Six months ago we arrived back in Anacortes after a trans Pacific journey that took us from Canada to Mexico to French Polynesia to Hawaii to Alaska and back to Washington, a journey upwards of 13,000 nautical miles. A week ago, we stood on a grassy knoll in Washington Park and contemplated whether we could manage the five mile trek to James Island, which we could see from our perch, right there in front of us. “Oh, how the mighty have fallen,” Tom half-joked.
But it was time to get back on the horse, so to speak. Six months to the day from the moment we returned from our long sailing trip, and almost a year to the day that Tom left Mexico for French Polynesia, we departed Skyline Marina and took the 50-minute trip across the Rosario Street to James Island. It was a victory.
Yes, we were rusty. Yes, we made amateur mistakes. Having forgotten to unplug the power cord from the binnacle where it has to run through the steering wheel, we found that the wheel wouldn’t move when we needed it to as we backed out of the slip. I forgot to bring up the fenders until we were midway across the Rosario straight, which is the sailing equivalent of having toilet paper stuck to your shoe all day. I brought a spatula along to make sure I could flip pancakes in the morning, only to find that there were already three spatulas aboard. Having lost their sea legs momentarily, the kids both got a few head bumps. And they did have to be reminded of a few basic rules they had conveniently forgotten: life jackets on deck when we’re underway, no camping out in the companion way, and no toys on the stairs lest you want to hear the wrath of the captain.
Yet despite our rustiness, the short voyage was still a victory. In more ways than one. It was a victory to get off the dock in the middle of winter. It was a victory to re-discover our own watery backyard. And it was a victory to pull the kids away from their ever-present screens and get them exploring again.
More than anything, though, it was a victory of spirit, over the forces of frustration and depression and mental health demons. For all that we were happy to arrive home six months ago, it has been a difficult reentry as we have all struggled with our identities and relationship to the boat and to boating. Korvessa and Tom did everything they could to get us home with a failing transmission and semi-functioning bilge pumps. With no slips available in the area, we put Korvessa up on jackstands in a boatyard, where she received precious little attention from us, dirty dishes from the final voyage still festering in the sink. Attention had shifted instantly to work and school with no transition in between. I made periodic trips to the boat to retrieve things and to make sure the wind wasn’t wreaking any havoc, but there was little time or ability to do anything else. And Tom’s sporadic visits to Korvessa in between his long work stints in Arizona had resulted only in strong emotions and paralysis.
So once the transmission had been rebuilt and reinstalled, it was a victory for us all to get back to the boat, to start sorting through what was there (expired cat food and green salsa, anyone?), to start figuring out what still works (the fridge!) and what doesn’t (the forward heater), and to start the process of turning Korvessa into something that resembles more a boat and less a foreclosed home abandoned in haste.
We fell into rhythm with the small waves and hum of the engine. The surface of the Rosario Strait was glassy and smooth. The Olympic Mountains rose snow-capped in the distance to the south. The San Juan Islands layered different shades of gray to the north and west. Dylan wanted to learn to steer Korvessa, and he navigated us through the current as the strong ebb pulled us south. Andy immediately reverted back to his habit of playing Legos at the upper dinette table. Tom and I stared out at the water and the islands just enjoying the moment. At James Island, we explored beaches and hiking trails. We excitedly started a campfire with a long-expired flare and roasted hot dogs and sausages over the embers. We didn’t sleep well, having lost our familiarity with the rocking of the boat, the pitter-patter of the rain, and the constant knocking of sticks and debris against the hull. But it was beautiful. A beautiful, green and gray, Pacific Northwest victory.
Perhaps we were once mighty. Perhaps we have fallen. But if we were going to fall anywhere, I’m glad we fell here.
