books and sunflower seed butter, a backpack stuffed with clothes that may blow off the clothespinned lifelines of the boat on windy afternoons, my messenger bag with a computer, an Ipad, a camera, and a fancy phone that will be useless in 48 hours.

A dishwasher full of clean dishes, birds chirping on the trees outside, the bay doing it's sparkle thing outside the window, the pelt of a squirrel layered in salt hidden in the cupboard, a ring of farm dirt in the tub, the remnants of cabbage and rosemary in the lower drawers of the fridge.
These are the things I am leaving this morning.
These are the things in my immediate vicinity.

Friends, experiences, incredible connections that I've searched for, made here, reveled in:
those aren't the things I'm leaving; they are the things I am coming back for.

Squirrels

Gray viscous intestines spring from the cavity I've just inadvertently opened.
Shoot. This is not going as planned.

The smell is familiar and foul. It triggers a flow of olfactory memories from my childhood: cigarette smoke mixed with wet dog and cracked old vinyl from the station wagon my dad would take to El Centro to hunt birds. The sweetly mechanical smell of gun oil he'd wipe onto each rifle and shotgun with a soft blue cloth. The stench of a dozen slowly decomposing quail sitting in the kitchen sink- the smell of guts and dusty feathers.

I keep peeling. I cut through the fascia with a paring knife but the pace is slow.
That's what happens when you try to skin a squirrel several hours after you've shot it in the head. The rigor mortis has set in, the little paws clasped in a prayer position.
The skin doesn't slide off the body as it does in the youtube video. In that video a guy with a southern accent and a wedding ring on his pale finger uses a scalpel to denude his squirrel. I have none of those things and the squirrel now looks like he's wearing ill fitting fur pants and a fluffy loose halter top. His bare midriff is skinny and pink and now tearing.
I resign myself to the fact that I will not have a full squirrel pelt to remind me of the first time I intentionally killed an animal.
I resign myself to the fact that this will not be dinner as I cannot get the fur off the hind legs. OK, so I don't try as hard as I could because I'm a little unclear on how long an animal can sit in a warm car before the meat goes bad.
I resign myself to the fact that although I had less of a reaction shooting it than I thought I would (it was sort of disturbingly easy), the cleaning and cooking part was making me a touch queasy. And that surprised me. It wasn't like gutting a fish or cutting up a chicken carcass. I can do that.
Maybe it was the smell of the bulging guts or having to pull off the dirty fur.
Maybe it was the fact that I saw this little guy squirming around in a cage just hours before. Maybe it is because I am another living thing and I just took that living away from something else.
Maybe I should be disturbed, queasy, uncomfortable with my discomfort.

If I am going to eat meat, I should be able to kill it, prepare it, cook it myself.

That is exactly why I took the gun from the other farmer and approached the "live" cage trap (ironic). We are shooting squirrels because they are eating our vegetables. They outnumber the chickens and goats. They are now a "pest." This is what happens on a farm.
"Thank you for being a squirrel," I said just before the pellet let fly.
I felt guilty as we started digging a little grave for the bodies. They'll go back into the earth and nourish it for sure, but...

Repeat: If I am going to eat meat, I should be able to kill it, prepare it, cook it myself.

That is why I stuck the warm body in a plastic bag and placed it in the backseat of my truck. That is why I skinned it in my kitchen sink. That is why I stood peering into the open body cavity of this animal fascinated by the deep maroon liver and bright pink lungs, the stomach full of grain (bait) and stringy intestines. That is why I cut off a little chunk of the meat and placed it in a cup to cook later when the slight stench dissipated. (I figured if the meat was bad a little bite would only bring on a small bout of food poisoning. Poor reasoning? Yes. Worth it? Morally, yes.) But even with the body wrapped in several bags and placed in the trash (sorry for the unceremonious burial Squirrel), I could still smell him. I couldn't eat anything; my mashed pumpkin with bits of veggies made me gag as I could still see squirrel guts in my head and each crunch and squish between my teeth reminded me of him.
I realized I had to cook what I had left of him. Immediately.
A little olive oil, a little pepper on magenta flesh sizzling in the pan. As soon as the meat browned and curled it looked less like the little squirrel body I just discarded.
I took a nibble of the tiny steak. The taste was not pleasant. Maybe it was the lingering smell of intestines or maybe the gaminess of the meat or just my mind revolting.
Huh. Good to know.

I wiped the counter of fur and little pieces of flesh. I took a shower and scrubbed my hands. I went out for a couple of cocktails with friends and we ended up at Nunu's Lounge for a late night bite.

I had a hamburger. It was delicious. It went down just fine. It came between two pieces of bread with a sprinkling of lettuce and a gob of mayo. The smell of squirrel was no longer under my fingernails.
Did I make the connection that this slab of ground material in a bun was a cow within the last year? No, it's just a hamburger.

Time to work my way up because that disconnect is not OK.

Chicken, goat, cow.

I may become a vegetarian yet. Or at least a more compassionate sentient being.

Thank you Squirrel for this life lesson.

A (clay) form of patience

The crevices between my fingers are a dusty white.
The lines of my palm have changed from grooves to mountain ranges of sticky clay spelling out my fate: in the very near future you will learn patience.

I have made pinch pots and crooked vases and teacups with drooping handles and mis-shapen bowls reminiscent of deep sea creatures flailing on decks of a rusty old fishing boats.

I am sliding a board underneath what will be a box. I turn the three sided structure 90 degrees onto what will be its bottom. At this point the leather hard (technical term folks) clay slab that will be the fourth wall is wet and scored and stitched together and I am amazed when my creation stands on its own with Frankenstienish proper posture.

I have to add a little more clay to the bottom slab. Seems as though I didn't measure and didn't quite cut the piece large enough to fit over the irregularly shaped legs of the container. Hmmm. This is all part of the patience lesson isn't it? My thoughts flutter through gray matter to boat projects of failed epoxy and slightly too short cables and sticky varnish. Or disasters in the kitchen that involved flattened boards of banana whole-wheat non-bread. Or eyeballed dress patterns (some of those actually worked out nicely) with too long zippers and crooked, fraying hems.
Yup, this measuring/details thing has been a challenge for me in the past.
OK, OK, my whole life.

I'm just so impatient. I know the adage: measure twice, cut once. Yes, I realize that measuring can actually save time. But I just want to get the project done, have it be good enough. Move on.

Next the top is affixed to this cold gray structure on the table in front of me. I wet a comb, scratch the edges, press the damp pieces together. Take up the wooden stick for scoring, X's all along the seam, smooth the raw stitches with the opposite spoon-like end. I run my fingers against the clay, smoothing edges and decreasing divots. I like that my fingerprints remain- some smeared, some halved, some perfect swirls of me.
The clock on the wall spins its spindly arms but I only look up twice to notice hours flowing by.

I like the austerity of the plain box. I wet a sponge and slide it down the side. I graft a handle onto the top. I step back from the table. I call it done.

I sometimes get frustrated at my perceived lack of creativity. My impulse to just "get things done." Then I stop and stare at the wall and make a snowman salt cellar or whale and ship on the waves or a little cup perfect for wine out of leftover clay. I smile at my tiny creations knowing that only in a three hour ceramics class unplugged from computers and phones and to do lists, I create. And think.
And grow patience in my body. Who knew it just needed to be nourished with blankness, watered with time, given space to breathe.

Farm your connections

It started with the fiddle. My boot clad toes tapped the smooth wooden floor (perfect for sliding across once the boots come off).
The banjo joined in with the other strings and my hands couldn't keep still either.
Harmonizing voices filled the rafters.
The saltiness of the ocean mingled with the smell of wood fires and pines, the occasional whiff of cannabis hung in the air. The stars hung above the shores of Monterey as we danced into the night.

The (unofficial) dress code for the night:
Ladies in cowgirl-ish button ups (cleaned of dirt and chicken shit) and organic cotton layered tops, a few prairie/hippie girl skirts but mostly jeans with boots (with a little of that dirt and chicken shit clinging to the bottom perhaps).
Gents in jeans and t-shirts with eco-friendly logos ranging from farming to surfing to beer. Lots and lots of good local beer. And plenty of plaid flannels to go around. So many beards you would think some of the guys were transplanted straight from Williamsburg (some were) but these hipsters are actually working the land instead of workin their rugged good looks at the dog run in McCarren Park.

The participants at this ecological farming conference kicked up their heels for the final night of the yearly gathering. Music and chatter and stomping (those boots again) filled the high vaulted ceilings of the hall. Out into the chilly night we would run after a lively song full of swinging on arms and twirling and clapping and Yee-hawing and laughing.
Catching our breath we would launch into all the possibilities before us: education of new farmers and food justice activism and building backyard gardens and growing micro veggies for renowned eating establishments and teaching little kids where a carrot comes from and growing grain to sell to local brewers and crafting healing herbs to aid an ailing population and starting a worker owned rooftop garden restaurant.

Growing food.
Eating food.
Loving food.

Back into the "real world" I stumbled the next day. My first dose of the reality of the struggles and challenges we have before us: my family.
Fam: "Why would I pay $4 for a head of lettuce if I could get the same thing for $1?"
Me: "Even if you knew it was grown organically and sustainably by someone getting a fair living wage for their work?"
Fam: "Yah. Why would I pay more? It just doesn't make economic sense."
Me: "What if it tastes better?"
Fam: "OK, maybe if it tastes better."

So price first, taste second, human beings third.
Check.
(And this was coming from someone who can definitely afford the true cost of food.)

As hard as that was to hear after a four days of communing with like minded folks, in some ways the immediate disillusionment was good. Work needs to be done to expand the choir.
It's harder to instill compassion, but dammit, I'm an idealist, I will keep trying.

My solution for now? Dinners. Potlucks, sit-down four course meals, hands-only, veggie or meat based, whatever. Let us take a plate and a chair and talk.
And eat. Because I'm convinced once one has had lovingly raised vegetables full of actual nutrients, it's hard to go back and justify that tasteless nameless $1 head of lettuce. Better yet, meet your farmer. Look into the eyes that watched that vegetable grow from seed to soccer ball sized edible. Shake the hand that pulled that lettuce out of the ground.
Make the connection between food and people and earth.

Connections. That is all we have.
How beautiful, delicious, giving can you get?

Just a girl

Her face wasn't necessarily totally forgotten, I just had no reason to remember it until tonight.

Her face (blue eyes, freckles, framed by short brown hair) was resurrected from the deep folds of my memory by a post on Facebook from a man (then boy, now out) with whom I went to middle school. Sometimes I think it's silly to be "friends" with people you haven't seen in 20 years and may not see for another 20 or ever, but tonight I was reminded how important it is to keep those connections.
Being kids together is a powerful thing. Witnessing death together is even more powerful.

Her name was Christy and she hung herself when she was 13 years old.

She had been increasingly acting out as her parents increasingly withdrew her from (boys) sports teams. She was taken out of school and institutionalized. She died on suicide watch in a building far away from family and friends.

She has been described as "tomboyish" but I think most of the kids in our class thought (knew) she was gay. It was at a time when the word fag was freely shouted across the lockerless (guns and knives and gangs, you know) hallways or we would say things like, "That's so gay!" when we thought something was stupid. But nobody really realized the connection. Damaging semantics aren't a thought when you are 12.
Maybe I'm suppressing it but I don't think that bullying was the cause of her depression. At least not from most of the kids. I'm sure she had a tougher time when all the girls (myself included) spent breaks fixing thick black eyeliner and spraying extra hold Aquanet onto impressively vertical bangs. Or standing in the corner at a school dance hoping tight black stirruped jeans and off the shoulder salmon pink sweater (my favorite outfit) would attract a skinny boy in the grade above to dance with to "Everything I do, I do it for you." I really don't remember her being teased or ostracized, but these are things I may not have remembered anyway since they didn't happen to me. (I got teased and ostracized for different things, tweens being the tender cruel things they are.) Was it worse for the gay boys? Male homophobia was definitely more outwardly prevalent but I have to imagine the (sometimes) quiet isolation of being a young lesbian is no less damaging.

I wasn't good friends with Christy. I don't remember if we ever hung out after school or ate lunch together. We had classes together, we talked, we laughed. She was a nice girl. Yet we all had a good idea of why she committed suicide, why she was unhappy with her strict religious upbringing, why she didn't feel she had an alternative. But that wasn't to be talked about, especially at the funeral. I vaguely remember the viewing, seeing her mom and dad in the pews, a girl from class reading a eulogy from a crumpled piece of wide ruled notebook paper. Crying.
It was all so surreal. Especially the body.

Christy was in a dress and makeup. Very un-Christy.


I think of the kids I've been touring around the farm these days. The ones who are a little different, who don't quite fit into the strict social hierarchy of middle school. I think of how stressful it was to be that age: always wondering what you were expected to be when you grew up, who you would marry (twist off the stem of an apple as you say the alphabet- whatever letter you land on is the first letter of the name of your future husband), who you should make out with at the next pool party, if you were skinny enough, why your parents fought so much, why your good friend was giving bj's at highschoolers' parties, how could you cross the courtyard without being called a freckle-faced white bitch and getting into a cat fight, how to avoid getting shot (unfortunately a reality at my school) on your way through the gravel parking lot.
Wondering how to please your parents and be a good daughter but also trying to discover the teenager you are becoming.

I remembered her face before I Googled it. We didn't have Google in middle school on our Apple 2GSs. Christy never knew what the internet was. But tonight in the electrical strands that connect us together I am brought back to the courtyard of Horace Mann, to apple pies and milkshakes for lunch and trash cans being thrown during the Rodney King riots. To overcrowded classrooms and all those kids just doing the best they could. To a girl named Christy.

13 is rough.
I'd like to think her 14th year would have been better.
And 15th.
And 16th.

What would she have been at 33 if those in her world (the world) had accepted who she was, who she was becoming, and not who they wanted her to be?

I guess that can be asked of many of us who are still alive...