Guna morning

July 15th, 2017 § 0 comments § permalink

This morning we woke up to the sounds of singing in a language we don’t understand. A female voice came wafting our way from Wichubwala, one of the hundreds of tiny islands that make up Guna Yala. 

When we arrived at our anchorage late last night, our arrival was the talk of the town.  First there were flashlights on us, then whistles and calls, busy talk in the Guna language, and finally shouts our way – HOLA!!! – in Spanish.  Our electric engine typically affords us the dignity of ninja stealth when we limp into anchorage late, but not here.

Today we start a honeymoon of sorts.  This isn’t a vacation, but certainly a new chapter.  For the past six years we have pushed forward, and today we begin forming our days differently.  For the first time in a long time, we woke up wondering what to do.

A sleepy look out the porthole revealed no fewer than four Guna cauycos paddling along in any direction.  With the singing and now the sounds of kids splashing around nearby, how will our days here unfurl?

hull gazing

June 21st, 2017 § 10 comments § permalink

If you already know that I live on a boat, it may surprise you to learn that I have a true phobia of deep water. Luckily (ha) I get a lot of opportunities to work on this particular irrational (or is it?!?  arrghhhh!) fear.

When I see from our charts or from our depth sounder that we are in very deep water, I get a chill in my blood as soon as the realization hits me.  It never fails. I imagine how small my boat is, and how we are just a speck in the infinite, and the infinite is full of sea monsters layered like taco dip for fathoms below.

This has happened enough times that the response has lessened, my blood more room temp, and now I just remember that we have done this before.  Our boat is so tough, and if we just let it carry us, we reach the next shore.

It is the repetition that retrains my brain.

Another aspect of this phobia is that I cannot  – CAN NOT! – look upon the underside of a boat while it is in the water.

During our courtship, F and I would go to boatyards and walk around looking at the wide array of boats, mostly up on boat stands and under repair.  I called this “hullgazing”. During the refit(s) of our own boat, I got up close and personal with our hull, scraping, sanding, glassing, and – at long last – painting.

That very same hull, floating in water, fills me with such horror that I had not looked upon it once in the 4 years we have owned her.  My reptile brain must see it as an orca.  (Was I orca food in a past life?)

Now that we made the jump over to the crystal clear waters of the Bahamas, I had to divulge this facet of the phobia to F, and sheepishly ask him to come watch me jump overboard for the first time.  So he was treated to the graceful sight of me flopping over the side, flailing my limbs around (one second of which he captured in a deceptively tranquil photograph that I immediately circulated on social media) and then scramble my way back up the boat ladder.  Step one complete.

Over the past few weeks I have returned to the water, first applying swim fins and mask, then circumnavigating the boat, and finally, looking briefly back at the boat from underwater.  Each step jettisoned me back to the cockpit, gasping and soggy.

Yesterday, I admired the hull of our boat for the first time, even inspecting the anchor for good measure.

Fear is worth examination.  With attention and time, it is possible to disassemble these bombs and move past them.  What do we gain access to when we have less fear? For me, this impacts my sense of safety, my ability to come and go as I please.

And I am sure that before long, F will realize that he can now ask me to help scrub the hull.

seed stars

April 6th, 2017 § 4 comments § permalink

This is a story I have been chewing on for a long time. It was a hard one to start telling until something happened recently that “hit the extrude button” (alluding here to my Ron Popeil Pasta Maker Theory on Project Development, to be explained at another time, or in person).
betaThe thing that happened was that I came over to Susan B’s house in Brunswick, GA, a house we used to share with her when we lived here during the 2nd Annual Refit of SY Tranquility. We recently needed a break from dust and fumes associated with the 3rd Annual Refit, and so have been slothing about upon her many fine couches.

Upon arriving at the house, I heard a great commotion. South African Sam, a large neighbor and well-known Brunswickian, was out back with Junior (his landscaping associate), laying low the wild back acre of Susan’s House. I am speaking here of the yard that launched many a hashtag during our stay, not the least of which was #yardlife.

Immediately I thought, “Noooooooo! Not my collards!!!!!”
zinniasYou see, several years ago, I had cleared, weeded, and planted a small area of the back acre with an array of seeds in that I had transported from storage in NYC. The one plant that had actually done more than sprout and whither in the hot sun and sandy soil of coastal GA was The Little Collard that Could, a compact but upright collard plant that never showed more than ten leaves, never went to seed, and never died. Any time we visited the house, I checked on the plant. And even as the rest of the garden rewilded, there she stood, barely discernable by the ring of oyster shells that marked her location.

Now how does a single collard seed end up traveling from NYC of all places to find its day in the sun in Susan B’s back yard?
gooseberryFor many years I worked as a gardening consultant for NYC’s Housing Authority. The city would provide me with a pile of expired seeds each spring, and I would circulate myself through several housing development community centers (mainly in BK and the LES) where I would drum up a group of gardeners to go make some garden magic.

This job was great and impossible. It was great because I was the sort of direct action that converts my training into purpose. My role was as a facilitator and problem solver on behalf of a group of residents, while together we would reclaim some fallow urban space for their self-directed use. Outcomes of this work were, of course, all the environmental benefits of gardening. But also the gardens created a new social space, unlike any other on public housing grounds, and the gardeners filled it with their own conversations.
ingersoll_visitI say this job was also impossible because the reality of institutional living would often come crashing in. No amount of garden magic can ward that off. We could arrive at the garden any day to find it suddenly mowed flat with all the grass. Or maybe the community center would generously offer me all its tools – 6 tall shovels – but my gardeners at that site would be a group of thirty 7 year-olds, and our time would be after snack hour, when they were super jacked on plastic-wrapped sugar cakes.

Among my conventional gardening lessons I grew to include such improvised topics as “First Aid for Plants”, “Tools Can Be Very Dangerous Weapons”, and “Rock Scavenger Hunt”.

On what would be my final gardening job in housing, I worked with a group of older women, many over 80. My role in this group was often to be the literal extension of their bodies. “The Ladies”, as the core group came to be known, brought with them many gardening skills from their rural youth, but it was often up to me to bend, carry, and dig. They shared with me their various and interconnected tales, many coming from the rural South during segregation to raise their young families in NYC, in what was then brand new “towers in the park”. Many of their kids, who would be older than me now, had moved out from public housing, out of the neighborhood, and out of the city entirely.
ingersoll_weedingSo my job as a body extender became also one as a generation-bridge. Even though The Ladies found local kids to be loud, unruly, and an overall threat to the ordered beauty of the garden (they were), they did appreciate that I held periodic activities with them in the garden. After awhile, I saw that The Ladies tended to arrive around their respective garden plots at approximately the same time as the kids’ activities. Whether this was a defensive position or not mattered little, the garden magic was working.

I could go on a lot here, as any time I open one memory from this time, a swarm of them rush in. It might be why I haven’t written about the collard plant yet?
ingersoll_ladiesI’ll rush through the ending, for hopefully dramatic effect. The few left over seeds I had from that job were long expired. The collards in question were stamped for 2007. It went into my seed collection, along with wild milkweed from the park, pumpkins from the compost pile, that sort of thing. When I packed up my apartment, the cache went into a storage space, and ultimately into a ziplock bag with a little silica packet and onto the boat. The seeds traveled with us down south, on our harrowing first voyage after the 1st Annual Refit.

Smash cut to… “Noooooooo! Not my collards!!!!!” Its as if cosmic destiny applies to all creatures big and small. Whether it was going to be a NYCHA grounds person or South African Sam behind the wheel, that collard was destined to be decapitated by a lawn mower. Just when it was beginning to blend in back there, get comfortable. I kept checking on the plant, in the hopes of collecting the seeds should she ever send any up. Be the generational bridge.

So, farmy friends, any tips on rooting a collard stem?
collard