Social

You may have seen this hint of a story, this boatyard photo of Tucker and I, Ruby, and Olive in front of EVA, everyone’s dreamboat. We have spent much of the last year and a half with Claude and Jules and their three kids, Noah, Lilo, and Finn. We met the kids the moment we tied our dock lines in Cape Town; our kids were off in a flash to see the kids playing with sticks on another dock. “This is the tiniest boat I’ve ever seen in my life,” said five year old Finn when she first stepped aboard Convivia. It turns out that her boat, built in her backyard, and launched only a few months before was quite a bit bigger. Claude and Jules still had many projects on EVA’s checklists during our time at the V and A Waterfront but still we managed to grab their kids for plenty of fun in Cape Town, shared a bunch of dinners together, and got out on a few excursions with everyone. ...

The exchanging of tattoos has been one of the absolute highlights of my time here in Cape Town. It started with a promise I made to Brady, back in Durban, to finish his calf tattoo. Once that was complete, Brian and Karin wanted ink too, and then it seemed like every second or third night, someone was getting inked. We only have a few days left here, but the queue is still forming. It’s been gratifying to see my skill improve (marginally perhaps) and to share in the incredible bond of trust and openness that this ritual engenders. Huge gratitude to these special people who have shared their skin and trusted themselves to mark mine! <3

The kids eat breakfast, tell us that their schoolwork is done and dash off to see their friends. There are two kid boats here right now (Eva and Yemaya) and five extra kids mean that there is never a dull moment for them. Vick and I take advantage of this new freedom to explore the town’s coffee shops and cafes. In the evening, we go to one of the neighbor’s boats for sundowners, tattoos, or an impromptu party. Life is sure enough good! ...

The tradition of [European] sailors tattooing each other dates back to the 1700s when Captain Cook’s crew picked up the practice from the Polynesians. Since then, countless sailors have followed in their intrepid wake. I have chronicled some of my own experiences here, and here, but haven’t spoken much about how we adopted this tradition or how it has evolved in our cruising community. It started simply enough, with a proper anchor tattoo (Rocna), exchanged with a good friend on a buddy boat. In Johor Bahru, another sailor opted in, and since then, many more of our sailing buddies have asked (in spite of my strong disclaimer that I am not a professional) to exchange or receive tattoos. It’s become a bit of a thing. ...

Five years ago, a teenage girl died in the small Malagasy village of Antanambe. She was buried, as is her family custom, with all of her relatives, in a small plot cleared from the rain-forest in Verezanantsoro National Park. Here she awaits the decay of her corporeal form, so that she may finally join the spirit world. In the meantime though, she becomes lonely. The song and dance, the strong tradition of love and support that her village offered in life, is absent in death. ...

Alicia, from the boat On Verra, has been organizing hikes for the cruisers nearly every day that we’ve been here. It’s one of the best cruiser services I’ve ever experienced because it helps us to see the natural beauty of the island, and gives us a much needed endorphin hit and kick in the pants to get moving in the morning. Today she took us by bus to the trail-head at St Gabriel crossing. From there we walked past the largest church in the Indian Ocean (also conveniently, the pit stop). The trail started just below the church and wound through lush forest, rock strewn pasture, and down a long slope with a stunning view of the lagoon and sea beyond. ...

A few days ago I was told that my dorades were dusty. The next day another person mentioned how dirty my decks were. And yet another person asked me why I had so much crap in my cockpit. All of these criticisms hit me deeply and personally and brought back every single boat insult ever slung my way. I emotionally fled to a perfectly polished tiny cottage where I could live alone in shiny silence with a hand blown glass vase full of pink peonies on the table and not a single crumb on the floor. ...

We had an Uber driver recently that asked us if we would be in Penang for Thaipusam. He was part way through forty days of preparation, fasting, celibacy and not shaving in advance of this important Tamil Hindu holiday commentating the God Murugan, representing goodness over evil. Because our stay in Penang was much longer than we anticipated the kids and I had an opportunity to witness the celebration. In Penang, thousands of devotees follow a procession of a chariot to the Sri Mahamariamman Temple carrying small pots of fresh cow’s milk as offerings. Other devotees observe by piercing their skin with small hooks or large skewers and carrying large kavadi on supports around their shoulders and waists. ...

We have been in the boat yard for two weeks now. Things are moving along at the expected pace (slower than I would hope, but reasonable for this oppressive climate). The boat is covered, and has its first coat of primer. The propeller shaft is off, the old swim ladder (which has been held captive by the Monitor for years now) is being removed and welded over. While we have the hull exposed, we are also adding glass around the keel (about 6mm at the widest point) and removing some blisters. ...

Continued from here Trying our luck, in this case meant speaking entirely in Indonesian, asking around for someone who might have a surplus, and then negotiating the purchase or trade without the benefit of local currency (which we had divested ourselves of in Belitung, as we were intending to leave the country). While we were attempting to nap, a precocious pre-teenager named Chandra paddled up in his dugout, asking for books, water, and/or footballs. We offered a few gifts, and then I asked (sensing his “can do” personality) if he could help me find solar (diesel). With the help of Google Translate, I learned that he could help, but only if I came with him right then. I hadn’t slept a consecutive 3 hours in the last 72 and the prospect of undertaking such an adventure was daunting, to say the least. ...

In every other place that we’ve spent an October 31st, it has seemed like the holiday would at least have been heard of. Port Villa, maybe less so, but they get enough expats and tourists, that maybe someone spilled the beans. And indeed, when Ruby traipsed through the markets with her fairy gown and Vanuatan headdress feather, it was taken as cute, at worst. Here on Pulau Parang, it is quite clear that our foreign holiday would be about the most mysterious and possibly offensive sort of festivity. So we decided to have a quiet celebration between the two boats (Peregrine and Convivia). Last night we got together (sans Vick, who was feeling ill at the time) and made arepas, and fried eggs, baked potato wedges, and watermelon drinks, while painting each other’s faces, and carving… you guessed it (no you didn’t) watermelons. ...

I don’t know what exactly it is about passagemaking that brings out these feelings but it’s so common as to be a phenomenon. Despite the sleep deprivation, and subtle (and sometimes acute) hardships of crossing hundreds of miles of ocean. Despite being cramped in a small, often roughly rolling vessel with two lovely but demanding children, I often find a moment, or a long string of moments where I am just so overwhelmed with gratitude for my great good fortune that it feels transcendent. ...

I don’t know how many times I uttered that terse phrase yesterday. Saying goodbye, it’s… Hard. Rather than sputter on sentimentally I’m just going to post a ton of random pictures of some of the people we’ve come to love in our too short stay here. Thank you all for making our going away party such a touching success. We will miss the heck out of you!