The Sea Within

Sailing is a magnificent thing.  It's hard to put into words, but the experience seems to soak through you, to seep into every pore and sense you're feeling.  As you're out there you don't really realize it, so slow is the process, but that whole time you're being softly seduced by the waves and sea.

Of course, that's not how it starts though.  At first, you're seasick.  Nauseous and miserable.  Each wave-wrought lurch and plunge of the deck draws higher in your mouth the gristly, salty taste that so faithfully precedes vomit, so you stare at the horizon or you stare at the waves and at the same time you're praying to God, to your screwed-up sense of balance-- to anything that might listen, really-- that the nauseum end.

And, eventually, it does.  In the romance of the sea, I think this is where you're officially smitten.  As the seasickness subsides a new awareness rises up in its place as you find yourself intimately attuned to the rocking of the waves.  The rush and roll of the boat, so recently a cause of torture, now soothes with its meditative rhythms.  You find that when the boat sways, you sway, too.  And when it dips, you're dipping.  Like a dancer feeding off the movements of his partner, you fall in step with the flowing waves, expecting and embracing their motions.

And all this time the wind is blowing, gliding swiftly over the surface of the sea, quietly collecting the cool salt spray it will brush upon your cheeks.  That wind, that air-- it's easy to be blind to it.  Until, that is, you raise your sails.  Then, the taut white sheets bucking against the gusts, you feel the sheer force of that once tranquil wind.  And as you ply against the rigging, throwing every muscle into raising the sails, the distinction between man and ship grows dim.  I know it sounds strange, but at those times it's hard to tell where taut tendon ends and taut rigging begins, and at least for a moment that bright white wing is yours; it's you that's rising on the wind.

At night, as with most romances, the emotions thicken.  Sitting watch at midnight, the sails ablaze with a magnificent back-lit white, the waves ever-rolling, ever-soothing, a vault of stars twinkles down to reflect the froth-topped waves.  The night's silence resonates, seems louder in fact against the wind whistling, the waters crashing, and the rigging sighing against its load.  There are the things that seep in; this is the depth that fills your pores.

It's strange-- I thought that being on a sailboat a person would feel an expanded connection with the world at large.  You're borne on waters that have seen worlds away and on winds that have touched mountains you'll never know.  Yet as you look out in all directions on miles of swaying water, your world contracts.  There's the boat.  There's what you feel, what the boat feels.  Your perceptions of the world change, but rather than expanded they've turned more focused, bent inward and sharpened on the moment around you.

But it's not just while you're on the water.  The rolling of the waves, the soft caress of the wind, and even the serene, careless feeling of being adrift-- on the water or in your life-- they stay with you, whispering softly for days after your feet have touched the land.  You notice the breeze and the swaying in your legs.  You stare at a glass of water and envy the glass its waves.  The memories, the feelings, the waves-- they've trickled through you, left a residue of cool salt spray.  Somehow, in those few short days, things have changed, you've changed.  You aren't who you were.  Somehow, the sea is in you.

(Note: Matt suggested adding a travel map to show where I've gone and what route I took-- what a great idea!  I've added a link on the right side of the page to a google map showing just that.  Enjoy!)

Of Paradise

I'm having a strange time in Puerto Vallarta.  I've been here four days and I guess I'm supposed to be happy, or at least that's what I'd always thought people did here, but I just can't feel it.  It's funny.  On the sailboat ride down -- me and Chuck and Gary and three feet of legroom and sleeping on the table cushions -- there I felt comfortable and, when I think about it, I guess I was happy then.

But ever since then it's felt like everything is rocking back and forth, like the world's wobbling just a bit while millionaires next to their towering yachts don't even look up and say hi as you pass.  It's all felt so empty and yet the marina here is so lush -- three pools! masseuse! parrot show at 7! -- and I remember watching a crab near the water scurry between two rocks, disappearing within a crack, and I kind of wished I was that crab.  Or even one of those rocks.

On my second day here I met a girl.  I saw her profile online and said, ''hey we seem to share a lot of similar interests maybe we should meet'' and we did and it was a date, although I didn't realize that when it started.  We walked along the sea at sunset, with waves and surf whispering softly that it was ok that everything was still rolling back and forth.  As I scanned the shore for crabs and cracks she told me of her list of things to do before she dies and of the ones she'd already done.  ''Number 47: have someone fall in unrequited love with you.''  The boardwalk passed and then we were sitting in a half-lit park, her tiny hands seeking my arms or shoulders more and more as she laughed, while I was

wondering if her list had a ''Number 48: fall in unrequited love.''

In the morning I met a couple as I sat alone on a bench trying to figure out what I was feeling.  We talked on a while, them in green shirts the color of dollar bills, while I kept wondering if they noticed the toilet paper that'd blown next to her shoe.  They told me of life purpose, that you can have anything you put your mind to and can change the weather with your thoughts.  I guess they must be right because their condo was huge and luxurious -- I saw it.  And as the evening wore on and the sun sank below their glass veranda he drank and drank while his wife, still telling me of mind control, didn't care.

And then for some reason on the fourth day I felt tired, so very tired.  And I laid in bed for hours but I never felt any closer.  It was like a tiredness that hung off you, like a sludge or leaden chains, so I went to the internet cafe and spent four hours looking at other places I could be and I felt a little better I guess.

So that's it.  That's been the last four days.  And it's not like I can complain because there's really nothing else I'd rather be doing here.  I'm just waiting for the boat races this weekend -- to crew for Chuck and Gary -- so that I can leave.  Until then I'll just watch the Spring Breakers and the honeymooners and the timeshare owners and see if I can't figure out what they're seeing.  Maybe I'll sit on a park bench, concentrate really hard and try to make it snow.  Or maybe I'll just billow a bit on whatever winds I find, rock back and forth, or pretend I'm a crab or a rock.

Like I said, I'm having a strange time here.


(As an addendum, I realize that basically everything I write-- and particularly the above-- is kinda depressing.  I'm not depressed!  It's just that I only feel like writing about the stronger emotions or experiences I have and I guess melancholy pulls me harder than happiness.  So no worries!)

5 Most Salient Memories: Mazatlán

Mazatlán in my mind is sun and sea and sky.  It is a woman named Natalia blowing smoke against the pale blue light of dawn and laughing with blackened gums.  It is arriving on the boardwalk that first morning, after a sleepless night of buses and stations, as the sun first rises from the sea.  Mazatlán is soup and jugo de res and molé, prepared that morning in loving darkness and left neatly in the fridge.  It is waves and rocks and the meditative froth that forms from their embrace.

There is a town, of course -- wide, grimy streets and taxi drivers that honk at you every time they pass.  There is a boardwalk where people are running at every hour of the day and night, and a lighthouse on a hill atop a long and tiring trek.

Mostly though, Mazatlán to me is Natalia.  I can't be sure, but when I think back it seems like she is that welcome sun, that placid sky, and the rolling of the waves.  She is that peace and tranquil hum.  And when she laughs and blows smoke against the dim morning sky, you feel like you're where you belong right then. You feel like this is home.

The Color of Her Kindness

I pulled the sheets out of Natalia's dryer
and they were blue.
I stopped.
I stared down at them.

Had they always been blue?
Were these my sheets?
Had they been blue the whole time?
I asked her, was shocked:
the sheets were mine.

And suddenly I felt lost at sea.
Had I known that they were blue?
Had I ever really looked at them
or recognized their blueness?

I tried to think back,
to imagine the room and the sheets in it.
If I had been made to guess their color,
what color would I have said?

I stared down at them
and they seemed to stare back,
to swallow me up
along with the man I thought I was.

I was numb, had been numb
to kind and simple gestures.
The sheets were blue
and if I couldn't even pay enough attention
to know that they were blue
and not red, or green, or polka-dotted,
then how could I really know her at all
or see the color of her kindness?

I stared down at them,
at the sheets in my hand,
watching the subtle pleats
overflowing my fingers and
bending towards the earth,
thinking I was a fake
or maybe just a lousy guy.

And there I was,
standing,
staring,
thinking that these sheets I'd touched for days
I'd never really known.

Thinking,
in wonder,
that the sheets were blue.

5 Most Salient Memories: Chihuahua

Chihuahua is a sprawling jumble of a desert city, blanketed by a perpetual cloud of dust and pollution.  As far as the tourist goes, there's basically nothing to see, which is perhaps the reason I failed to encounter a single other white person in my seven days there.  Yes, it's an unimpressive city, and if all I'd seen were the buildings and museums I doubt I would have stayed in Chihuahua more than two days, but with all the friendly people I met and the amazing experiences my host Abiel included me in, in that short week Chihuahua grew to be a place I truly learned to love.  Looking back on my time there, these are the five experiences that stand out the most:


1) Hanging out for four days behind the counter of my host's art store, laughing and joking with three of the workers (Kenia, Fuyi, and Michel).  I learned more about mexican food and culture from them than I ever could have imagined.


2) Learning to swim the backstroke, all in Spanish.  When your ears are filled with water and there's an impossible echo-- not to mention the splashing waves and other people yelling-- it's sort of an exciting act of pantmime.


3) Seeing an interior designer doing his thing in a person's home.  It's truly a thing of beauty to watch the paintings being chosen, the colors being selected, and the furniture being laid out so as to best accentuate the natural beauty of the room as well as highlight the natural advantages of the home's owner.

4) Getting the VIP treatment at the most expensive and exlusive bar in Chihuahua (granted, this was because I was there with several millionaires; I guess I was part of the entourage, which is still kinda cool)

5) Dancing for two hours with a cute 22-year-old Chihuahuan schoolteacher while getting tips on how to pick up chicks from a local guy who acted as my wingman for the night.  The girl was ultimately not that interested, but the wingman was such a genuinely nice guy and taught me a lot about Mexican women (with which he was clearly quite successful, based on what I saw).  It's odd how many incredibly nice and helpful Mexicans I've met in so many unexpected places.

Dulce's Bust

It was in Chihuahua that I first became acquainted with the cruelties that can be wrought by fame, fortune, and beauty, for it was there that I met a woman who had been marred by all three since birth.  Her name was Dulce-- the Spanish word for ''sweet''-- and already in her teens she had been christened by society as ''the legend of Chihuahua.''  It seems fitting then, given the incessant worship she received, that I should meet her at a party thrown in her honor, for I was at Dulce's house to celebrate her 30th birthday.

From the moment my friend Abiel and I arrived, I began to see how Dulce's life was ordered.  The house itself was huge, placed firmly in the most exclusive gated community in Chihuahua.  From the outside one saw the ornate windows and the attractive, well-kept façade.  Inside one was met with spacious rooms, vaulted ceilings, and hand-carved wooden tables gilded with solid gold.  Beautiful Egyptian-made chairs with intricate designs further added to the awesome display of wealth.  Yet as I admired the furniture, I couldn't help but notice the otherwise empty, white-walled rooms.  There were no pictures, no books, no plants or paintings or signs of any life.  It was as if wealth had been simply dumped into the cold, hollow rooms to try to fill them up, like money stuffed in a hole to plug a leak.

When I finally met Dulce she was sitting upon a leather couch, watching a monstrougly large television that, along with the couch, herself, and a bust, almost fully described the items in the room.  At first I didn't even notice the bust, so transfixed was I by the strange and indifferent expression on Dulce's face; she showed no interest at all in the show she was watching.  And while the bust had momentarily escaped my attention, it was soon reverently introduced to me by the friend with whom I'd arrived.  It was a life-size mold of a human body-- Dulce's-- from shoulder down to mid-thigh.  Cast in a ghastaly green glass, the mold had been taken naked, unabashedly exposing each rich curve for the viewer to admire.

Yet as I turned to compliment Dulce on the bust, a compliment which was clearly expected by all present, I was suddenly struck by the contrast between her past and current glory.  She'd lost a lot of weight; she'd later tell me she had been having trouble sleeping and was on anti-depressants.  Her long, once-blond hair looked brittle and grayed, like dried straw turning to dust.  Her skin was pallid; her fingers long, narrow tendrils which only added to the look of emaciation so strongly hinted at by her tall, thin form.  She was still called beautiful, and in truth there was a beauty to her face when she smiled, but like the smiles themselves it was a rare and transitory thing.

At first glance the bust had seemed to me an expression of vanity, but looking at Dulce I saw it now in a different light: it was a sad monument to the sun-lit pinnacle of her life, and with every passing year it became an ever-deeper testament to the tragedy of her fading youth.  It was a melancholy anchor, and looking at Dulce now I felt myself grow sad.

We went to the store-- her, Abiel, and me-- to buy food for the party.  With frozen pizza and uncooked pasta we returned to Dulce's home to find she was out of gas.  We couldn't cook anything.  I remember thinking how odd it was that one of the richest women in Chihuahua should run out of gas, but also thinking about what a poignant metaphor it was.  For all the luxury and presentation, she was out of gas.  There was nothing left.

So we went to her sister's, who has four children and plans to start a business.  There was gas there and we cooked the food.  I was in charge of the pizzas, but the oven had only one rack, and so could only fit one pizza at a time.  And by the time the second pizza was done, the first was cold again.  The pasta kept boiling and boiling but it seemed like it would never get done.  Meanwhile I kept switching the pizzas out-- being unsure when the pasta would be ready-- but no matter what I did it seemed like one pizza was always cold.  I remember staring down at one of the cold pizzas lying there on the counter, so cold and miserable, and for some reason thinking of the bust in Dulce's living room and wishing I could just keep this pizza warm, like that would mean something.  But I couldn't.

Back at the party, eating pasta alfredo and lukewarm pizza, we celebrated Dulce's birthday party.  The image of the bust was still stuck in my head, so I asked Dulce if it'd be ok to take a picture of it, thinking maybe that would help.  A rare smile crossed her lips and she said of course.  ''It's very interesting,'' I added, trying perhaps to justify myself.  She laughed, flattered, and added coquettishly, ''well, it's me!''  And, in a wave of sudden pity, all I could think was, ''no, it was.''

Corey

By the time the big rig pulled into Albuquerque I had grown rather concerned that I'd made a horrible mistake.  The last two days had been Hell.  Breathing in deeply as I stared straight ahead, I tried to muster a compassion for Corey that I wasn't sure I felt.  At best it lay buried deep beneath layers of frustration and anger.  For those past two days he and I had sat trapped in the cab of his truck, unpleasantly enduring each other's company as the miles passed slowly by.  He thought I was naive, ''indoctrinated'' by the education system; I knew he was insecure, nervous, and lonely, and that it was to hide these feelings that he put forth a brash, stubborn front.  To admit that his views might be bigoted or to revise them in light of new evidence would be to admit a flaw within himself, and it was against this mindset that I had been forced to converse.

The mood of the conversations would twist and turn, dipping into the bitter exasperation of politics before wending into his beliefs on God, his divorce, or the son in Philly he sees once a month.  At times I was the enemy, other times the therapist, and all too often I was the witness -- witness to a man who wanted to believe he was happy, who tried desperately to convince me of it as if that would make it true.

He was twenty-nine and had been driving truck for eight years, crisscrossing the nation on a weekly basis.  'A thousand miles a day is pretty normal,' he said.  Given that his truck maxed out at sixty-five, that meant he drove around fifteen hours a day, and after the two days we drove together I can't say I doubt him.  It was a miserable existence -- staring numbly at the passing signs and cars with nothing but the gutteral churning of the diesel engine to drown the silence; somehow that just made it feel deeper.

His days were punctuated by two notable events: times to get gas and food.  While sitting in a greasy truckstop diner he admitted that he rarely ate at sit-down places anymore; he disliked all the people around.  Instead, he'd often get fast food, retreating back to the solitude of his truck and eating as the miles continued by.  Lately even that had been too much trouble.  He showed me a shelf lined with cans of beans and Campbell's Chunky soups.  ''It's faster, you know,'' he'd remarked at the time.

And speed of delivery was everything to Corey.  He spoke proudly of driving through the night when on a tight schedule and boasted in particular of the time he took a load from LA to Atlanta in under 48 hours.  ''Left on a Tuesday night and was there by Thursday morning.''  It was one of the highlights of his career.  None of this was legal, of course -- truck drivers are limited to driving eight and a half hours in any twenty-four hour period.  Still, the dispatchers looked the other way, and Corey had developed a kind of accountant's sleight-of-hand on his worklogs that would make even Bernie Madoff proud.

He was impressive at what he did, pouring everything he had into it.  Both mornings we woke up at 3:30 am to continue onwards, the six hours of sleep showing as plainly on his face as on mine.  He had no hobbies, no passions, no interests.  His radio was a forgotten relic, rarely used.  He had six trashy audiobooks, all Westerns written in the same exaggerated style of good versus evil and right versus wrong.  He loved that writer and said he could probably recite those books by heart.  The books were frustrating in their depiction of the world, but by the time my own exasperation with Corey's bigotry led me to suggest that we listen to one, they seemed like a breath of fresh air.

I spent a long time trying to understand why Corey picked me up, and even longer on why he didn't throw me out.  He even bought my lunch one day, in recompense for a meal I'd bought him.  He was lonely, true, but I began to see that -- beneath layers of jaded misanthropy and self-aggrandizing political beliefs -- he was also, somehow, a nice guy.  He told me how back in Pennsylvania, before the divorce, he'd been a volunteer firefighter.  He told me of how he responded to an accident, of how he watched a child die in front of him, and I could hear the tremor in his voice.  I learned of the grandfather with Parkinson's that he'd tried to care for, and of his despair when he finally realized it was too much for him.  And eventually I saw that, underneath it all, Corey just wanted someone to care for.  So isolated from mankind, he just wanted to touch some other life with a kindness stifled deep inside him.

Back at the Albuquerque truckstop, as I stared straight ahead, I tried to pierce beyond my frustration and anger, to say goodbye to Corey with genuine goodwill.  I thanked him, acknowledged our differences but told him that I believed he was a good person and that I wished him well.  He grunted stoically, I closed the truck door, and he was gone.  And right now, somewhere between two yellow lines, Corey's probably driving.  But maybe someday he'll stop -- stop being afraid and alone -- and will instead open himself to the world and let mankind past that brash, stubborn front.  At least, that's what I'll hope.