There’s something that happens when I walk in nature with the dharma and camera at the ready. The world opens up to my senses. More to the point, my senses open up to the world. It’s like an invitation for seeing and sensing the poignant beauty all around, without my questioning mind getting in the way. And the magical manifestations that arise before me time and again continue to astound.
And so it was the that I went for a long walk with Roshi Joan Halifax, who was speaking on engaged Buddhism by way of encouragement for writing post cards to voters registered in swing states. With death as one of her biggest teachers, she points the way toward Bright Faith in the basic goodness of all beings, including ourselves, when we experience doubt in whatever form it arises. And right on queue, spread out before me on the pine needle floor, a ray of sunlight cast its brilliance on the exposed roots of a tree as it held its ground.
Her eloquence around meeting others with differing opinions in Harmony and Respect pointed to the middle way between extremes as a tiny leaf between two opposing giants drew my attention. I actually really do want to know how others feel and not demonize them, as we’ve been so trained in our liberal bubble to do of late.
And so it was with some dismay that I watched the debate and saw our beloved Kamala stooping to goading the man, rather than going higher, per Michelle. While she spoke to the issues with credible directness and told America how she plans to take care of us, she did so in between grimaces and a dismissiveness that I didn’t appreciate. Of course, I give her tons of credit for having come as far as she has in such a short period of time, but I expected more. I was frankly looking for her to project a little more of the beautiful lotus that she is. (Kamala means lotus in Sanskrit, another name for the goddess Lakshmi.)
And then I learned of all the negative ads that her campaign ran before the debate. Having given fifty dollars for the first time in my life to a political candidate, I’ve since been bombarded with requests for more, More, MORE! I get that this is a crucial election on every level, but this is why I hate politics. It’s a dirty game of power play that I want no part of. Arrrggghhh! Why does it have to be so complicated?
The next day’s walk with Nathan Glyde’s dharma talk was equally enlightening, which brought together the Buddha’s perspective on the Two Sorts of Thinking—the kind that leads to peace, ease, happiness, contentment, and freedom, and the kind that leads to dukkha (suffering)—and the Plutchik’s psychological Wheel of Emotions. The practice on tap is how do we work with our emotions when they arise, without identification, so as to allow more choice in our response? On the two sorts of thinking, “contraction is the felt sense of dukkha,” whereas openness, wide perspective, gentleness, and acceptance are the felt sense of contentment.
Then bam, a log, uprooted and cut off, stopped me in my tracks, and a family of dried, curled-up leaves stood sentinel by the side of the path. For leaves, contraction is the natural order of things, but as my own anthropomorphic, poetic sensibilities kicked in, I saw them as nature’s way of telling me to soften, relax, and open. At which point the mossy smiley face appeared on the path as a reminder of Joy.
The whole-body breathing meditation that followed had me walking and breathing into the eddies and flows of the river of my being, like dusting cobwebs from the corners of my room or under the bed, those hidden places that haven’t been attended to in months. The energy and sense of well-being that flowed through me felt like breeze through the trees of my too-stationary bones and flesh. Then looking up, sunlight shone brilliantly through the canopy like the starlight magic that it is.
Self-doubt, politics, and the swirl of emotions now a dance in my awareness, I felt centered and grateful for all of it: the teachings, my poetic sensibilities, and the hope of Kamala, our next president.
After an hour and a half workout at the gym, a recent foray into cultivating embodied strength, I practiced falling. It was edgy. Asking my recently taxed 63-year-old body to drop intentionally to the ground—with grace—was not something I’d anticipated at our Contact Improvisation class. This dance form is something I’ve been gravitating toward of late. We work with rolling points of contact, sharing weight, embodied listening, and touch, among other things. For me, it’s been a very intimate practice of trust, surrender, and play. But falling?
We were on a hardwood floor, no mats or carpets, just kneepads, and the experienced dancers didn’t even have those. We started by lying flat on the floor and practiced dropping just a hand, then an arm to the ground. Flop! Next, we sat up and practice falling over sideways. OK, that I can do. Then we kneeled and practiced collapsing to the ground in all directions. OK, this is getting edgy. “Now stand up and drop to the ground.” You want me to fall to the ground from standing!? Much like plunging into the icy cold ocean, which I did for the first time a couple weeks ago in the company of my cold-immersion devotee friends, it took some mental rearrangement to set the intention to fall. “Oh, and by the way, you want to try to land without a sound.” Kathunk! I landed hard at first, then learned to aim for the soft parts of my body and then to roll out of the fall in a somewhat fluid motion. Alright, this isn’t so hard.
“OK, now jump up and fall.” No way! This I simply would not/could not do; my mind would not allow myself to be that vulnerable. “Now take it on the move and fall.” Huh, this feels better. For some reason, adding some forward and sideways motion to the fall made it easier to take the risk of aiming at the ground. “Finally, let’s walk around the room and accept other people’s invitation to fall with their gentle push.” Double no way! I announced to the group that I would decidedly not like to be pushed, but I was happy to do the pushing. Giving people a little nudge and watching them collapse like ragdolls to the floor was absolutely hilarious! After a few minutes of observing and joining others in their delight, I announced, OK, you can push me. I dropped into the playfulness of pushing, being pushed, tipping over, and springing up again like a clumsy penguin. It was laugh-out-loud funny and much to my surprise, the easiest exercise of all.
There is something about the unexpected that makes falling playful, as opposed to choosing to fall with the intention of landing with ease.
* * *
As grown-up humans, many of us were taught to stand tall, stand on your own two feet, hold your ground, stand up to, stand behind, and on and on with embodied metaphors, as if verticality were the only way to be strong, to feel strong, to get things done. But what’s so magical about being upright that makes it so compelling? Or being strong, for that matter? Could it be that it’s because we’ve been conditioned to lead with our head, which sits atop this richly knowing body that we tend to overlook, override, and overrule?
What if it were precisely this conditioned embodiment of strength that was holding us back from moving more freely into what the universe has to offer? What if falling into, easing into, and dropping into were equally or perhaps more important to the program we call life, and the more passive qualities of receiving, allowing, and surrendering were on a par with strength? (Note again the aspirational name of this blog.) And what if the practice of landing softly, quietly, and with ease was critical for keeping us responsive, nimble, and resilient?
I don’t know about you, but the idea of moving with as opposed to pushing through is a relatively new concept for this Stanford grad, who spent nearly thirty years (read, way too long) sitting in front of a computer as a technical writer.
* * *
In the last ten years, I’ve been experiencing a seismic shift in my life. It coincided with my discovery and practice of conscious movement, dance, and embodiment. It’s been a massive un-learning for someone whose head has been driving the bus for way too long, overriding her inner Emotional Authority, which resides in the solar plexus—the gut—according to my newly discovered Human Design. After more than ten years of dancing 5Rhythms and ecstatic dance, plus a deep dive into UZAZU, an embodied modality for re-balancing states of being, I’m beginning to feel lighter.
Lately, I’ve been practicing this flow, inspired by Dharma dialog: pause, breath, relax, open, and trust. I’m learning to trust my inner emotional compass. Contrary to popular belief for most of my life, the access I have to my inner emotional world is in fact a gift, not a sign that I’m broken. I’m learning to relax and open to the acceptance of change as the nature of things. And I’m learning to trust that I am already free.
Along the way, my engaged mind supported this embodied exploration with books such as Designing Your Life, written by the founders of the Stanford D(esign) School, which introduced me to design thinking principles applied life: “get curious, talk to people, and try stuff,” for short. Kali Rising was an important exploration into Tantric principles, including these memorable pearls: Everything is an experiment; and pleasure—and its corollary play—are at the heart of life.
These teachings haven’t always been easy for me to lean into, but I’ve gotten a lot better. I regularly get stuck in indecision until I remember that life is an experiment, then I don’t get so attached to the outcome. I often come up against my perfectionistic nature and want to control the outcome until I remember to relax, open, and trust. And when things go awry, I sometimes have that sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that I’ve done something wrong until I remember that falling does not equal failing. Knowing this cognitively is one thing, but experiencing it in my body takes practice.
* * *
By nature, we are carefree, like we were when we were children. On an intuitive level, we trust that our parents will provide us with what we need so we can explore. My one-year-old granddaughter is my biggest inspiration of late with her huge smile and engaged body. Her wonderful parents allow her to be herself and try stuff. She’s learning to walk and holds on to things as she cruises around the table until she falls, plop, with not a care. She allows anyone to hold her without hesitation. On her first birthday, she tasted cake for the first time, grabbing it with both hands and shoving it into her mouth with delight!
May I be like a child in my fearless abandon and limitless trust—in my myself, in others, and in the universe—and when I fall, may it be soft and without concern. May the same be true for you.
Yesterday was the total solar eclipse, the astrological event that had people scurrying across the country to get in the Path of Totality. Yes, the pictures looked amazing, and I’m delighted for those who fulfilled a wish to experience it. I kept closer to home, choosing at the last minute to drive to the beach ten minutes down the road where people are known to gather to watch the sunset in warmer weather. For me, it was a social event more than anything on the grassy point in Cape Elizabeth, Maine, and I used it as an opportunity to connect.
As a photographer myself, I chatted up Sean, who was there with his camera and tripod hoping to capture the 96% eclipse. Turns out he had been in the radio business in Massachusetts, back when there were local radio news stations. Now he works for Cintas, the uniform company, and only has time to use his camera when not working 9 – 5 and driving his son to baseball games.
Groups, families, and couples sat on blankets and chairs, bundled in hats and coats, which were insufficient to keep us warm at the water’s edge, despite the earlier temperatures in the sixties. Kids ran around and kicked balls as the moon eased its way across the sun without our notice. I didn’t have glasses, but my neighbor blanket said I could borrow theirs, and to my surprise, I saw that the moon had already begun to cross the path of the sun. Another blanket neighbor had made a camera obscura, which they offered a glance into. A mother with three kids had also made one out of a long tube, which projected a much bigger crescent-shape onto the tube’s round end. The coolest projection of all was through the lens of a colander, which produced dozens of tiny crescents huddled in groups on the blanket below, much like the gathering on the lawn.
At one point, a woman came around offering official sun-gazing glasses, courtesy of NASA, her employer. Gazing directly at the sun is a rare experience in and of itself, and watching our little sister eclipse its mighty parent was a strange juxtaposition. The miniscule eclipsing the G A R G A N T U A N was a powerful metaphor for what’s possible when things are in Right Alignment.
Generosity, kindness, and connection ruled the afternoon in a spirit of open-hearted communion as we all faced the mighty sun with varying degrees of awe, wonder, and perhaps a bit of reverence for the source of light, energy, and life on the planet we all call home. Whether everyone felt the connection that our cosmic neighbors were inviting us into I don’t know, but I felt it. It stirred me into a state of appreciation for being alive at this moment—a state of connected presence.
As I drove home, I took it all with me, back into my solitary life in a box, the one created by the hands and heads of man, the isolated spaces that both protect us and separate us, from nature and from one another—the totality and partiality of being, once again exposed to the light.
Let me stop using words to communicate but rather images of nature as seen through these eyes on a late December day on a path through the woods by a pond where the interconnectedness of all things is a play— no audience no rehearsal no words— lichen finding its home on the bark of a tree roots descending into earth in a mighty gesture of contact decaying leaves once nascent buds comingling in the descent teaching impermanence emptiness creating the mere concept of “leaf” as they arise from conditions and pass away in their own time a droplet of rain clinging to a tiny red orb poised for letting go like a tear.
I recently played squash with a 30-something at the Portland Squash Club, something I stumbled upon on a whim.
A few weeks earlier, I mentioned in passing to my partner, “I used to play squash.” “Really, so did I. Let’s play!” came his reply. So after more than 35 years of not picking up a racket, we both pranced into the synagogue-turned-squash-club-slash-community-center, grabbed one of the free rackets and protective eyewear, and started hitting the ball around. It was a blast! We missed 50% of the shots, but the ones we hit were satisfying. And every once in a while, I made a shot, not exactly planned, that sent him running. This was even more satisfying. We were mostly just playing for fun, trying to extend the volley for as long as possible. When the back-and-forth topped ten, we needed to stop for a breather and recover. “That’s good,” said he, the former soccer player/coach. “You’re getting an anaerobic workout.” Good to know I had at least ten in me. “OK, we quit when we hit eight shots in a row, three times,” came his challenge. “You’re on!” said I. Rather than scoring points, our goal was to hit it so our partner could return it, which trust me, is still a challenge. I call it Cooperative Squash.
After another few times in the court, solo and together, it all started coming back—the hard shot up the side, the soft, short shot in the front, the serve. The good news is that the balls are bouncier and the rackets bigger, so the shots that always used to drop like a stone or go straight through my small, round racket are much easier to return. “This is brilliant,” thought I. “I’m sweating and having fun.” As I’ve been wanting to amp up my exercise routine in retirement, I couldn’t have been happier to have rediscovered this feeling of exhaustion and exhilaration in one swell foop.
Since my partner is departing for parts unknown, leaving open, at a minimum, a squash partner, I signed up for the “Box League,” as recommended by the enthusiastic female coach at the club. I scheduled myself at the first opportunity for a match at 7 pm, admittedly not my best time. Having been assigned to the next-to-lowest box, I figured surely it would be a more or less even match. Not so. It was a rout. I was royally creamed in three games that took all of fifteen minutes, returning only two of her serves and gaining the serve only twice when she fumbled. Despite her occasional words of encouragement, it was truly depressing. I was back in junior high school when my ineptitude at sports caused me to retreat into photography, math team, and drama.
Without realizing it, I had inadvertently committed myself to five matches a month in which the top two winners advance to the next box and the bottom two losers are demoted to the lower box, in my case, the lowest. I found myself writing the box coordinator:
“I was not aware of what was involved in joining a “box.” Have you seen Barbie? Like her, I’m not too fond of being put into a box of any kind.”
“This is how these types of competitive leagues work,” my partner explained. Having played in the country’s largest amateur soccer league for years, he recounted the correlation between promotion/demotion and drinking: the individuals in teams that were promoted stayed healthy and fit while those on teams that were demoted became heavy drinkers. I found myself asking whether “healthy competition” is really healthy or a sure-fire way to fuel lack of self-esteem.
I don’t like competition, in any form. It encourages the “comparing mind” and labeling, where the winner is better than me at <fill in the blank>, which feels bad, and the loser is worse than you at <fill in the blank>, which feels bad. If you’re the loser, that’s one side of the same coin. Of course, I suppose the idea is that the “loser” is supposed to be “motivated” to “work hard” at “improving” and thereby become a “winner.”
Ooofff! That’s a lot of identification and effort that I for one want no part of! I’ve spent a whole lot of my later life endeavoring to dis-identify with labels, accept myself and others as we are, use discernment to choose what feels aligned with my authentic self, and promote that in my life and in the world. Frankly, I’ve been doing a pretty good job of it of late. Until the squash match.
All that said, the flip side of not wanting to compete or label is an ongoing feeling of “lack of accomplishment.” Having officially retired at the beginning of the year, I’m supremely busy with what I call “reinventing myself.” No longer tethered to a computer for hours of the day, I’m free to explore like a child. This often doesn’t feel like I’m accomplishing much. Yet, this morning’s journal entry had me recounting all the things I’ve done (accomplished?) over the past few months since returning home from living on a sailboat for two years (yes, that was an accomplishment!) so I could take it all in. And there was a lot there.
As such, part of my reinvention is the process of actively discovering, uncovering, and recovering what feeds my soul. Connecting with and supporting friends and family—including a new granddaughter—feels important. Allowing, trusting, and making time for my inner sense of wisdom to flow outwardly also feels important—witness, this blog. Exploring my creativity in ways that I haven’t had time to previously is up there. And prioritizing my physical well-being has become increasingly important—witness the calendar I now have on my fridge that tracks how many times I actually move my body each week.
One of my intentions of late is to “live the questions,” per Rilke, so I continually ask myself, “Am I stuck on the notion of accomplishment out of conditioning or is it something I truly desire?” Yes. “Is it externally or internally motivated, or both? Yes. “What does real accomplishment actually look and feel like anyway?” I’ll know it when I feel it. And sometimes I do.
Which brings me to this moment in time. Of course, my higher self knows that now is my opportunity to feel accomplished, or call it satisfied, or better yet content, or let’s try on happy, at peace, or bliss. Yes, that feels good, as a smile creeps across my face. And I am reminded once again of the Tao:
“Contentment that derives from knowing when to be content is eternal contentment.” —Tao Te Ching
I guess I’ll stick it out in the box league for the month and then go back to hitting the ball around myself and inviting friends to play Cooperative Squash. Wanna play, with emphasis on the word play?
I feel compelled to write about the Barbie movie, which I’ve now seen four times! Yes, I am truly obsessed.
The first was on opening night at the invitation to a friend’s 50th birthday party, which I accepted knowing nothing about it except that my friend is a liberated woman and the husbands were all going too so presumably it wasn’t just fluff. The second was with a friend and my partner, who agreed it was brilliant. The third was with friends, an older couple with a reluctant husband, who ended up appreciating it more than they imagined. And the fourth was with my 83-year-old mother where we dressed in pink, her with her rollator and me once again with my willing partner.
From the opening scene play on a 2001: A Space Odyssey; to the Mama Mia!-like dance numbers; to the numerous twists and turns of the storyline arc from pure matriarchy to disguised patriarchy (aka The Real World) to pure patriarchy to the seedlings of basic humanity; to the elevation of Weird Barbie as the woman who makes things happen; to the epic, heart-wrenching monologue by Gloria, whom I consider the heroine of the movie, about how hard it is to be a woman; to the powerful personal transformation of our endearing hero, Ken; to the brave and touching transition of our vulnerable and insightful Stereotypical Barbie in becoming fully human; to the real-life montage finale bringing everything down to earth—it was laugh-out-loud funny and cry-your-eyes-out poignant about the experience of being female in a mostly man’s world and ultimately about being human. Oh yes, it is deep, this movie about a doll that sparks indignation in some and ignites a sense of empowerment in others.
The outrage over the playboy-like figure of the doll is dealt a swift blow in the first scene where the film shows many of the Barbies that have been made: astronaut Barbie, doctor Barbie, pilot Barbie, engineer Barbie. Clearly, the doll was also meant to spark the imagination of what is possible for girls, beyond simply becoming a mother. Who knew? I never played with Barbie so didn’t have the preconceived disdain of some, like Sasha, the powerhouse teenager whose emotional arc is among the most touching in the movie. She opens with lambasting Barbie for “setting the feminist movement back fifty years” and ends by insisting that she and her “ordinary” Mom return to Barbie Land to save it from patriarchal takeover. “You can’t just give up, Mom!”
The dramatization of each of these worlds—Barbie Land, Kendom, and The Real World—along with the fantastical transitions between them by car, motorboat, spaceship, bicycle, campervan, and snowmobile, allow you to see just how different the world is/would be when taken to each extreme. But make no mistake, the Real World is still patriarchy, just papered over by the thin veil of feminist ideology that’s been allowed to eek by over the decades. Ken: “You’re not doing patriarchy very well.” Corporate guy: “We’re actually doing patriarchy very well. We’re just better at hiding it.”
Clearly none of these worlds is “the answer” to how to live together in harmony and flourish, where everyone is honored for who they are, gender aside. Women and men have different qualities that must be allowed their natural expression if we are to live together as fully human. And yet, empirically and historically, in general, while men in power have been busy building empires, whether civic, cultural, scientific, technological, religious, or economic, women in not-power have generally been busy creating and nurturing families. To the extent that women are part of these empires, they’ve done so within the patriarchy by seeking equality in a man’s world. While that’s certainly one way to go about it, it’s by no means the most effective way of creating a just society for all. You don’t have to look very hard to see that baked into the creation of these power-hungry empires is not only systemic inequality, injustice, and marginalization, but the seeds of destruction of the very foundation upon which they depend, nature itself.
As a perfect case in point, watch Oppenheimer and take note of what happens when men push their creative minds and might to their extremes in pursuit of what is often self-destructive power—in this case, the atomic bomb. With only three women appearing in the film, a wife, a lover, and a token nod to one of the key female scientists of the Manhattan Project, it’s a sobering reminder of what can and often does happen when men’s power goes unchecked. I have no doubt that the 640 women at Los Alamos, nearly half of whom were scientists, were thrilled to be involved in The Manhattan Project along side the men. But it does make me wonder how things might have turned out differently if they had been in charge.
As a thought experiment, imagine a world in which, instead of holding token positions in patriarchal institutions such as government, industry, finance, law, academia, and the arts, women were actually running the ship. Just let yourself take that in for a minute. No longer underlings in a male-dominated world, imagine women actually being able to make the decisions around “how things are done around here.” Just bring yourself to the Oval Office in Barbie Land and you’ll get the vibe. President Barbie: “Turn to the Barbie next to you. Compliment her. Tell her how much you love her!” OK, maybe not exactly that but somewhere along the spectrum closer to care, concern, connection, cooperation, collaboration, compassion, and compromise than say, control, competition, confrontation, coercion, and combativeness. Seriously, imagine a world where these values were the guiding principles behind our collective decision-making. To me, it sounds like a much better world.
Buying into matriarchy wholesale à la Barbie Land is no more the answer than wholesale patriarchy as each subjugates one gender over another. However, I believe the second-wave radical feminists had it right in their desire to eliminate male supremacy and oppression—from the boardroom to the bedroom. The question is, how do you accomplish this? Barbie, the movie, has proposed one way. Put women in charge. Let them set the tone of our civic, cultural, and economic values. And then codify these values into our laws and institutions until they become accepted as social norms by the culture at large. While it might seem far-fetched as described in Barbie Land, matriarchal cultures have a long history in human evolution.
However, it’s not just about putting women in charge, giving them power over men. Part of this radical shift means holding men accountable in their rampant pursuit of power all all levels—personal, political, economic, and sexual, among others. And how do you do that? By following the leadership of people like Jackson Katz, my high school classmate who advocates for men manning up to their responsibility in shifting social norms that perpetuate violence against women and girls and men and boys. By supporting organizations like Raising Voices, which delivers evidence-based activist training programs to prevent violence against women and children and where I had the privilege of working. And by being brave enough as a woman to express yourself authentically and fully in the face of it all.
These are big asks, to be sure. Yet all around the world, there is movement in this direction and positive change is happening that we don’t hear enough about. As what is already one of the biggest blockbuster movies of all time, Barbie, on the other hand, is a breath of fun-filled fresh air delivering up a whopping dose of inspiration to move beyond our existing, limited mindset. If we imagine it, we can create it.
It’s been just over four months since I’ve returned home after our two-year sailing adventure, and I feel the need to sum up the sv NIRVANA saga with this epilogue.
First to say, sv NIRVANA is no more. Will had an eventful passage from Florida to Long Island, NY, much of it solo as each of his crew left the boat for one reason or another, including sea sickness. On the first leg, the steering cable and autopilot broke, and on the next leg, the gooseneck fitting broke, each time causing him to lay over awaiting repairs. If that wasn’t enough, he had emergency gallbladder surgery! Thankfully he was just outside of Annapolis when this happened and not up a remote creek in the Chesapeake as he was the day before. I took this opportunity to spend some time with him at anchor while he recovered.
Finally, approaching the inlet at Fire Island, he encountered a channel that was mismarked and ran aground. After spending twelve hours lodged in sand, he was pulled off and then towed twenty miles south to the nearest boatyard in Freeport as he was taking on water. Although it was after hours, they immediately hauled the boat, which revealed major structural damage to the keel and interior frames. Eventually, the insurance company deemed it a total loss, which was in fact a relief as the prospect of selling a damaged boat would have been worse. Will then made two trips by car from Long Island to South Portland, stripping the boat of all our belongings and saying goodbye to our beloved Nirvana.
Much as we loved the boat, Will had been feeling for some time that the Freedom was not up to ocean passages and was torn about keeping her. As is typical of his orientation toward life, he soon saw the silver lining—the decision to let go of the boat was taken out of his hands. And thankfully, because it was totaled, we maximized our financial return without having to sell it ourselves.
Will then spent the next several weeks driving around New England and beyond looking for a more solid, offshore boat that he can call home, which he found back in New York. It’s a Brewer 12.8, which is a modified version of a Whitby 42, a true, blue water boat. He’s now in the process of driving back and forth from South Portland to Staten Island bringing all the stuff back to his new boat and getting it ready for living aboard in the fall.
Painful as it’s been to let go of the boat and our lives together aboard, we each deeply appreciate the adventure we’ve had and acknowledge that everything changes.
So where does this leave us? We’re in uncharted waters to be sure, as we attempt to keep our relationship going while I choose home on land and Will chooses home at sea. Our plan for cruising Maine this summer has evaporated, and at this point, I’m unsure how much time I want to spend aboard a boat. It’s a new rhythm that invites new challenges and adventures at the opposite extreme from being together 24/7 as we’ve been for the past two years. We may or may not be able to pull it off, but we’re giving it our best shot by staying open, honest, and as connected as we can.
This was my quote as we departed in North Caroline, which Will made into a button for me when I went to visit him in Annapolis.
Meanwhile, I’m using this transition time to reorient to my life on land. I’m grateful to be back home with my dance community, friends, and family. And I’m thrilled to be spending time with my beautiful granddaughter Mariah Maeve, now four and a half months old and sporting a big smile as well as budding teeth!
As I’m now officially retired, I have all the time in the world to explore what’s next. To wit, I’ve found myself digging in the dirt and watching plants grow, which is new for me having spent most of the past ten summers sailing. And I’ve been enjoying Portland and its environs with fresh eyes.
This month, I’ve had my first article published in Points East, a New England sailing magazine, with another to follow next month about owning my own boat. I’m also revisiting my desire to work with people doing embodied coaching to support personal growth (www.natashasalvo.com). And I’ve signed up for an acting workshop to get back into the Portland theater scene.
While it’s not the Bahamas, it’s summer in Maine, which is such a glorious place to be, even if it is on land!
Suddenly, our sailing season is over. As is the NIRVANA adventure—at least for me.
Will and I finished our three months of cruising in the Bahamas with two weeks in the Abacos, which included Little Harbor, Hope Town, Man-o-War Cay, and Green Turtle Cay. These were delightful islands but with a very different flavor, namely primarily white Bahamian islands that feel way more privileged and insular than most of the islands we visited. It’s astonishing how race, privilege, and class are so intertwined no matter where you go. That said, there is some fascinating history, most especially the rich boat building history on Man-o-War Cay, which has sadly almost disappeared. Also the presence of Hurricane Dorian, which devastated the Abacos in 2019, is still palpable.
Little Harbor
The Atlantic from Little Harbor, Great Abaco Island
The inlet at Little Harbor
Pete’s Pub, which started out as a self-serve beer cooler for cruisers back in the day
In 1952, Little Harbor was given to Pete’s father, Randolph Johnson by the Bahamian government. Both are sculptors of some renowned.
Hope Town
The famous lighthouse in Hope Town
View from the lighthouse. Can you spot Nirvana?
The lighthouse was recently restored after the hurricane
It even rains in the Bahamas, but rarely
The futile attempt at holding back the sea for the next hurricane
Reconstruction after the hurricane is still going on
90% of the houses on the island have been restored or rebuilt and look almost new
All that remains of a house that was destroyed by the hurricane
The Bahamian National Champion’s sloop being wheeled down the road on its way to the major regatta in George Town
Vernon is a seventh-generation descendant of a British Loyalist who founded Hope Town in 1785
He’s both a grocer and minister and knows a lot about the history of the island
A traditional house on the island
Vernon gave us a ride in his golf cart and regaled us with stories of Hope Town in times past
The past winner of the US National Art Education Association award, who lives in Hope Town
Man-o-War Cay
Model of a traditional Man-o-War dinghy
One of the last remaining boat builders on the island, Louis Albury
This rib was made by Louis’s father
Sharpening bench made by Louis’s father
Steam tube for bending wood
There were numerous boat builders back in the day
Outside the wonderful Man-o-War museum
William H Aubry schooner build on Man-o-War
Furniture maker and boat model maker
Hurricane damage
Community center that supported islanders after the hurricane
Mariah Maeve
We picked up our friend Sandy in Marsh Harbor for the last bit of cruising and the crossing to Florida. Thankfully, just before we left cell phone range, I learned about the birth of my granddaughter Mariah Maeve on April 6! At which point a pair of dolphins jumped across our bow welcoming her into the world. So suddenly I’m a grandmother as well.
Mariah Maeve 7lbs 14oz
Simon and Jill, the proud parents
A first peek at one week
Four generations
One month old
The Crossing
The passage from Pensacola Cay to Fernandina Beach at the Florida-Georgia border was a whopping 330 miles and 53 hours: 70 miles across the Little Bahama Bank in relatively calm waters and 260 miles in open ocean. While the conditions were generally favorable, we experienced a little of everything—delightful sailing in fair winds and following seas with a full moon, demanding sailing in heavier winds and rolling seas, motoring in light wind and seriously rolling seas, a broken boom vang (again), and in the last two hours, wind and seas on the nose as the storm we planned to avoid approached. By all accounts, it was blissful, challenging, exhilarating, exhausting, and uncomfortable, in different measure, at different times, according to each of our experiences.
Transition Time
After our crossing, Sandy and I spent four nights ashore in a hotel while Will weathered a gale on a mooring as we awaited our flight back to Portland. Scrubbing off months of grime in a long, hot shower and sleeping in a large rectangular bed with crisp white sheets was nothing short of a miracle for this sailor. And time ashore in between the end of our trip and the return home was just what I needed to reflect, process, and write about our adventure together, which I do in more detail below.
Sadly, I returned to a house that was nothing like the way I left it when I rented it last fall. It took more than a week to clean, as well as to repair or replace what was damaged or missing. After two years of living mostly on the boat and renting my house, I am very happy to be home, where I’m reconnecting with my family, friends, and dance community and enjoying my own space.
Meanwhile, Will flew back to Florida and began his trip sailing back to Maine with various crew joining him along the way, as well as doing some solo legs. Despite ongoing issues with the boat that have slowed him down, he continues to love everything about the sailing life, including sailing offshore in open ocean.
With time apart, we’ve both been doing some serious introspection about what our future holds. As such, I just returned from a quick two-day visit with Will in North Carolina. After much deep and rich communication, we’ve decided to close this chapter of our journey together living and sailing on Nirvana. While we have deep feelings for each other, we both acknowledge that our lives are moving in different directions. Will’s home is on the water, and my home is on the land. We are ready to open a new chapter with blank pages yet to be written—together and apart.
Reflection
And now for some deeper reflection on the overall adventure, which I wrote a month ago in Fernandina Beach.
I’m someone who likes to reflect on transitions. It helps me to understand the significance of my experiences: thus, this blog. While there does feel like a distinct before we left for Bahamas and an after we’ve arrived back “home,” in another sense, I know that life is one continuous journey.
My uncle Roland Barth, who passed away a year and a half ago and was a lifelong sailor, used to ask, “On a scale of one to ten, how was it?” I believe this self-inquiry can be a useful tool to help uncover a bit to what I’m talking about. But there’s also a danger in doing so in that it has the potential of flattening the experience, shaving the highs and lows into flat peaks and valleys. To honor my dear uncle, I still choose to answer the question I know he would have asked. My answer is a 7.5, which, given the range of feelings I’ve had over these months, is higher than I would have imagined.
Roland was also an educator, steeped in the world of experiential learning who, among other things, served for many years on the board of Hurricane Island Outward Bound. As such, the other question he would also ask is, “What were the lessons learned from your experience?” The answer to this question provides more meaning in helping move forward during these transitions. But here too a danger lurks in drawing too many conclusions about the future based on the past, for in reality, we are always in transition and the only real time is the present. So perhaps, as Rainer Maria Rilke suggests, it’s more about asking the questions and swimming around in the soup of what comes up that insight comes.
Finding Home
What’s it all about, this life aboard a floating home? I’ve been asking myself this question for going on two years now. Since June, 2021, we’ve been living aboard sv Nirvana or sv Cascade in Italy, with only a few months’ break on land last spring when we house-sat for a friend and traveled out west. It’s what my grandmother would call a “peripatetic” life—one of her favorite words—which means moving from place to place.
So what does this say about “home?” Will, the architect, often paraphrases Gaston Bachelard from The Poetics of Space about the significance of the word home: “Home is a place that shelters daydreaming.” In other words, home is a safe place from which to explore…and presumably return. Yet when you’re living and traveling on a boat, you’re constantly exploring and, thus, daydreaming is not about dreaming at all but about living in constant flow. As for returning, there is instead a continual exploration from what is essentially home, so it’s both the safe haven and the journey all rolled into one.
Living on a boat is truly a different way of moving in the world.
The contrast between the stability of life on land—a house, say—and the motion at sea is profound. Literally, the boat is constantly moving, whether sailing at six knots or drifting around at anchor as the wind changes direction. The seas are rarely flat, so there’s an ongoing forward-and-back or side-to-side motion, or both. Sometimes the movement is gentle like being rocked in a cradle; other times it’s like being on a combination mini-roller coaster/tilt-o-whirl perpetual motion machine. And everything in between. On the rare occasion that you’re anchored in a totally protected harbor and there’s no motion at all, you notice it: “Oh right, this is what it feels like to be on land.”
To assemble meals, you pull food from a deep refrigerator or from behind cushions that serve as a couch, both of which can involve an archaeological dig. To use the toilet, you step into a space that doubles as a shower. The water is only hot when you’ve run the engine, or barring that, you hang a solar bag or use a hose in the cockpit. The water supply is limited to 60 gallons, plus what you can make with the water-maker, so you use it sparingly. And you constantly monitor your batteries to ensure the solar panels are feeding enough power to keep up with your electrical use, which is generally minimal.
It’s micro-house, off-the-grid living on the water.
What this way of life affords is the ability to experience and explore in ways that are simply not possible on land. As such, contact with the human-made land world has a much greater impact as it’s no longer the norm but more the exception. While the boat is, to be sure, a human-made object that requires constant care and attention, the sea and sky are just outside the companionway, laid out before you in a splendid expanse, meeting at the horizon. From this perspective, land is as close or as distant as you choose to make it.
There is something truly elegant and appealing about the efficient living space, small carbon footprint, and preservation of precious resources that boat life provides. And yet, after these many months, I’ve discovered I need more time on land to counteract time on the boat: walks ashore in the greenery of nature; buildings that shelter the elements; a soft, cozy chair in a room with a tall ceiling; a rectangular bed; a shower where the hot water washes over you in a constant flow; a flushing toilet. Call it the creature comforts, stability, and spaciousness of a land-based existence, which are fleeting on a boat where the only buffer between you and the elements is a fiberglass hull and a canvas dodger.
Still, when the sun penetrates your bare skin, continual breezes caress your body, warm water buoys your entire being, and wind fills your sails on a perfect reach, you feel held in the embrace of both your boat and nature in a state of true bliss that simply cannot be replicated on land.
Lesson Learned: Take some time in life to push the edges of your comfort zone and adventure out from the safe harbor of home. Only then will you discover the true meaning of home for you.
Responsibility
Here’s a different take on the word “responsibility”: the ability to respond to what’s happening in the moment.
Life on a boat is an exercise in constant responsiveness to the environment, which begins with the weather and sea conditions and extends to every other aspect of life that exists. The universe is constantly changing; so is the weather, your surroundings, the people you come in contact with, and your feelings. Just when you think you’ve found the perfect settled anchorage, a new weather pattern develops. At the intersection of the high- and low-pressure systems is weather instability, higher winds, bigger seas, perhaps rain.
At a calm anchorage, when the sun is shining down and a gentle breeze is blowing, you can become lulled into a sense of complacency as if it could go on forever. But this is simply not so. The weather is a complex, dynamic system that is only predictable to an extent. For what in the universe is fully predictable? At the sub-atomic particle level, Heisenberg introduced the Uncertainty Principle in 1927, which states that you can know when a particle will be at a certain location with 100% certainty or you can know where it is right now with 100% certainty, but you cannot know both at the same time. This is the current state of our knowledge about the time and space: despite our best efforts, it’s not entirely knowable or predictable by humans. That goes for subatomic particles, stars and planets, evolution, the weather, the economy, the fickle minds and hearts of humans—indeed, the universe.
As just one example, given the state of today’s technology and how it has infiltrated the world of sailing, it’s sometimes hard to remember this simple fact. As we devote ourselves to weather apps, plot courses on electronic charts that we believe to be accurate, and focus on wind, speed, and GPS signals as the boat bounds through the waves, we are seduced into thinking we can—or at least should be able to know or predict what’s next. This is a far cry from sailors of the past who determined their location using celestial navigation and “knots” tied onto ropes that they tossed over the bow and then counted at the stern to determine boat speed. Not to mention sailing in uncharted waters!
Part of sailing is not only accepting but embracing that despite our best efforts at control, we are in fact always in the flow. The crossing from the Bahamas to Fernandina Beach is a case in point—a true practice in response-ability. For me, sailing is and has always been a practice of dancing between surrender and control, with my comfort zone being more toward the control end of the spectrum. While I’m quite nimble at the helm and have excellent instincts when it comes to all things related to sailing, the unpredictability of the environment has been stressful for me. Will, on the other hand, has fully embraced living in flow on the boat, loving every minute of it, no matter what arises.
Lesson Learned: Accept that life is fundamentally unknown, try not to project too much into the future, and respond to what arises in each moment with grace, agility, intelligence, and heart. Plan when planning is required, but try not to have too many expectations for how it will turn out.
Relationship
For the past almost two years, we’ve been together in a small space virtually 24/7. So at the same time that we’re navigating the wind and waters, we’re navigating our relationship.
Life aboard a sailboat with a partner is an example of what my uncle used to call “relentless intimacy.” To address this, he wrote a book called Cruising Rules, a tongue-in-cheek account of how to navigate human relationships aboard a boat. The only cruising rule Will and I adhered to is that we “share the helm,” which means whomever is at the wheel gets to decide how we sail. We can and often do bounce ideas or suggestions off each other, which the captain-of-the-moment can choose whether or not to accept. That said, over time, we’ve become quite specialized in our roles. For the most part, we make a good team, although we definitely have our differences in sailing style. Accepting and appreciating those differences has been an ongoing practice.
While I tend toward planning, organization, and broad awareness, Will tends toward being in the moment, sensing the feel of the boat, and doing what needs to be done when the need arises. These differences are often complementary and can have a balancing effect on each of us. I notice when things need attention on the boat, and he’s happy to fix them. He notices when I spend too much time plotting courses, and I let go of some control. I organize and stow things in logical places, and he is coming to appreciate that this approach is helpful for finding things.
Over these many months, my emotional barometer has fluctuated between steady and rising slowly (appreciation), steady and rising rapidly (enthusiasm), steady and falling slowly (apprehension), and steady and falling rapidly (depression). A high can linger without a cloud in the sky, while at other times, lows float in unexpectedly on the wind. Will’s barometer, on the other hand, is steady and high most of the time, regardless of wind, waves, weather, or the state of various pieces of equipment on the boat that need attention.
Lesson Learned: In any relationship, accept the differences between you, be honest about your thoughts and feelings, and navigate the level of intimacy according to your own needs and desires.
* * *
I’ve come to many of these realizations late in life and not without some serious intention. Thus, the title of this blog—surrender to the abundance—is a practice and aspiration for me.
And yet, I’ve noticed that when I’m truly honest with myself and others, and when I let go of control and expectations, that’s when the universe provides in unexpected ways. Like stating out loud that I needed a break from the boat and being invited to stay with Sylvia and Elza on Cat Island. I hope that by the time I lay my head to rest at the end of the day, literally and figuratively, I will have surrendered fully to the abundance that surrounds us all at every moment.
There’s a small island ten miles off the tip of northern Cat Island, a convenient stop on the way to Eleuthera, our next destination heading north. It’s been renamed Half Moon Cay by the owners, Carnival Cruises, but the charts still 6 it by its original name, Little San Salvador. Reading the comments from other cruisers about the place, we were encouraged to stay the night in the wide, open bay after the cruise ship has left for the day and to leave the next morning before the cruise ship arrives. Some rated it highly as a “beautiful anchorage,” and another cruiser said they stopped for a week and went ashore to enjoy the free food offered during the day.
Pulling into the bay, we encountered a “pirate ship” on the beach and numerous beach huts and multi-story buildings. The place was deserted but for a large machine dragging over the long half-moon beach to smooth the sands for the next day’s arrivals. Sure enough, at 7AM a ten-story cruise ship made its appearance and began shuttling staff and then passengers ashore for the land-based activities: water sports, snorkeling, volleyball, basketball, horseshoes, shuffleboard, horse-back riding, hiking, glass bottom boat excursions, and of course, eating. Over the course of the next hour, we watched this spectacle unfold, thinking we might try going ashore and “blending in” to see what the cruise ship experience was all about. By 8AM, we thought the better of it, weighed anchor, and continued on to South Eleuthera, happy to have escaped.
Little San Salvador is 2400 acres, of which the cruise company has developed 50 for its activities, with the stated goal of “maintaining as much habitat as possible for wildlife.” The company purchased the island in 1996 for $6 million and employs hundreds of Bahamians, as is required when foreigners create businesses in this country. From the many conversations we’ve had with Bahamians, most agree that working in a resort means a good, steady income that they would not otherwise have, although some project this sentiment with more enthusiasm than others. From my eyes, I see an army of people of color serving white foreigners and wonder if this might be part of what I’m feeling—a sense of passive resignation.
And there are dozens and dozens of examples of this model across the Bahamas—white, foreign investors creating resorts of one description or another in a country where over 70% of the economy is from tourists, 70% of whom visit by cruise ship. The next largest sector, 15% of the economy, is banking and offshore international financial services, accounting for the most offshore entities in the world!
Needless to say, the cruise ship industry is a BIG DEAL in the Bahamas. So far, this is the first sighting we’ve had of these monster ships, which we saw stacked up like dominoes in Fort Lauderdale and Miami ready to make the crossing. Little did we know that the second cruise ship we saw in the distance that morning was heading for our next stop in South Eleuthera.
Lighthouse Point and Rock Sound, South Eleuthera
We pulled into the very exposed anchorage at the southern tip of Eleuthera, Lighthouse Point, but with winds from the north, we were protected, and much to our amazement, we were the only boat in the little bay—only the second time so far in the Bahamas. The water was crystal clear, the beach was beautiful, the rocky point was dramatic, and the path up to the light house and beach on the Atlantic side was lovely. With such privacy, we stripped down to our skin and enjoyed a great swim, extolling our good fortune at having found such an off-the-beaten-path anchorage.
The next morning, as we rounded the point, there was the cruise ship from the day before, offloading people in small boats ashore.
Like night…
…and day
We assumed the long pier labeled “Under Construction” on the chart was being built for the cruise ship and confirmed our suspicion online—Light House Point, Eleuthera is Disney Cruise Lines’ latest development in the Bahamas. Since its purchase in 2019 of the 700-acre property, they’ve created a detailed environmental impact study—which apparently passed muster with the government—hired two well-known Bahamian artists to work with Disney “imagineers” to create an “authentic local feel” to the site (I’m imagining Junkanoo on steroids), and will hire 80% Bahamians, thereby creating 120 sustainable jobs for locals. As part of the deal, they will also donate 190 acres at the tip of the island to the Bahamian government for a national park.
It sounds good on paper, but how could developing yet another waterfront cruise village not hurt the environment, at least visually, if not in percentage of the island begin developed. These ships dump hundreds of thousands of gallons of treated sewage three miles offshore, apparently legally, but regularly dump plastic and food waste overboard, which is illegal. Their response is to receive the fines and simply pay them as part of the expense of operation.
And yet, we too are foreigners who come here on our sailboats for the pristine beauty of these islands and for the local culture. There are no regulations for dumping raw sewage overboard and everyone does it, as there are no pumpout stations like in the US. Who’s to say the Bahamians don’t have it right that creating another resort isn’t the best use of the land for the people?
Anchoring in Rock Sound further north, we asked the woman who worked at the well-stocked grocery store and gave us a ride back to our boat what she thought about Disney coming to South Eleuthera. “It’s terrible,” she said. “I don’t want them here.”
Later, as we wandered around the settlement and stumbled upon the Ocean Blue Hole, we met a youthful, middle-aged woman selling a variety of wares under the gazebo, including a book of fiction that she’d self-published, which we bought and have been reading. Like many people we’ve talked to in the Bahamas—who face the same outrageous prices in the grocery stores that we do. Like many people weve encountered in the Bahamas, she works hard piecing together several jobs to make a living.
“Follow the money” we heard about the One Eleuthera Foundation, a collective for sustainable development that would nix overscale development like Disney’s on the Although this organization has done some good, it seems that they are white people who came in as “saviors” and probably have no more on their mind than developing those same lands for themselves. It would be tricky for any group to look totally clean to locals but, on the face of it, OEF seems a better bet than Disney, given the two track records.
After several days, we sailed north stopping in yet another off-the-beaten-path, and very exposed, anchorage where we were the only boat. The bold rocky cliffs were reminiscent of Maine, and we enjoyed a quiet day in calm waters…until the wind shifted 180 degrees, the waves started rolling in, and a sleepless night ensued for this princess. Motoring up the coast the next morning gave us little respite until the next day when, after a good night’s sleep, I was able to see the world once again with clear, open eyes.
Governor’s Harbor and Hatchet Bay, Eleuthera
On Sunday, singing wafted high from the Methodist church at the head of Governor’s Harbor, where I stopped in to take in the sights and sounds. Later in the afternoon, an outdoor service took over a community gathering spot with a fervor that lasted hours. Each morning, an industrious man and his wheel-chair-bound father boarded their small fishing boat for full days of fishing, even on Sunday. We had spoken just a few words to each other, across bows, when we picked up a mooring the first day, and we were touched when the fisherman gave us a hale wave as we left a few days later.
Walking up the hill we noticed a distinct difference to this place: many of the houses were from the mid-1800s, of more stature, and the environment more manicured than we’ve seen anywhere in the islands. It had a distinctly colonial, upscale feel, which was confirmed by Catherine, the Swiss-educated, Bahamian owner of the Buccaneer Club with its Sunday afternoon live music and attached ice cream and gift shop selling fancy women’s attire and coffee table books of Cat Island and Eleuthera. According to her, the visitors to this part of the island are mostly New Yorkers, along with, among others, the Royal Family and Lenny Kravitz, who lives part of the year in the modest home where his grandfather grew up.
As we’ve heard countless times, the Bahamas is home to the rich and famous, as well as the poor and underserved. The writer we met writes succinctly about this slice of the Bahamian culture in her stories that relate problems of obesity, diabetes, teen pregnancy, unemployment, drug abuse, HIV/AIDS, single motherhood, and marital rape. These problems are especially acute in the outer islands where community resources are minimal compared to the urban centers: think health care and social services. That said, her stories all have an upbeat turnaround, which she uses to inspire personal responsibility for making better choices.
To a lesser extent, the Bahamas is also home to a growing middle-class of hard-working people who find steady work and/or create self-sustaining businesses. We’ve also heard many stories of people leaving for Nassau at a young age where the urban lifestyle provides plentiful work, as well as all that goes along with it—traffic, over-congestion, and crime—then return to the “family islands” where their people were born.
Andros:
“I was a cab driver in Nassau for thirty years. Now I live in my mother’s old house and sell coconuts and vegetables on the roadside to make ends meet.”
“I worked for the Bahamian Government in Nassau for thirty years and when I learned that a position as head of the Labor Department opened up on my home island, I jumped at the chance. I wanted to give back to the community where I was born. Oh, and I have cars to rent if you need one.”
Exuma:
“We live on Warderick Wells for a few weeks at a time, then we go back to Nassau. Here we enforce the regulations in the Exuma Land and Sea Park, which mostly means driving around to boats collecting payments for moorings. In Nassau, as security police, we’re in the line of fire, fighting crime. Who wouldn’t want to come here?”
Cat Island:
“My father started this grocery store, and now we own a small shopping plaza. I’ve never been off the island, and I like it that way.”
“My husband used to work at a restaurant in Nassau, but we came back home to start a small take-out restaurant. It does well enough.”
Eleuthera:
“I worked for Paradise Island resorts for 38 years and came back to Eleuthera to start a small business selling clothing. I should have done it years ago.”
“I’m cleaning these fish for a guy on that sailboat. You can have these four snappers he gave me for ten bucks.”
If nothing else, Bahamians are extremely resourceful, and yet they are deeply dependent on the American economy, one might even say enmeshed—the two currencies are, in fact, interchangeable. For many years, the enmeshment took the form of drug smuggling. Now, legal offshore banking has legitimized all financial exchanges. Americans own much of the property and many of the businesses, and the American government has a large military base as well. Why? The Bahamas has no income tax, corporate tax, capital gains tax, or wealth tax. It does, however, have a 10% Value Added Tax on all goods coming into the country, and as almost everything on the outer islands comes by container ship or plane from Nassau, and almost everything in Nassau has to be imported, the cost of goods is extremely high, often two to three times the cost in the US. It’s a wonder the Bahamians prosper as much as they do, albeit largely on rice and peas, fried fish, and Bahamian mac ‘n cheese; thus, the obesity and diabetes.
A commonwealth of the United Kingdom since 1648, the Bahamas gained governmental independence in 1973, yet it has been deeply interconnected with America and Europe for centuries. Unlike the original inhabitants, of the 400,000 Bahamians who live on the islands today, most are descendants of freed slaves from American Loyalists, who were resettled by the Crown after the American Revolutionary War. When slavery was abolished in the Bahamas in 1834, the country became a haven for freed African slaves from North America and British slave ships. And what of the native people from these islands? The Lucayans, who inhabited these islands for centuries prior to their “discovery” by Columbus, were removed, enslaved, and extinguished by diseases brought by Europeans. And so, the history of these islands is much like that of our own country, except that here, the descendants of slaves actually rule the government, if not the economy, which largely remains in the hands of rich Americans.
Glass Window
Leaving Hatchet Bay, we anchored off Glass Window, where a very narrow strip of land divides the ocean from the sound, but with the change in tide, the water gushes in and out connecting the two. Much to our surprise, the Liberty Clipper, a 120’ schooner hailing from Boston, was anchored off during one of its Bahamian cruises. Two of the crew were driving around in their large tender and said they were headed over to see the window. As I sometimes do, I asked if we could catch a ride, thereby saving us a long row. With their captain’s agreement, we got up close and personal with the spectacle as the Atlantic Ocean trickled and splashed over the land into the sound at low tide. We also got a tour of the schooner, which is always a thrill and made me nostalgic for Maine, which is swarming with schooners. We also saw the glass window opening from the bridge above, as well as the Queen’s Baths, where the water splashes into high pools above the ocean swells.
Spanish Wells, Eleuthera
We’ve now visited Eleuthera from bottom to top, landing in the strange, foreign land known as Spanish Wells, where 90% of the inhabitants are white Bahamians and the blacks are mostly from Haiti. These Bahamians have an unusual British-Aussie-Irish-Bahamian accent unlike anything we’ve heard. St. George’s Cay, which makes up one half of the community of Spanish Wells, feels like Coconut Grove in the 50’s with its mostly one-story colorful cement-block house and manicured lawns where everyone drives around in golf carts. While engaging when you speak to them, people don’t say “Good afternoon” in the friendly manner we’ve heard from black Bahamians in the settlements, and they don’t look you in the eye when they walk past. The large grocery store is off-the-charts compared with all the other stores we’ve been in with tons of fresh produce and meats, and a pharmacy department complete with fluorescent lights like in the states. It feels like another planet!
Cooperative craft shop started by the school crafts teacher
Arriving to seek shelter from the upcoming winds and seas, we learned that all the moorings and slips were full, but someone recommended Kyle Pinder’s dock in Muddy Hole on Russell Island, the other island making up the “harbor” (called the creek) of Spanish Wells. Turns out the main road in town is named after his grandfather, Leo Pinder, one of the grocery stores is called Pinders, and the school is the Samuel Guy Pinder All-Age School. Kyle and his cousin couldn’t have been nicer helping us tie up our boat and giving us the lay of the land. He directed us where to land our dinghy on the other side of the creek, but when we got there, we had to ask someone which dock was his. The guy said, “Kyle Pinder owns half the docks in Spanish Wells, so that doesn’t help!”
Investigating further at the Spanish Wells museum, we learned that white Bahamians arrived here in 1648 after leaving Bermuda seeking religious freedom and were shipwrecked on the Devil’s Backbone, a coral-reef-strewn shoreline at the northern most tip of Eleuthera. One group of freedom-seekers went to New Providence, aka Nassau, and the other settled in Spanish Wells. The inhabitants of the island are largely descendants of these early Puritans—Pinders, Higgs, and Sawyers—along with some later Crown loyalists who left the United States after the American Revolution. In fact, these early settlers called themselves the “Eleutherian Settlers,” which is Greek for freedom. The island has remained largely self-sufficient, community minded, God worshiping, and white ever since.
After a night at the dock, we anchored out in Muddy Hole, which is a little hidden gem—a super-protected opening in the mangroves, as tranquil as a land-locked pond. Despite days of significant wind and rain, many very welcome calm nights and good sleep ensued. Exploring Russell Island by foot, we were offered a ride in a golf cart by a white Bahamian from Nassau who has recently been investing in land on the island; since COVID, the prices have been exploding and he wants in. In fact, it appears that half of Russell Island is for sale and the other half has recently been developed, including a man-made canal reminiscent of Florida to create “waterfront” property for the rich.
Muddy Hole
Muddy Hold
The Creek
In the course of our tour, he told us that Spanish Wells is known as the “white, racists” island, which indeed he was, although he claimed otherwise. I cannot even repeat some of the things he said because they were so offensive. And yet, every once in a while, it’s good to come face to face with people with such extreme beliefs to remind yourself of your own values. Why he chose to reveal his extreme racism to us we don’t know, except that Will especially is extremely good at asking probing questions that get people talking about themselves and their lives. In Hatchet Bay, for example, we chatted with the owner of a small clothing store for an hour about his return home from 30 years working at a resort in Nassau. With each revelation, he chuckled and said, “I don’t know why I’m telling you this, but…” And it’s happened countless times throughout the Bahamas. I guess we are open and curious, and take the time not only to ask questions but to listen to the answers. We’ve found that people love to share their stories as much as we love to hear them; it’s how we get to know a place—by its people.
As we continued on our walk around Russell Island, we saw a sign for a Lutra Sails. Curious about what kind of business a sailmaker has on Spanish Wells with so many motor boats, we called the phone number on the sign. When Lorin arrived back from his run, he invited us into his shop, sweat still pouring off his face. Turns out he mostly does canvas and vinyl work, but not only that, he is the Bahamian National Champion in time-trial bike racing and road racing, and recently won both titles in the same Championship, which has never been done before as riders feel too spent after just one of these. Soon Deann and her two adorable children took me upstairs to meet Skittles, their macaw, a beautiful bird she’d owned for nine years.
While Leann, the kids, and I picked tomatoes, played marbles, and painted rocks, Will learned about the canvas trade, as well as lobster fishing, which Lorin did for many years. In the 1980s, the fishermen of Spanish Wells devised a form of lobster trap that they call “condos,” which the spiny lobsters crawl under for protection. These “traps” are simply pressure-treated 2x4s with a corrugated tin roof but no bottom. Diving for them using hookahs—hoses attached to air compressors on the surface—fishermen can often bag up to 40 at a time. In fact, Spanish Wells is the largest processor of lobster in the Bahamas, exporting 70% of its catch to Red Lobster in the US. We also learned that fishermen own their boats and earn their pay cooperatively, whereby everyone gets an equal share of the profits—a holdover from the early settlers. Because of the abundance of lobsters and other fish, fishermen can earn up to $30k in three months in this trade, which combined with a booming construction trade means that unlike many of the family islands, few people ever leave. Well, except for the black Bahamians, who are ferried by the boatload back and forth each day from the mainland to work on the island for the locals.
Lobster condos
Fish processing plant
Black Bahamians return to the mainland after a day’s work
After more than a couple of hours with this delightful family, we returned to the boat with two paw-paws (papayas), a jar of home-made salsa, and a much warmer feeling about the place, especially after our earlier encounter.
From Lighthouse Point to Rock Sound to Governor’s Harbor to Hatchet Bay to Spanish Wells, we’ve covered a lot of Eleuthera, which is the most diverse Bahamian island we’ve encountered so far. Although we are among the racial majority here in Spanish Wells, we feel less “at home” here than in other parts of Eleuthera and the family islands. Perhaps it’s the feeling of insularity and isolation from the rest of the Bahamas that feels so uncomfortable. Or perhaps it’s a sense of racist undertones; it’s clear that the Haitian workers are invisible and only speak when spoken to. Or it could be that affluence has brought about more social “cliques,” evidenced by the relative unfriendliness of passersby that appears to be another striking import in their spiral toward Americianization, which, thankfully, is so much slower in the other family islands.
And the adventure continues…(I hope you read to the end so you know it’s not all paradise here in paradise.)
Stocking Island
After two most-welcome days at a marina where I sat for hours in a rocking chair on land getting some time on solid ground, alas the swell started rolling the boat at the dock. As the winds were reported to be increasing and the entrance to the marina can be impassible in heavy seas, we decided to book it out of there and head back to George Town, where at least we didn’t have to pay for rockin’ and rollin’.
As predicted, the winds blew steady and hard for a week, with large seas reported outside the relatively protected harbor. For me, it was a long seven days of relentless wind and choppy seas such that we rarely left the boat as rowing against all that wind and chop was hard. And as the wind was out of the east, we couldn’t sail in any direction but back from where we’d come, and so we waited…
One day, I rowed the short distance alone to the social gathering spot, Chat ‘n Chill, for a respite, but the wind on land was stronger than on the boat, which at least has a dodger and cabin to protect us, so I came back disheartened to endure the wind and seas for several more days. Needing to do something to lively things up, I organized a dance at Chat ‘n Chill, which a number of people attended. It was great to feel the spaciousness of movement on land, as for me, the boat can feel very confining after days on end.
Mid-week, one of our two bottles of propane ran out, so the never-daunted Will decided to row the one mile across Elizabeth Harbor to drop off the tank and pick up some groceries. With many engine-powered dinghies going back and forth, he caught a tow back, getting soaked in the process from all the chop. Another day, he got a ride from our Canadian friends to pick up the tank. This time he put on a large rain poncho to save himself from getting drenched. Having been soaked on another occasion transiting the harbor with this couple, I gave that outing a miss.
Finally, the wind let up somewhat and we ventured out in the dinghy to explore one of the extremely protected “holes.” There we encountered Dennis, whom I’d met a number of years ago when he was a launch driver at Handy Boat in Falmouth where I kept my boat. Now in his 80s, he has no fixed address and has been coming to this spot in the Bahamas for decades. He offered Will a neat home-made fishing lure made of PVC, which he learned about in Fiji from a solo around-the-world sailor in an engineless boat. The stories you hear of and from sailors are endless! Alas, Will lost the lure the first time he used it when a fish actually took a bite, but he’s since made several himself (see design below). We continued on a long hike to the top of monument hill overlooking the harbor, where sailors have spelled out their boat names in stones on the flat landscape below. It was great to finally stretch our legs, muscles, and energies in an outward direction on land.
We met up with a number of people from Maine during our week waiting out the winds. The first was a family who bought sv Avatrice, which I recognized as the boat that was owned by a woman in Maine who, for more than twenty years, ran Women Under Sail, a sailing school for women. After texting since Florida with another family who sails in Maine, we finally met up with them as they sailed over to greet us in their small dinghy.
So the week was not without its entertainment and diversion, but for me, it was a week of feeling stuck on the boat. From Will’s perspective, it was another week in not-undesirable weather, tackling boat projects, reading, and enjoying the warm air and cool breezes, despite his partner’s distress.
Long Island
Although the wind was still up, it finally changed to a favorable direction such that we could head east to Long Island, one of the so-called Out Islands of the Bahamas. To get there, we had to navigate one of the infamous “cuts” that took us out of the relatively protected harbor into open ocean. To do this, you try to plan to go through at slack/”no” tide to avoid the wind-against-tide phenomenon that causes rough seas and breakers. We heard later that some friends got an early start and a wave crashed into their cockpit from abeam and scared them pretty badly. We, on the other hand, got a later start and had medium choppy seas for only a short bit before things calmed down. The cut behind us, we had a great sail behind the reefs toward Thompson Bay. Ever the cautious one, it is often the case that for me, the anticipation of the impending threats are more difficult than the thing itself.
When we arrived in Long Island, wouldn’t you know it, there were our friends on Avatrice, as well as a couple dozen other boats who had the same idea of fleeing the wall-to-wall boats in George Town. Our friends offered to share their car rental, so we happily spent the day touring most of the island with them. First stop was Dean’s Blue Hole, which is known to be the deepest blue hole on the planet and is in fact where they have the annual freediving (no scuba tank) competition where the world record was recently set at 393 feet! We snorkeled and saw some cool fish, and our six-year-old friend found a sea biscuit, which looks like a puffy loaf of bread with a star on top.
Next stop was Clarence Town, which was modest and quiet but for a bakery, a church, and a marina. Last stop, at the complete other end of the island, was Cape Santa Maria, with its monument to “the gentle, peaceful, and happy aboriginal people of Long Island, the Lucayans and to the arrival of Christopher Columbus on Oct 17, 1492,” (!) superb wording since Mr. C slaughtered the entire population within 20 years. It’s a brand-new monument created at some expense on the high cliffs above the bluff—very impressive and very strange at the same time.
From Thompson Bay, we sailed up the coast to Calabash Bay, just south of Cape Santa Maria, where we spent four days awaiting the arrival of my Polish delivery skipper friend on her trans-Atlantic crossing in a brand-new catamaran. What a thrill to finally meet up with her and her crew and share a meal. After showing off our boat and telling them about another Freedom for sale in the Abacos, they diverted on their way to Florida to see it, and it turns out her partner/first mate bought it! So we may be seeing more of them next season in the Bahamas in between deliveries.
Conception Island
The winds and seas having calmed down a bit, we had a great sail to Conception Island, further east and out to sea. Like the Exumas National Land and Sea Park, this island is administered by the Bahamian National Trust and was stunningly beautiful in its pristine, uninhabited state. Although there were plenty of boats anchored off the long beach, including a number of large motor yachts, it was big enough that everyone was spread out so it didn’t feel over-crowded like George Town. We walked across the island and had a small beach to ourselves where we played like teenagers.
Next day we motored down to the creek entrance and rowed into the huge mangrove creek in search of turtles, which we heard were plentiful but alas eluded us. A modest-sized cruise ship was anchored off the creek, which we discovered was a National Geographic explorer vessel. Their next excursion was snorkeling the reef where we reset our anchor, so we snorkeled alongside them and saw the best underwater coral reef and fish yet. It’s a whole other world down there, although we understand that the fish are nowhere near as plentiful as in years past before so much of the coral died due to global warming, acidification, pollution, and other evils that man has wrought.
Cat Island
From Conception, we had another delightful 40-mile sail to Cat Island, which is my favorite island so far—a large open harbor protected from the prevailing winds; numerous small beachfront food shacks locally known as the “Fish Fry” where we had the best conch salad yet with mango and pineapple and fish stew for Saturday breakfast, a Bahamian thing; a great grocery store with fresh veggies unloaded that morning from the mail boat; a wonderful meal of fresh lobster; and a brand-new laundromat so we had clean sheets once again! We hauled out the bikes and enjoyed stretching our legs in a circular motion as well.
At the grocery store, Will started chatting up a woman who lives on the island in an entirely off-the-grid house that she built. As it happened, someone had just shown her an upsetting picture of a dog and she was fuming. Will picked up on her agony and asked if she was from OK, and pretty soon, she was sharing some of her life story, which took her from Nassau, to France, Germany, San Francisco, North Carolina, and then to Cat Island, the land of her father’s people.
Forever the gregarious one, Will suggested that we would enjoy a visit to see her solar oven and solar everything, and she said sure. So the next day we set out hitchhiking to the other end of the island to find her. Two hours and several rides later, we managed to track her down with the help of a neighbor since everyone seems to know everyone on this island, and Sylvia came to meet us in her car. We rode on a bumpy road through the bush to an area known as Greenwood with a dozen or so houses, mostly owned by foreigners. Entering the property, we weaved through palm and fruit trees to meet Elza, her partner of twenty years, and a compound of structures that they built over more than a decade, including lots of solar panels and lots of batteries. The newest concrete house had one room and a huge wrap-around porch, which was breezy and cool. The crowning jewel was the upper floor with its ocean view, queen-sized canopy bed, inviting couch, simple table, and breezes flowing in from all sides. I admired it longingly…
We sat down on the porch for sliced oranges and the loaf of my fresh bread we’d brought to learn more about each other. Sylvia is fluent in French and German, having moved to France in her twenties to learn the language because of one inspirational song. When they first moved to Cat Island, she taught French in the island school, and Elza was the island nurse. Before that, Elza was a nurse and healer in the states; she’s seen it all. Among many other things, Sylvia is a builder, and Elza is a writer and painter. Together they started the Cat Island humane society and at one time had many dogs, each of which is now buried on their land. While they now live a simple, quiet life away from most people, they had a lot to say about the underbelly of Cat Island, including the fact that much generation land—untitled land that has been in families for generations—has been essentially stolen from locals in order to be sold to the highest bidder, and this includes land that was Sylvia’s grandmother’s.
The conversation turned to boat life, and it soon came out that I’ve been longing for some time on land. Sensing my not-well-disguised distress from earlier and Will’s hints that I needed some time ashore, within minutes I had an invitation to stay in the heavenly upstairs room whenever I wanted! At Will’s encouragement, I accepted their incredibly generous offer, we went back to the boat to collect some things and leave Will off, and Sylvia brought me back to Shangri-la. I sat on the upstairs porch in tears at my incredibly good fortune and was told dinner would be brought up on a tray. Soon a thermos of lemon grass tea and several bento boxes appeared outside my door, each dish more sumptuous and nutritious than the next. I sighed out loud with every bite, surrendering to the abundance. In between bites I read Hafiz and Rilke, wrote in my journal until my pen ran out of ink, and then collapsed into bed where I stayed until late the next morning, the sounds of surf and birds lulling me to sleep and awake. The bed was rectangular and spacious, the room was clean and white, and the ground was still and quiet. I melted with gratitude into what the universe had provided.
And so, for a few days, I recharged my batteries on land, both in solitude and in the company of two wonderful women, whose stories they shared freely along with their home. I am deeply grateful and humbled by their generosity and spirits.
After three nights, I invited Will to join us, and we spend an equally restorative time—together and apart—in the room overlooking the sea in Greenwood. Here’s what he has to say about the experience:
Yes, I appreciate how much this sounds like “prayer answered.” But I believe there is a difference when I say, “Get out of your own way and the universe provides.” More than a week prior, I had contemplated what a local might be like to stay with, given that Tasha had done much research and there were simply no affordable, decent places for her to stay to get some strongly desired (and needed) land time. Then, not only does it happen, but it happens with a place in our style, and from interesting people—a well-traveled Bahamian, and a giving American-turned Bahamian— and a marvelous ascetic and aesthetic “retreat,” complete with gorgeous food. Then, the lovely experience of daily talking and nightly reading of Elza’s intimate memoir—quite a combination—as well as a look behind the veil.
Their place was a compound built of just two rooms but so many interconnecting passages/breezeways and other ephemeral/screened-in transition zones. We had the top floor/room admitting of light, air, birdsong, and ocean lapping. Sitting on the wrap-around deck you could see the ocean over the treetops—a monastic room but a resort’s sort of amenities.
I did not know how long Tasha would stay but the thought of a week was always in my mind. That she invited me to join her after two nights for the final four nights tells you what a generous person she is, as she needed the land time, not me, though I had no complaints about how idyllic it was. It is my belief that treasures like this are to be found everywhere but only time will tell if we admit them. In the meantime, I’m happy that Tasha got her groove back.
We ended our visit at the highest point in the Bahamas, Mt Alvernia, where in 1939 the architect/priest Father Jerome built a scale replica of a medieval hermitage in honor of St Francis of Assisi, and as it turns out, where Sylvia spent her first nights on Cat Island in a tent when she returned to the Bahamas twenty years ago. It was nothing short of adorable, with is tiny rooms and passageways. This was one hermitage for a priest; the off-the-grid hermitage in Greenwood, which they call Sylwood Shalom, is another—for Sylvia and Elza, and now for Will and me.
* * *
I end with another story (this one is for you, Nancy). A couple weeks prior to meeting Sylvia and Elza, I was tasked with getting some provisions and taking ashore the trash in a solo expedition before we left George Town with my cousin during her visit. Part of that involved dumping our “dehydrated” poop into the trash—rather than dumping it overboard as 99% of boaters do in the Bahamas as there are no facilities to do otherwise. Our “composting” toilet being what it is, it takes a little getting used to aiming your pee so it doesn’t mix with said poop so it can in fact dehydrate, more or less, as well as pushing a button to flush as you go. I’ve gotten used to it, but our guest alas was not as pee-direction-pointing-while-simultaneously-flushing savvy, and thus, rather than dehydrating in coffee chaff, on this occasion, our poop was the opposite: super-saturated.
Ever the cautious one, I determined I would take the bag in its bucket ashore separate from the other trash so as not to risk spilling the mess, as happened early on before I became so pee-direction-pointing-while-simultaneously-flushing savvy, so I set it on deck to put into the dinghy. As we pay by the bag, Will saw the bucket and stuffed the poop bag into the other trash bag, which contained among other things a large empty tin of olive oil. I was annoyed but didn’t say anything because I didn’t want my guest to feel like she had contributed to any wrongdoing.
After rowing ashore against wind and chop, I lifted the bag from the dinghy to place it on the dock and, you guessed it, the tin of olive oil broke the bag, exploding the contents all over the dinghy in what I will not attempt to describe but you can surely imagine. It was a stinking mess!!! I hung the bag from a cleat while using a sponge to clean my legs, shoes, and dinghy with salt water, and then carefully carried the bag to the truck, refusing the offer of help from the lovely man on the dock. Needless to say, I was disgusted and disheartened, but on sv Nirvana, we practice the art of no-blame, so I spent the next few hours dissolving the feeling that naturally surfaced. As a bonus, it was yet another occasion for practicing the art of communication: Speak your truth and follow through with your convictions.
We then set out for Lee Stocking Island, which I’d been told was beautiful. Wanting to be spontaneous and respond to wishes from others that we explore other possible anchorages along the way, we tried ducking into a tiny cove to anchor and ran aground, despite the charted depths indicating it was safe. It took a painfully long 15 minutes and agonizing more than effort, but we finally got off just before dead low tide. We then motored to the nearest anchorage, where we were cautioned by two boats that the charts where we were headed were wrong, thus saving us from running aground again.
By that point, I was truly distraught and through tears, uttered out loud what had been building up in me for weeks, “I need a break!” “I need some time on land!” And “I want a rectangular bed that you can climb into on three sides!” It was a huge revelation and relief to admit this to myself and confess it out loud. At the same time, Will sensed that our recently made plan to sail in a Bahamian Sloop Regatta, aboard H2O, at 5F (Farmer’s First Friday in February Festival), was too much to care about at this juncture. Over the course of the next two weeks, I remembered that some friends had been to Cat Island and raved about it. I found myself fantasizing about an airy cabana on a beach swinging in a hammock, drinking pina coladas, imagining what it would be like to leave the boat for a few days, to have a break from living within the confines of 36 x 12.5 feet, and to sleep in a rectangular bed.
Three weeks later, the universe responded. And trust me, it was light years better than a beach cabana! Reconnecting not only with myself but with Will, I felt nourished like I haven’t felt in some time. I think this is what it feels like to live in the flow: Be open and everything you need and desire will come to you.
Surrender to the Abundance 