baptism

August 11th, 2017 § 5 comments § permalink

Water provides us with a freedom that is the main feature of our life right now. Since we got the boat “done”, the sea is the open highway that stretches out before us.

But our “process water”, what we use for cooking, cleaning, and drinking, is our main limitation. Being the smallest boat out here means that we are less insulated from the environment by infrastructure like water makers and large freshwater tanks, and puts us in the company of how most of the world lives, as it turns out.

Even though it’s the rainy season here in Panama, the last few days have been dry, and local reserves were getting low.

A Guna neighbor, Rauliano, paddled up yesterday and discussed with us a plan to accompany one another to the nearest island with piped freshwater. We would tow his cayuco with our boat, and we could all load up on water. At 8 this morning we were scheduled to go.

Still waking up a bit slowly at 7:30, I knew that we had cloud cover. If the sky is clear, our cabin is fully illuminated fully by 6am. #equatorlife

When I poked my head out, I saw those gravid clouds full of delicious sky water. And then I heard Rauliano running up and down his beach with the signaling conch – honking out a code that relays along the strings of other islands like a radio repeater, each one with their own shell. I don’t claim to know what the shell-horn code means in any detail, but I am sure today the main topic was WATER. Far and wide, off in the distance, the shell horn repeaters said, “water, water, water”.

Now, there is rain that wakes up the Capitan (F), and there is rain that wakes up the XO (me). Rain with changes in wind speed or wind direction will get F out of bed at any time, to stand on deck with a headlamp glaring around with all the other capitans. Instead, I have a humidity alarm in my brain, which is connected to whatever dish pan, snorkling gear, or laundry that is in rotation through the cockpit in a never ending cycle of  rinsing and drying. It’s a ballet, really.

This morning’s soft, warm rain, was of my variety. Big fat drops turn the water around us into a grey static, and mini rivulets take shape all over our deck. Our dinghy, and every container we have get “redded up” and deployed for sweetwater catchment, and I know our 8am appointment has hereby been cancelled.

The visibility among the boats and shore was very low, and so I take the opportunity for a head-to-toe scrub down, with actual shampoo in my hair. I cannot tell you enough, dear reader, what a luxury this is. There are many not-glamorous parts of my current lifestyle, but when I am alone washing my hair in warm rain, I gotta say I’m feeling pretty extra.

At a certain point I hear Rauliano again, now freestyling on the shell horn. His family is scurrying around the island doing the same things as me, setting out containers to catch the rain and giving everything a good scrub. Between honks, he is shouting into the rain thanking God in three languages, and cheering the good fortune of the day. We can just barely make each other out, but we exchange international signs of joy, with gesticulations toward the sky and whatever source up there we happen to feel grateful toward.

The rest of the morning was spent with a second coffee, planning a pasta supper tonight (a water–intensive treat!), and washing ALL THE CLOTHES. Our time is extended again.

Getting vertical with laundry, new post on blog about delicious sky water. Link in bio! #sealevellaundry #sealevelliving

A post shared by kate zidar (@plankton_every_day) on

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.

wheels turning

November 11th, 2016 § 0 comments § permalink

Now that we have migrated up and down a few times, we have had the benefit of exploring many costal towns during high and low seasons. This summer, F and I charged into Ocean City, MD on a high of saltwater taffy and crab cakes. This time through, in November, reveals the seasonal economic malaise that strikes many tourism-reliant towns.

In July, I poked around outside of the amusement area in a sport fisherman’s paradise, among low-key beach homes and newer upscale residential on the waterfront:

oc_sum_16_03 oc_sum_16_04 oc_sum_16_02 oc_sum_16_01 oc_sum_16_00

November highlights where resilience is lacking:

oc_fall_16_03 oc_fall_16_02 oc_fall_16_01 oc_fall_16_00

How many places do you know that look like this for eight months out of the year? How do full-time residents cope financially, culturally, and socially?

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