Wednesday, August 18, 2010

Sailing Sailing Over the Ocean Blue

I knew the guide book had said something about getting wet, yet I was sure I had built it up in my mind for dramatic affect, versus the book playing it down. The dark cloud in the sky seems to be gaining in size and speed towards us, deepening in its gloomy warning, a nod to the book‘s cautioning. As I step down into the dwarfing panga, against the rising swell of the sea, I assert my confidence to increase in the captain. Surley he has made this trip a 1000 times and would know when a storm was too big to chance a crossing. Surley?

The plastic black tarp is thrown from the bow to the stern, I look for the grommets with which to hook securely to the boat. Upon realizing there are none and we are to hold on to it, I suggest to the young mother struggling to hold both baby and tarp that we switch. As the panga draws away from the peer, I can only see out of a ghoulish tear that is no greater than the length of my eyelashes and affords me about the same squinted view. It is like we are suddenly encased, as the tarp is pulled down to the sides of the panga to keep as much water out as possible. The panga crashes down upon four foot and swelling waves, trying to break before being broken, a wild wrestling with nature that seems doomed to defeat.

Crash. Slap. Slam. Each downward movement of the boat sends shivers of doubt of our safe passage.

A burst of rain pours onto us and my ghoulish tear turns traitor, dumping water disproportionate to its size onto mother and child. The young mother lets out a shriek and drops down into the base of the vessel, both cowering and cradling her child, desperately seeking comfort and protection for herself and young one. The wind, rain, and sea rip restlessly against my grip, slowing but steadily sliding my fingers towards the edge and until I seem to suddenly lose my grasp entirely. The tarp wrenched free, it slaps mercilessly against my chest and face and I am at once grateful that mother and child had moved down as I gracelessly try to regain my hold upon it.

Crash. Slap. Slam. I can see the waves crash over the front and suddenly one of the sailors loses his footing.

I regain control of the tarp, this time trapping it under my left hand as I wrap my hand around edge, just as the sailor regains his stance. My right hand grips tightly in the air the back edge. The lack of give of the tarp forces my head into a bow, in order to escape the constant whip of surf and rain. This humble posture induces reflection of my life, and the others in my boat. I had had nothing to complain about, only gratitude for the many opportunities placed on my path. Yet the young child held tightly in its mother’s arms. What experiences can it claim? I can’t help but to think of the thousands of refugees that risk their lives in this very manner to cross an ocean to a land with greater chance at life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. How did they endure? A rush of admiration washes over me as I multiply this moment by a thousand, catching a glimpse at the fear and courage these people have faced, and will continue to face.

Crash, Slap. Slam. I cringe as the reverberations from my bum climb up to the base of my neck.

I look sideways past my left arm through the gap the tarp leaves between grasping hands of passengers. How do the waves look higher than the side of the boat, yet not just seep in? I can no longer see any signs of land, and try to arch my head to gain sight of the watch on my left wrist. How long had we been here? How much longer could I sustain holding my right arm in the air to keep the water off others? How is the mother able to keep her child either sleeping or feeding at her breast? Her love from her heart must flow from her breast and directly into her child’s heart.

Crash. Slap. Slap. Slap. The tarp is lose again and suddenly slapping me while I choke and am blinded by sea water.

I small hand wipes away the hair from my face. I look over into the deep brown eyes of a young girl, not more than 12-as she reaches over mother and child to help me regain control of the tarp. Under the dark low protection of the tarp we smile. Her kindness fills me with hope, and all fear is washed away. With bent head, I survey the other passengers and see a glimmer of white flash from the front. The tall Belgian who graciously loaned me one Cordoba to gain entrance to the pier is smiling! I smile back and we hold each other’s gaze as a second wave of hope washes over me.

Crash. Slap. Slam. I giggle at the plastic the man in front of me ridiculously placed under him to keep his bum dry. It is dripping with water.

His wife reaches over and takes the tarp from his hand to give him a rest. He turns to her with surprise and they smile. Hope, care and kindness are spreading through the tiny boat at high speed. I am able to catch a the face of my watch. Only five more minutes left. What other beauty can I find before we beach at the dock? I peak my head back and out over the tarp. The waves are still large, the sky gray and then for just a second I see land. I close my eyes and smile peacefully as the elements bless my face.

Splash. Tap. Calm. We pull into the harbor and disembark.

As the passengers in the front amble out, the baby is roused from its tranquil rest. I crawl over the backside of the panga and onto the pier. I reach down and mother passes me her child. I look at the child and it lets out a loud cry, letting me know, that it knows, I am not mom. The sailor walks over and takes her out of my arms and I help mom out and onto the pier. Hawkers envelop the pier and try to get the passengers into their hotels or restaurants.

Adam, from the dive shop that I had emailed, is there and asks me how the ride was. I take a moment to answer, smile and say,

Beautiful.