Posted on April 27, 2020
The virus has offered lots of unbidden time for reflection. Time is a coin I was yearning for, if not in this manner and upon dry land. But it is valuable and I spend a lot of it thinking about what has moved me toward SV Maggie May over a 15-year period.
Bill and I hatched the circumnavigation idea after our last big journey, a year-long road trip around the United States in 2001. We both felt that the time spent away from human-structure was important, fundamental even to our long-term health. And so we had a conversation about what our next adventure would be and when. Within minutes we had settled upon sailing the world within 5 years time. Sailing has stayed constant, the time element elongated considerably.
I wasn’t a sailor when we started thinking about this but I had always had sailing around the world somewhere in my mind. (I’ll have to try and unearth a first-cause back in my brain folds.) I was drawn to some intangible something of sailing life. I now have a more specific sense of what that something is, a sense that has become stronger over the years as the 5-year-plan stretched into 10 and 15.
Sailing, unlike anything I’ve ever experienced, has a way of making you feel small and insignificant, but also powerful and eternal at the same time.
I’ve spent most of the past decade working on a project in the US-Mexico borderlands, witnessing destruction of land, decimation of wildlife and plants, desecration of culture, all of which made me feel small and powerless for years on end. This project prevented me from making faster progress toward SV Maggie May, and it also made her transform from an idea, then a desire and finally into a necessity. The borderlands kept me from the ocean, even as they pushed me toward it.
I’ve worked on other projects, including extensive work on one of America’s most degraded rivers, trying to give voice to urban wildlife, documenting the British Petroleum oil spill. But none has been a driving motivation in my life for as long as the borderlands, and none has caused so much self doubt and undoing as fighting the border wall.
My motivations at the border grew out of a desire to make my life mean something. Not…just a desire, a compulsion, born of the greatest disappointment of my life in March 2000. I’ve written a whole book about those events, so I won’t go into it in this blog. But in essence I lost a good part of myself and afterward set out on a path to find what I had lost and find some grip on life again. I found a focal point in conservation photography, and a specific anchor on the US-Mexico border. I’ve also written about the borderlands extensively, so I won’t cover it here, except to say that by spending time with the wildlife of that landscape I felt I had made a compact with them, that I would do everything I could to be a voice for their future.
I stayed true to that commitment for more than 10 years, and over that time I went from feeling I was certain to be able to help turn things around, to feeling I had no power to even help, to feeling I could make a difference over a longer period, to feeling I had made no difference at all despite trying everything I could think of. And now, just feeling tired and destroyed, laying on a battlefield, eviscerated but somehow still living.
I’ve tried so many times to come to terms with the fact that I am small, just a person. And the forces that compel people to build walls are far beyond my scope to heal. And that the best I can hope for in any such endeavor is to open a window in people’s minds to see what they otherwise could not, something beautiful that might instill some responsibility for lives they will never encounter, but nevertheless impact gravely through direct action or passive complacency.
This is wisdom, but it requires a balance that I have always struggled to maintain. Instead I have often found myself on a roller coaster of belief in myself and my ability to make a difference, and despair over my insignificance. Teeter-totter-teeter-totter. And inevitably when outcomes are not what I have worked for, I am overwhelmed with guilt, and more acutely, grief, over what we are doing on the border, and so many other places.
My only true relief from this rollercoaster is on the Maggie May, where these two opposing forces merge peacefully. I am nothing, I am everything. Minuscule, microscopic, but connected to the very forces that make this world and everything in it. Wind, sun, water.
Mostly, I’m just alive.
Bill just came to tell me our Maggie May contractors called. The last of our major boat projects is finished.
I’m coming home Maggie May.
Posted on April 23, 2020
In some universe, the Sailing Vessel Maggie May was launched by now. Not here.
On February 8, our friends and neighbors gathered at Red Dirt Studios in Mount Rainier, Maryland, to bid us farewell. I’ve never been married, but I imagine this is what one’s wedding would feel like, an overwhelming feeling of love at a moment of great transition. Friends from our 20 years in the Washington DC area, many we hadn’t seen in more than a decade, and some family making surprise journeys from far away places, came together for chili, home-brew and music and to wish us well on this journey.
Our dear friends in the arts community of Mount Rainier also organized a fundraiser around the party event, gathering enough money to buy us a life raft–in hopes we come back safe even if the Maggie May does not. Thank you friends, we’ll carry your love and goodwill around the world with us…if by great fortune we set foot on a boat, in the water, ever.
A few weeks after the party, we moved out of our house, which we have rented for the next two years to a delightful young couple Cassandra and Mark and their dog Colby. We moved in with our friends Dave and Kendra on March 1. The plan was to be here for a few weeks until the boat was finished.
It was about a week after we moved that the coronavirus started gaining attention in the media. About a week after that its official name was changed to COVID-19 and Maryland was on lockdown. Dave and Kendra had to start working from home. Bill and I could no longer go work on the boat. Shipments of important boat components languished in warehouses. And our contractors efforts slowed to a painful crawl…along with everything else. The boat project, which was supposed to take 2 months, is going on 5.
Our window to escape the hurricane belt before the storm season begins is winnowing. Our years of planning and organizing our lives around this idea, locked in limbo.
A part of my mind says well boohoo, you can’t get on your sailboat and travel the world chasing a dream. Krista, your problems are ridiculous in the scope of what’s happening right now. The truth of this is indisputable. Yet here I am, feeling trapped and helpless.
I’ve spent a lot of time trying to practice patience, fighting with despair, feeling guilty about my discontent. I should be grateful at this time of unimagined uncertainty and grief, grateful that I am healthy, have shelter and food, a healthy family and friends and all of the things that so many of us either lack or take for granted. Plain and simple I should feel grateful. But should doesn’t always work in a stubborn mind. And so I look for reasons why I can’t let go. Why I can’t just be content. And I know, pretty quickly or at least in moments of clarity…it’s because I feel this dream slipping away from me. I’ve fought so hard to keep us on track despite so many pitfalls and derailments, and I’m starting to lose faith. Unbidden by me, my psyche returns to previous battles, where I tried so hard to make something happen or not-happen, something much more grave and important, and despite every effort I failed and in the end swallowed a living mass of acrid loss and self-doubt. The mass has knife-edges and it lives somewhere in my stomach, forever reopening wounds of inadequacy, hopelessness and grief.
This boat trip is in part geared toward dealing with that stomach-mass, blunting its hard edges by accepting my failures; Maggie May is transport toward healing some wounds. And within this overwhelming viral cloud, what I’m feeling is a malevolent echo, encouraging me to believe that this too will end in failure. The aperture through which I have envisioned this journey for more than a decade, narrows to the point that any possible success seems far more distant than it actually may be.
In fact, it may be quite close. As of last Friday, the biggest part of the project, the complete redo of Maggie May’s hull is finished. The entire boat bottom was blasted off down to the bare fiberglass; new fiberglass and epoxy was applied; and a new kind of long-lasting, less-toxic bottom paint covered all.
The rest of the boat project, which over the past 7 years has included a list of no less than 1000 items, has narrowed to about 20, most of which Bill and I will do. The one holdup is the redo of the previously redone decks, the lingering bane of Vilkas. But we are expecting to see this finished this week, at which point the boat can go outside, get her mast back on, and get in the water as soon as our marina gets an opening in a backlog of boat launches.
We’re so close, closer than we’ve ever been. But given all the stumbling blocks that have arisen and the incredible uncertainty of this moment in time, I don’t think I can muster any excitement until Maggie May is placed back in the water where she belongs.
Posted on April 10, 2020
Sailing around the world was a 5-year-plan launched in 2002. It’s now 2020 and we still haven’t left. How did 5 years stretch into 18 you ask? Well let me try to tell you in one blog post.
If you are rich you can buy a new boat, maybe even hire a captain and be ready to launch in a year or two. If you grow up eating government cheese things are a little more complex. This was factor one in the long timeline.
FACTOR 2 The Original Maggie May, the boat’s namesake, might have been able to make an around the world sailing voyage in her youth…she was a spry pup who climbed trees and scaled rocks like a mountain goat. But as she got older she developed arthritis and other ailments and by 2007 (our theoretical departure date) she was almost 10 years old. We didn’t want to put her through life on the boat, and we wanted to enjoy her golden years.
FACTOR 3 There was another important reason. Bill and I are both very devoted to our work. Bill crafted government policy that would help the city of Washington DC become more sustainable and climate responsible. I worked as a photographer and writer to engage the American public in wildlife conservation and ecological protection, including a 10-year+ effort to stop the construction of border wall on the US-Mexico border. While Maggie was healthy, we were content working for environmental conservation.
Maggie died in December 2012. This was a devastating loss for us. Our triumvirate was broken and in some ways she was the best of us. So we found a new role for her, as inspiration for a dream.
We had long been setting the stage for the sailing trip on the sidelines of regular life. In 2009, we moved into a very small, very cheap and unloved house and rented out our previous house, a 1,250 square foot bungalow. We are pretty good at living simply and cheaply and therefore we save a good amount of what we make. So in 2013 we were ready. We sold our rental house and bought a sailboat. Everything was finally coming together nicely. We would be on our way in a year or two.
We bought Vilkas, the werewolf, in Florida and sailed her up to the Chesapeake Bay in Summer 2013. Our boat search had spanned many years and the werewolf seemed to have the right balance of interior space, hefty build, and care by previous owners, as well as some extras that would be very useful on the trip: life raft, generator, water maker, wind generator, dingy with motor, sails and backups, a relatively new diesel inboard, and a totally redone hull (due to a problem with osmotic blisters). The only problem we would need to address would be the decks, which were original and a bit of a mess, but an easy fix for about $10,000.
What we didn’t know was that the full moon had not yet risen.
I was more excited than I’ve been most of my adult life. Bill was immediately feeling buyer’s remorse and less than excited. There was immediate conflict due to these contrary emotions. And then the moon came out and Vilkas bared her teeth. The only thing in the list of positives that turned out to be positive, so far, was the diesel engine. Everything else was either broken or breaking and the deck repair turned out to cost 10X our boat broker’s estimate. A year or two stretched into 5 as we fixed all the problems and drained our hard-earned savings, but in fall of 2019 we were ready to go. Vilkas had been transformed, or so we thought.
We pulled Maggie May, (newly named but not yet christened), for one last bottom paint job before our scheduled launched in November. When first we set eyes on her, Bill immediately noticed hundreds of puffy spots on the bottom of the hull. His face turned grey.
“If this is what I think it is, we’re done. The trip is over,” he told me.
Vice on heart. Shake head. Move forward.
I’m usually the optimistic one in boat-related matters so I proceeded to inspect the hull. I poked one of the spots and an oily liquid poured out. I smelled it… vinegar. Weird.
I took out my phone hoping some quick research would throw us a lifeline. Instead, the Google had dire news about the search terms puffy spots + sailboat + vinegar smell. You have osmotic blisters, aka boat chicken pox, the Google declared in no uncertain terms. And you can expect the cost of repair to be $20-$30K.
My role over the past 15 years had been to stay positive when Bill was losing faith in the dream. But I couldn’t figure out how to spin this in any way that allowed the trip to continue. What had been more than a decade and a half of planning, and had consumed most of our life savings; what had sustained me through years of heart-rending documentation of environmental destruction, this dream, was going to dissolve into nothing.
Nausea set in so we headed to Burger King, figuring it couldn’t get any worse. We sat down to something like food, and silence.
My mind was mostly blank, but as ever doing some background calculations about what could be done. We had set aside some funds for the trip and some savings to get us by when we returned, until Bill could get a job again. But we had exhausted our budget for fixing the boat. Any further expenditures could put us in a risky position upon our return. We had promised we wouldn’t spend that cushion. And based on our research we would need at least $15K a year while we were sailing. I planned to keep working, writing stories for magazines, licensing photos, but even in a good year I am not our primary earner. I was running numbers when all the sudden a thought occurred to me. We have to fix the boat.
Even if we could no longer afford to take the trip, we would have to fix the boat in order to sell it and return to our regularly scheduled lives. No one was going to buy a boat with blisters. And we had to fix it right, because the people who repaired this exact problem before we bought it, did not do what was needed for the boat to be permanently fixed. I told Bill as much.
“We have to fix it,” I said. “How about we start there and then later make a decision about whether we can still go?”
Bill was too heartbroken to say much, but he agreed we would figure out the cost of fixing it, and let this new catastrophe percolate for a while.
We ate our fries.
The initial reports from Bill’s research were grim, with estimates at or well above what we had expected. But then he talked to a contractor who said they could do it for less. There was a chance if we could save some money on fixing this, we could still go on the trip, and just eat into our yearly budget and our cushion.
But the issue wasn’t just cost, it was also time. The process of fixing boat blisters right took months. And there was no way it would be done by November 2019 when we planned to depart. Sailing out of the Chesapeake in January can be challenging or impossible but sometimes you get a window in February. This was the best we could hope for. And there was a moment we just looked at each other and said, “This is our dream. We can’t give up on it.”
So we made arrangements to get the boat to the shop in December, the first available option the contractor had. December rolled around and we set everything up…but the machine that would remove Maggie May’s mast so she could fit in the shop was broken, for the whole month of December and half of January.
Finally in January Maggie May was placed in the shop and the work started. We began a two month countdown to our departure. We would finally, after more than 15 years of planning, launch our sailing circumnavigation on or around March 15, 2020.
Enter the Coronavirus.