Holding Patterns

Well, it was fun while it lasted.

We came on watch at 2pm, all rarin’ to go for a four-hour stint of actual, by God sailing — in the sunshine, no less. A mere hour and a quarter later, and the wind had dropped and moved right to our nose; attempts to pinch up still resulted in Polar Bear moving at an almost right angle to her desired course. Sigh. Away went the headsails, up went the engine and now we’re motorsailing yet again.

Truth be told, it’ll be interesting to see how this forecast nastiness a couple of days away actually shakes out. It may well be that we could have persisted on our off-course way and in a couple of days’ time had the forecasted tailwinds push us right where we wanted to go. But again, in a commercial venture, we have to play the odds.

So now, sitting in the sunny cockpit as the autopilot steers us along, is the perfect time to tackle a post I’ve been meaning to do for some time for my own sake. If you’re not into the navel-gazing stuff that appears here from time to time, this would be a good spot for you to head back to Facebook or wherever else on the Web you spend your time.

As I’ve been spending a good portion of this year so far, now almost three-quarters over, pondering over where I’ve been and where I’m going, it has occurred to me that I’ve been pretty much in a holding pattern ever since I moved to San Diego in January 2007.

At that time, I left Alaska, a place I loved and still love, for a couple of reasons. One, I’d been recruited by an old boss for a job. It was a job that excited me: back in the dot-com world with an opportunity to help shape the next wave of online media (or so I thought). And given the way my job in Alaska was going it seemed the perfect time to make a leap: the company that owned the magazine I worked for continued to make ill-advised (read: really stupid) moves on the business side of things that had me worried for the very future of the long-lived publication. In the time since I left, the concerns I had have been borne out: the magazine survives, but barely, and the last vestige of the staff that I worked with quit just last week.

The other reason I moved south in 2007 was because I was involved with a woman who lived in the Bay Area. No, San Diego is not in the Bay Area but it was just a short Southwest Airlines flight away rather than two long, redeye flights away, as was Anchorage. And with the job in San Diego being in the dot-com world, it seemed a better opportunity to get me to the Bay Area for good sooner.

Sadly, the relationship went belly-up not long after my move south and the job, after three years, went with it.

But it occurs to me now that I never fully embraced San Diego — the job or the (still long-distance) relationship. I was, as I say, in a holding pattern, waiting for something else to happen rather than living in the moment.

For instance, I had a notion that I could do the job in San Diego for a year or so and then make the move to a telecommuting role, preferably from the Bay Area but maybe even from back home in Alaska. Yes, I got into the local scene: I made a couple of great friends, I surfed a lot and I took up (and enjoyed) endurance sports. But looking back, I realize that San Diego remained a way station.

I never sold my home in Anchorage. I never bought the sailboat I was going to live on in San Diego Bay. I never bought the small home in one of the beach communities of north San Diego County as I’d have liked to (not that I could afford it, but you get the idea). The bottom line is: I lived in San Diego but I never really LIVED there.

I was on hold for something else. What, I have no idea. Well, that’s not true; I have some idea: I mentioned a couple of them earlier in this post.

Anyway, I left the San Diego job with no real idea of where to go or what to do next. I didn’t even race back to Alaska as you might have expected, simply because there wasn’t any work for me there.

But return to Alaska I did (after doing some fun things such as sailing from the Caribbean to New England and getting my scuba certification), where I put my trashed-by-renters home back into shape. However, again with the benefit of hindsight I realize that I didn’t really hustle while doing the job. I took my time, played a bunch (fishing!), interviewed for jobs (in AK and out) and again, bided my time as I circled in a holding pattern.

A return in the fall to California was ostensibly to make the job search easier but the economy’s woes kept that a pipe dream. And still I circled…

I moved all my stuff back to Alaska right after the new year. I was on the inside track for a job in Anchorage and my house was now in great shape. And in the spring, I went from a holding pattern to an expedited approach to land (to force the metaphor more than a bit).

On the very same day that I got the written offer for the job in Anchorage I also got a good offer on the house. And while I loved my house and neighborhood, and Anchorage and Alaska, the job wasn’t a perfect fit. I also had an offer to join my Dutch friends on a sailboat going to Norway, Iceland and Greenland for the summer, and then across the Atlantic to the Caribbean in the fall, and the image of being at my first day of work knowing that the sailboat was somewhere out there seeing God knows what was simply too strong. I went back into the holding pattern: I turned down the job and took the offer on the house.

The holding pattern continues to this day as I sit here and ponder next steps, steps that will — no matter where they lead — have to be taken in the next week or so. Continue the vagabond/adventure life over here in Europe? Continue the vagabond/adventure life aboard a sailboat of my own? Continue the vagabond/adventure life back in the States?

Or do I finally stop circling and come in for a landing somewhere? If so, where? Places I know and have tentative bases such as Alaska, California or New England? Or wherever there’s a career opportunity that interests and challenges me?

The sale of my home has left me debt-free and with the ability to continue being a vagabond. But I have to confess to an urge gnawing at my insides to get back in the game. There’s also the trepidation that by circling as I have for now a year and a half, no one will let me back in the game — and then what? And lastly, I have to confess to a powerful urge to stay out of the fray completely and live the creative life I’ve long sought but, to be honest, been too chickenshit to pursue. I’ve returned to the page — putting words on it rather than just reading them — this summer and I have to say that it’s been like a homecoming, a return of the prodigal son.

Do I have any answers yet? No. But I’ve been whittling down the list and there is progress being made. When we hit shore in a few days, I’ll talk to some friends back Stateside who have opportunities they want to discuss, and I’ll go from there. And in the meantime, I keep on creating as best I can…and putting my thoughts down on this (electronic) page as part of the whittling process.

1 CommentTravel, Uncategorized, ,

Division of Labor

Happy Labor Day to everyone back in the States. Hope you’re enjoying the long weekend.

Here on the Norwegian Sea, we’re midway between Iceland and the Faroe Islands…and we’re sailing! And it’s sunny! We started sailing right at the end of my 3-6am watch when Boogie came on and shifted course 10 degrees to accommodate the wind, an act that pointed up one of the challenges to this summer.

When people have asked what I do on Polar Bear, I say (only half-jokingly) that I clean the heads (the toilets). I’m only half-joking when I say that because in truth, we all clean the heads, just as we all clean the rest of the boat, we all cook, we all sail — we take turns doing the various jobs required on a boat.

What we don’t share in is decision-making — which I understand since this is a commercial venture and it’s Boogie’s ass (and captain’s license and career) in a sling if anything goes wrong. But this morning was the perfect opportunity for me to demonstrate a little initiative and the fact is: I haven’t felt empowered to make anything beyond trivial decisions this summer, and that’s not how I’m going to learn what I need to know.

An hour into my watch, around 4am, we were still plowing southeast into the wind, main and staysail up and engine running, when the fog finally lifted for the first time in days (though it seemed more like years). We’d been running a bit south of the rhumb line for a day or more, into a southerly breeze, so falling off the wind a touch (more toward the east) would have easily enabled us to sail at the same time it brought us back to our target course.

It’s a move I’d hoped to make for many hours, but given the fog and whatever reasons Boogie undoubtedly had (likely based on the weather forecast farther down our track) I’d never even considered asking. When the fog cleared, though, I was really clamoring to make the course change (if for no other reason that to appease the Finns aboard who’ve been pretty ticked about how little sailing we’ve been doing on their vacation). But again: the lack of empowerment was, well, overpowering, so I kept on keepin’ on, only to have the change made as soon as my watch ended.

The peace that settled over the boat as the engine was shut down was in direct inverse proportion to the frustration I felt at not being able to turn off the damned motor.

And it pointed up the fact that for me to learn what I need to learn at this point, I need to get out on a boat of my own and make my own decisions. If by falling off the wind I slow the boat’s velocity-made-good to the point where I’m late getting in, well, so be it — but of course, that’s not an option on a commercial venture, except at the discretion of the skipper and his call on things such as the weather (which, it appears, will prevent us from getting to Newcastle on time, but that’s another story).

We had a similar situation a couple of mornings ago as we made our way into Husavik: Polar Bear was close-hauled on a port tack with a broad bay ahead and Husavik directly off the port beam. I woke Boogie to ask him to make the decision: turn on the engine and head straight into the wind for Husavik or continue across the bay and tack back toward port later, extending the sailing but delaying our arrival at the marina. He opted for the engine; if it had been me on my own boat, I’d have continued to sail and opted for the later arrival. Again, a decision I didn’t feel empowered to make.

I’ve learned a lot on this summer’s voyage. Most of what I’ve learned has been about how to operate a boat — by “operate a boat” I mean: the systems and the people-, time- and project-management in the daily routine of life on board — and has come through osmosis as I’ve watched Boogie and Marlies operate Polar Bear. Navigation and handling the boat, however, have remained unattained goals, goals that were to make up for the money I was giving up by taking this summer gig. I knew I wasn’t going to get rich on Polar Bear but I was hoping to get more tutelage and hands-on experience in many of the requisite seamanship skills. (To be sure: I have experience in all those areas, I was just hoping for more, and in more diverse situations, than I currently have.)

Perhaps I should have been more assertive, insisting that Boogie teach me more (as he’s been doing on this cruise with one guest who’s working on his captain’s license), but I’ve always felt that my first obligation was supporting Boogie and Marlies’ efforts to run Polar Bear for the benefit of the guests. As a result of that prioritization, for example, I missed a few nice photo opportunities. But more importantly, I haven’t gained experience in certain key areas, areas I’ll have to develop on my own back home at some point. And that shortcoming, in addition to the shortened season courtesy of Polar Bear’s owner, has been a real damper on an otherwise spectacular summer.

Travel, Uncategorized, , , ,

Dateline: Husavik

So while my earlier remark was true — I won’t have a lot of time to explore Husavik, Iceland, on this visit — I have spent a bit of time wandering. And since I know you’re dying to ask, here are some impressions of this seaside burg.

* The whale museum is excellent. This former (and still, to a certain extent) whaling community has been transformed into a whale-watching community. The museum that commemorates the former and celebrates the latter is an interesting, educational, fun resource that will teach you all you need to know about whales and their relation with humans. Worth the price of admission.

* The culture house is incomplete to me. There was no one at the admission desk when I arrived, and no one showed up when I pressed the “press here for service” button. I wandered into the maritime-history section, which was open, and found it filled with history and information and educational resources. The exhibition on daily life in this region was, sadly, locked, and through the windows it sure looked like an area I wanted to explore. Color me disappointed.

* Husavik is still a fishing community. Cleaned up and made touristy, the town retains the very strong feel of a still-working fishing town. The smell of fish pervades the entire community, not just the dock where Polar Bear is secured. And fork lifts wander the town hauling huge crates of ice in one direction and fish in the other. Husavik may be transitioning to a tourism-driven economy but fish still drives the town for now.

And last but not least…

* The phallus museum remains unknown. I know this is just what you were looking for: a museum dedicated to male genitalia of the animal kingdom. I am not making this up. The brochures promise umpteen examples of whale penises, and examples of pick-the-term-of-your-choice from another umpteen animals. And before you ask, yes, there are (apparently) plaster casts of a few penises from members of the species homo sapiens who have bequeathed their members to the museum upon their death. No word as to whether this has made these generous donors more popular with the female of the species but you gotta give ’em points for taking (or leaving, as the case may be) one for the team. I walked to the door of the museum, intrigued, and read the brochure on the wall outside, but couldn’t summon the willpower to fork over the equivalent of $12 for the entry fee. Sorry, there’s only so much I’ll do in the name of reporting for this here blog.

Travel, Uncategorized, , , , , , ,