The Mami 'taote' (doctor) and her pet shark, Tamaro.

When the Lau family caught wind of my ciguateric state, they quickly reported the news to ‘Mami’, their Tahitian grandmother who was rich with knowledge of traditional Tahitian medicine or ‘raaou’.

Twice the first day, and once for the following three days, ‘Mami’ prepared the local remedy for me to drink. Despite its unappealing pea-green color and potent taste, I sucked down each glass, willing to try anything that would take away that terrible muscular pain. She explained that unlike the Western ciguatera remedies, I would be able to eat fish in a few weeks rather than a few months.

… When finally I felt well enough to make my way over to thank the Mami, and find out what exactly I had been drinking…

The ciguatera 'raaou' ingredients...

She explained that the remedy called for three ‘free-standing’, above-ground pandanus roots and the bottom half of a large, mature coconut. As the pandanus plant grows taller, it pushes new roots out from its trunk, which grow down in the direction of the ground. These roots, before they reach the ground, are those that are cut from the trunk to prepare the ‘raaou’, at about a forearm’s length each. She then took one large mature coconut, and after shucking the husk and splitting it in two, using only the bottom half (the part without the three holes) to grate and press into coconut milk. Next she skinned the roots and pounded them flat with a hammer, and finally twisted each one until its brownish-green sap dripped down into the coconut milk.

I was fascinated by the process. I’d spoken with a French doctor in Tahiti who told me to take calcium tablets, but if I had none, I should eat a lot of cheese. But he’d obviously never had ciguatera, because the Mami was horrified when she found out I had been eating lots of cheese, as the animal protein in cheese exacerbated ciguatera symptoms. The Lau’s couldn’t understand why I wasn’t getting better quicker… alas, it could have been the cheese!

It’s part of coming from western civilization to naturally think that we have all the answers; that modern science always knows better. This situation was a good reminder to respect local knowledge, especially that of the elders who lived here before there were planes and French hospitals. It seemed both tragic and scary, that in maybe just one more generation, traditional Tahitian medicine might virtually disappear. There seemed to be a scarce few locals interested in learning from the elders. And unfortunately, modern science doesn’t seem to help–often turning up its nose to local knowledge, when with respectful collaboration of information everyone would win…

But change is inevitable, the world is getting smaller and smaller, and more and more homogenized. But with a little attention and respect for the past, hopefully we can carry some of the best of the old ways forward.

Jim Holm (far left), founder of The Clean Oceans Project, at the Plastic-to-Oil demonstration in San Diego.

“Nothing but intense love for what you want will enable you to surmount the obstacles in your path…” –Joe Vitale

My few weeks in California went by faster than ever… The memorial was fantastic and I left Santa Barbara feeling even more inspired than ever by the man who had helped me with the tools I needed to fulfill my dreams…

With the help of Patrick at North Sails in San Diego, and the generosity of Steve Waterloo and others of the Cal 40 fleet, I’d managed to track down a few used headsails. I would be heading back to Swell with plenty of Dacron to keep her gliding over the high seas a while longer…

What could be better than making turning plastic into a resource, and at the same time cleaning up shorelines and our oceans!?

The day before my flight, I was graced by the serendipity that Jim Holm, founder of The Clean Oceans Project, would be in San Diego to demonstrate the Blest Plastic to Oil machine! This was a Japanese technology I had seen on YouTube earlier in the year. I8 had instantly sent out a fleet of emails, hoping to arrange to carry the ‘desktop unit’ of the machine aboard Swell. I envisioned sailing around collecting plastic all over the pacific and turning it into usable diesel or gasoline for my voyage and for the locals. After ample research, it was clear that the desktop unit was not super practical for Swell due to its weight and efficiency. With another solar panel or two and some muscular crew, I could probably do it… but space is so limited! Not discouraged, I had kept in touch with Jim Holm over the last few months, in hopes of finding an alternative way of introducing this technology to the Pacific islands, where limited if any recycling facilities exist, and plastic litters every shoreline from the most populated to the most remote.

… So I wasn’t going to miss the opportunity to meet Jim and see this technology in person… In a back corner of the Driscoll Boatyard on Shelter Island, Jim and his fellow demonstrators stuffed the machine full of random plastic trash while explaining the incineration process, the products, by-products, and limitations of this incredible machine.

Jim’s positivity and determination was almost palpable. He exuded motivation to clean up the sea with this technology and explained his eventual dream to get a large machine put aboard a ship that was capable of extracting the plastic from the ‘North Pacific Garbage Patch’. He was doing all the touring and raising awareness of the technology out of his own pocket, but I was certain that his unyielding enthusiasm with such powerful science behind it, would eventually lead him to the right people, and the necessary funding to make his dream of cleaning up our oceans come true.

Love is the secret ingredient to alchemy, even if in this case, it’s turning plastic into combustibles! … Be encouraged, Jim! Thank you for having the passion, courage, creativity, and energy to affront our plastic mess!

… I decided I’d hang out with the kids from then on. Although they still looked at me googly-eyed from time to time, they usually just wanted candy. As school was out for ‘winter break’, we held geography and eco-talks aboard Swell, rewarding good answers with “bonbon Californie” (Californian candy) as they liked to call it.

After nearly a week at the quay, the surf was fading, and I readied Swell to make the crossing to the check out the rumored haul-out yard.

“But you can’t go today,” Tumata pleaded. He was one of my favorites. Bright, polite, and soft-spoken. “There’s a party at school tonight.” Later when his mom came by to round up he and his cousins, she explained that, yes, there was a fundraiser for the school.

So when I heard the singing commence, I wandered the 100 yards down to the school and peered in the gates. Some of the kids recognized me, pulling me inside, where I sat on a bench among them, watching the families and friends all take their turn on the stage. I didn’t quite understand the format–it seemed a bit like karaoke night–as different groups and even a few solos went up and took their turn singing or playing ukulele for the crowd. No need for a screen with the words floating by, everyone knew the words to the local songs. I imagined it to be a bit like their version of ‘American idol’… a chance to show-off their talents for the other townspeople. It was all in fine humor, too, and the microphone refused to work from time to time. Laughter and cheers filled the still night air.

Then an official-looking woman took the microphone, and speaking in Tahitian, pulled a prize off of the raffle table, shuffled her hand into the ticket stubs, and called out a few numbers.

“Huit, quatre, zero!”

A young woman raced up to claim her prize. So it was a raffle! Of course!

Once the singing got going again, I wandered toward the back, finding a woman at table with loads of home-baked cakes and a sign saying: Gateau (cake) 300F, Coco Glace (cold coconuts) 200F, Ticket Tombola (raffle ticket) 500F.

“Bonne soir, madame. Cinq tickets tombola et un coco glace, sil vous plait.” I said. (Good evening, madame, five raffle tickets and a cold coconut, please.)

She looked at me apologetically. There were no more raffle tickets. “C’est bonne (it’s ok),” I said, passing her the equivalent of the raffle tickets anyway. “Pour l’ecole (for the school).”

At first she didn’t understand. She turned to her friend uncertain of what to do. It was the equivalent of 30 or so dollars. She was shocked. She handed me the ice-cold coconut and insisted I take a piece of cake, too, thanking me profusely.

It was the least I could do, really. I’d wished I could give more, but with no ATM machine for a few hundred miles around, my cash was limited.

I stayed to watch a few more singing numbers, and then snuck out the back, waving goodbye to Tumata and the little group of scholars. The next morning, I woke up to find a stock of bananas and papayas on my deck, as precious as gold in a place with hardly any arable soil!

You never know when a little can mean a whole lot…

The wind was 15-20 knots hard on the nose as I beat my way 10 miles across the atoll. Sure enough, at a few miles out, I spotted masts sticking up through the coconut trees!?!

“It’s true! There really is a haul-out yard out here in the middle of nowhere!?!” I cheered into the wind. A smiling young man met me in a dinghy to guide Swell between the numerous coral heads to one of four mooring balls.

“Welcome,” he said. “Come ashore and check it out when you feel like it.”

Later that day, I went ashore to find the loveliest place imaginable to haul a boat. The ground was covered with round coral stones, the lagoon was sparkling turquoise, the coconut trees rustled in the breeze, and five or six boats were propped up across the wide expanse of land they’d cleared for storing boats.

Alfred Lau and his family ran this outback enterprise, a courageous endeavor I had to admit. But for the wandering sailor like me, the downside of lacking an easy place to purchase parts and materials seemed to be well outweighed by the upsides of having a lovely working environment, virtually zero possibility of theft, and a casual, family-run operation. Plus, they carried the bare necessities–antifouling paint, brushes and rollers, tape and the likes. It was a three-generational family effort: Grandpa, father and wife, and son and daughter, Asam, Alfred and Pauline, Tony and Nancy, respectively, although grandpa stuck mostly to his own affairs–tending to his 200 egg-laying hens or splitting coconuts with his enormous hatchet to dry and sell as ‘copra’ to the large coconut oil refinery in Papeete. Despite knowing little about sailboats, I was largely impressed with their operation…

Alfred invited me for dinner that evening, and every evening up to my departure, for that matter, and it was clear that this haul-out experience would be bit different than my last…

“For Tahitians and Poumotu,” Alfred spoke seriously over dinner one night, “Our family land is the ‘pito’ (the Tahitian word for ‘belly-button’). Without your land and you are lost. The land is you and you are the land.” He picked up some of the rocks underfoot, and raised them to his lips as he spoke. He told that he had left the island to work in the city in Papeete as a young man. Some years later, his grandmother had threatened to give the island to someone who would use it, rather than see the land go unused. So he had decided to come back and start a pearl farm. But now, with the flooded pearl market, and the current state of the economy, they’d drawn on the advice of a French sailor and bought a hydraulic trailer to haul-out boats…

As I let the night breeze push the dinghy back towards Swell after dinner, I looked up at the wide Tuamotu sky and pondered that my ‘pito’ must be made of saltwater and wind and stars and fiberglass… ?

Over the next few days, I prepared Swell for my departure and then the three Lau generations hauled her out few days later, propping her up amongst the palms. I breathed a sigh of relief, knowing I would have peace of mind to leave Swell alone when I hopped the next plane back to California for Barry’s memorial…

I evaded the second lunch with Jacques the following day when a customs boat circled outside the quay around midday…

They launched their tender, and a group of uniformed men came speeding toward the quay. The captain scrambled out of the dinghy, then stormed over to Swell.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in a fuss in French. “This dock is for cargo ships and official French vessels ONLY!”

“I’m so sorry, sir.” I replied. “The villagers told me that the next ship wouldn’t be in until Thursday. And in fact, I think we can both fit here…”

“Where is your husband?” he demanded. “You’ll have to move this boat right now!”

“I don’t have one.” I replied.

“You’re alone?!”

“Yes, sir.”

He went quiet for a moment, his face morphing from anger to surprise. His brow then softened entirely.

“Yes, I believe you’re right.” He chirped accommodatingly. “We can both fit if we move you forward…” He and the other officials handled the lines while I drove Swell up against the outgoing current, and shortly after, the battleship-looking customs boat came alongside the quay behind Swell.

The captain shook my hand before walking back to his ship. “You’re welcome to join us for dinner tonight,” he said, squeezing my hand for an uncomfortably long pause while looking me deeply in the eyes…

I smiled bleakly, and thanked him for the invitation… What was it this week? Where was Marine Man when I needed him!?

When the door to the propeller plane closed, I was alone again… but not for long. I sat under the shaded airport waiting area for less than a minute before an old man teetered over to greet me. I was used to being approached by the locals here; it was just part of being a new face in a town of less 200 inhabitants.

The old man hardly breached four feet. In fact, some of the nine year-old girls that were dotting on me to my right were about his size. He looked to be in his mid-seventies or so and of Asian rather than Tahitian descent. Wisps of his long gray hair fluttered at his shoulders while he took my hand in his.

“I Jacques, whas you name?” He asked.
“Leeeez,” I replied, (the easiest French pronunciation).
“Oh, Leeees! Is very prity name. I Chinese doctor. I live here 14 years. You like here?” He almost trembled with excitement as he spoke.
“Oui, c’est fantastique.”
“Oh, tu parle Frances! (Oh you speak French!)”
“Oui”
“Ok, tu vien a ma maison, mangeeeeer? (You come to my house to eeeeeeeeeat?)”
“Ummmm, ok?” … I replied, despite knowing that what I really needed was a nap it appeared as though I would crush his very soul if I refused, though, and Chinese medicine had always interested me. And I didn’t feel much like cooking… so why not?
“Ok, you come 12 o’clock… Okaaaaaaaay?” And proceeded to describe where to find his house. There were only three roads, and everybody knew everybody… so I knew it wouldn’t be tough…

A few hours later, I located his house, across from the Protestant church, and lifted the cord off the nail that held his gate closed.

“Jacques?” I called, pushing my way inside.
“Ouuuuuuuuuiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii! Vien. Vien! (Yeesssssssss, Come. Come!)”

He led me through the barren sideyard and pushed past a red curtain and into his home. He led me into the living room where there was a bed and a chair and one of those cats with one paw in the air sitting on a shelf, along with an enormous sea turtle shell and a red-tasseled Chinese calendar. I couldn’t put my finger on the smell that tinged the air—something between iodine and oyster sauce. I tried to take small breaths as he led me past the bare plywood division into the dark kitchen area, where he pulled out a small plastic chair for me and then promptly kissed me on both cheeks, with more saliva than I appreciated. I figured he was just overly excited to have company. His words leapt like musical notes as he served me some powdered juice in an empty yogurt container. Scanning the clutter that he’d pushed to the other end of the table, I noticed various packs of pills, liquid viles, and a revolting morsel of used cotton–brown and twisted—jutting out from the teeth of those medical scissors with the little grippy teeth at the end. My already wavering appetite promptly hit the deck.

I tried to shrug it off, and asked him to tell me how he wound up out here in the outer islands. He had left China with his parents to live in France at only four years old and was now 74. He’d come to French Polynesia during the era of nuclear bomb testing, where he’d been a doctor on the one of the main atoll testing sites. I didn’t quite catch what had happened between then and now, but I decided not to pry, and changed the subject to medicine. It soon became clear that he was not a doctor of Chinese medicine; he was schooled as a doctor in France, but was of Chinese descent. Ok, I guess in another sense he was still a ‘Chinese doctor’… but his other responses to my questions didn’t seem to be adding up either… He talked of his houses in both Papeete and France, “big land, biiiiiiiiiiig house!” He said. Looking around I wondered why he chose to stay there, but that wasn’t my business…

I managed to stomach a polite majority of my plate of rice and steamed, despite the horrid spout of used cotton lingering in my peripherals all the while. I told him my need of a safe place to leave Swell while I went back to California for Barry’s memorial, and his eyes lit up.
“Ma cherieeeeeeeeee go to Californieeeeeeeeeeeeee?”
“Yes, I must leave in less than two weeks,” I explained.
“Oh, don’t worry. I help ma cheriiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeee!”

Following a helping of cake that he’d baked himself, he kissed my cheeks again and insisted that we go talk to his friends about a safe place to leave Swell. The truth was that I had already made a thorough scan of the village area. There was no secure spot. With the fetch of 10 miles across the atoll, the wind waves made anchoring near town inarguably too dangerous, and Swell drew too much water to fit inside the tiny marina. The quay to which Swell was currently tied had to be vacated at the arrival of the weekly cargo ships. I mentioned the new boatyard across the way, but he insisted it was much too expensive…

“I pay, ma cherieeeeeeeeee.” Him pay? What? This was getting weird…?

Following lunch, Jacques led me proudly around the village, introducing me as his ‘cherie’ (darling or ‘sweetheart’) in a long drawl of excitement. “Voila ma cheriiiiiiiiiiiiiiieeeeee!” He’d say to those we passed. Oh dear, this was getting a bit uncomfortable. I realized that he thought I was now his girlfriend!! I did find it remarkable that in the last year or so, it seemed that men of any age found it appropriate to pick up on me, but Jacques could have been my grandfather!

Finally, I made my escape suffering through two more wet cheek kisses, as long as I agreed to come for lunch the following day!

“Ok, I see you 12 o’clock toooomorrow, cheeerriiiiiiiiiiiieeeeeeee?!!”

After rising to our great challenge, the sea rewarded us with smooth sailing through the afternoon until the wind dropped off entirely and we motored on into the calmest, starriest night I could ever remember in this wind-worn belt of the Pacific.

Rotating on 3-hour watches, I relieved Crystal just after 3 a.m. Swell plowed on into the moonless galaxy of twinkling starlight and bubbling phosphorescence. I felt Barry there with me… He surely wouldn’t have missed out on a night so spectacular… Oh the shooting stars!

At 5:02 am, Venus, the morning star, rose out of the sea. Light followed her. I woke Crystal, but couldn’t resist watching the sunrise before I laid down to rest. We turned off the motor and let Swell drift in the succulent silence. We curled up against the wad of broken sail, tucked under our blankets, and dissolved into the Peace… the ubiquitous, all-encompassing Peace… that was floating on that miraculously calm, open sea…

As we entered the deep, easy entrance to the next atoll destination a few hours later, our timing appeared flawless. The sea surface began to wrinkle as the trades gusted from the east, and the swell was most certainly filling in! We watched it move north along the atoll’s coral rim where it peeled off along the shallows of a long, flat lay of reef… thus, Crystal’s last 36 hours became a salty blur. We wondered where and when we’d meet again as she stepped up into the tiny prop plane, leaving me there with more waves than I knew what to do with!

We’d both hardly taken a breath upon setting the sails, when… POP!!!! The headsail let go at the mast head and tumbled down into the sea?!!

What!?

I scrambled to the bow, followed by Crystal, and we heaved the wet mess aboard. Swell proceeded to drift quietly in the light wind, while Crystal and I stood there holding the sail, rather dazed…

Upon inspection, it was clear that the threads of the strapping that held up the top of the sail had simply given out, probably thanks to a year and a half in the tropical sun… The sail itself was on its last leg anyway—the non-Dacron material delaminating in all the high-wear areas. I had a few smaller sails we could put up, but the problem was that when the sail fell, it left the halyard swivel for the roller furler at the top of the mast. This meant one thing: someone had to go up and get it.

Being so close to the pass, and thus the calm interior of the lagoon, I didn’t think twice. “We have to turn back,” I told Crystal sadly. “I have to go up the mast and we’re be better off to go back and get resituated and then restart again tomorrow… but we’ll have to wait
until the tide changes to get back in.”

I turned Swell around and we drifted slowly back in the direction of the pass. I sat down on the deck to think…”This weather won’t last long. If we wait another day, we might not be able to go at all. I know Crystal is looking forward to seeing another island, and the swell that is on the way will touch there, but not here…”

As the minutes passed, I realized how relatively calm it was with the main up and shadowed from swell in our proximity to the atoll.
Confidence spouted up from my intuition.

“I think I can do it.”  I said.

“Do what?” Crystal replied.

“Go up the mast.” I affirmed. “I’ve never done it at sea, but these are about the calmest conditions I can imagine. That way we can put up another sail, and continue on our way…”

After some re-assuring, Crystal liked the plan, so we dug the bosun’s chair out of the lazerette and set it up for my trip to higher elevations.

“Crick. Criiiiiiiiiiiick. Criiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiick.” Screeched the ratchet of the block and tackle, my feet suddenly lifted off the deck and I scrambled to clutch the stays as the boat swung to port. “Crick, criiiiiiiiick, criiiiiiick…” We worked together, Crystal pulling on the falls line and me easing the weight with my arms and legs as I monkeyed up the mast. Suddenly I looked around at my bird’s eye view, the sea was a sheet of royal satin and the palm-lined coral stretched both east and west as far as I could see. Lovely, but I didn’t spend much time pontificating as my hands trembled and body clung to the mast. The roll of the swell that was felt down on deck had to be quadrupled up there. I worked quickly and with adrenaline-enhanced precision as nausea crept up my core. One last
glance at what my feathered friends see, and I was on my way down with the halyard swivel…

Crystal steadied me the last few feet and soon I was back on deck—sea-sick, sweaty, but thrilled that it was successfully over. I dug out the sail that my brother had brought down a year earlier, and we pointed Swell into the wind, and hauled it up the furler track.

Two solid hours later, we were spent, thirsty, and sun-burned, but the simple joy of forward motion towards our destination was enough to keep us smiling.

With a brief window of calm winds, Crystal and I readied Swell to move east among the atolls. With the news of Barry’s passing, I wanted to check out what was rumored to be a new boatyard on an obscure strip of coral a few atolls east, plus with a swell on the way, we might arrive just in time to catch a few juicier waves before Crystal flew home…

Swell caught the flow of the outgoing tidal current as we steered around the coral embankment and into the open draw of the pass. The sun pierced the cloudless morning air, illuminating the deep blue river that carried us out to sea.

Through the binoculars, I could see the sea churning up ahead. “Oh, no…” I bellowed. I knew what we were in for: standing waves and sea dorapids where the flow of the tidal river met the ocean. It was too late to turn around, the outward flow was too strong to fight… I made a firm mental note to get some better tide information!

Swell’s stern began to slide right and left as we entered the 300-yard stretch of turbulent water. The waves grew taller and closer together and mixed with swell undulations. I spun the wheel maniacally, but Swell lifted and crashed and spun about helplessly. Despite the bucking, dipping, and twisting, I managed to keep her bow mostly pointed into the seas. Crystal remained completely calm, and her certainty was assuring, although my palms were sweating like faucets and I must have had eyes as round as a fish’s. Swell did one final skid-out to starboard, and I revved the engine and cut right into stable water as the atoll finally spit us out. Just then a dolphin leapt off the port bow.

“Look, your dolphin friend came to say goodbye!” Crystal said. “Yay! Goodbyyeeeeeeeeeeeee!!” I called to him, a tone of fear still lingering in my voice.

With a few deep breaths, I realized we’d run the rapid. All was well and we pointed the bow east, running along the atoll’s northern rim. We set the sails for a lovely close reach in the 8 or so knots of wind, let out the fishing lines, and breathed in the joy and excitement of our next adventure.

Little did we know, more excitement was quickly on the way…

A few days later, my friend and fellow Patagonia Surf Ambassador stepped off the plane onto the airstrip just a half-mile south of where Swell was anchored inside the atoll. A year prior, Crystal showed me two weeks of unforgettable fun at her North Shore residence, so I was anxious to give her the best of life aboard Swell. After dissolving the disbelief that she’d truly arrived, we toted her bags (which included two new Fletcher Chouinard sticks for me!) to where my dinghy was tied across the road in a flood of excited chatter and putt off toward the mothership.

It wasn’t every day I had a friend around with whom to enjoy the Swell life!  Loving the ocean in so many common ways, Crystal’s presence magnified the beauty around us. Her gentle, positive demeanor yet extreme water-woman experience was the perfect recipe for the maximum enjoyment of our location. Our first week together blurred by in a haze of oceanic fun. Employing our full spectrum of sea-faring utensils, we hauled a variety of boards to the spot to glide on, we bodysurfed with and without Blakeney’s marvelous hand planer, we laughed until we cried riding waves on her inflatable surf mats, we donned masks and fins to free dive both passes with the manta rays, eagle rays, tunas and barracudas, lots of sharks, and all our other fishy friends…We leapt off Swell after breakfast under raindrops or rainbows, just to feel the sea on our skin…

And after a day’s adventure, there was never a lack of enthusiasm in the galley. Crystal and her husband Dave had inspired and taught me loads about eating and living healthily. I’d adopted their philosophy of making whole food and natural products a priority. As a result, Swell was always stocked with any fresh fruit and veggies available, along with all the healthy tidbits I hauled back with me from trips to California: bulgar wheat (despite J.B.’s song), quinoa, gogi berries, maca powder (Thanks to Sol Raiz Organics!), raw nuts, mung beans and alfalfa seeds for sprouting, ground flaxseed, pumpkin seeds, cranberries, sunflower seeds, spirulina, etc. Crystal grows her own array of greens and veggies (check out her blog at www.cravegreens.blogspot.com) and focuses on clean, conscious living. It’s always comforting to be with someone who sees the world a lot like you, so we took advantage of rich conversations, mornings listening to Gil Fronsdal and Thich Nhat Hanh lectures, yoga sessions and contemplative star parties…

For such an isolated destination, we met a variety of interesting characters, including a group of ten French runners who were attempting to run/swim/walk/crawl around the roughly 60-mile perimeter of the coral atoll over 6 days(!?). We hitched a ride on their chase boat one day to explore an area of the atoll too dangerous to attempt in Swell. While the runners continued on their impressive yet not so coral-friendly feat, Crystal and I lost ourselves on beaches one would imagine only to exist on postcards, and then found ourselves being circled by hordes of blacktip reef sharks while freediving in the tourist shark feeding area! We nearly drowned in fits of fear and laughter clinging to each other amidst the revolving pack… We spent the day drinking young coconuts, talking to birds, and watching the clouds drift across the wide South Pacific sky… We were so fortunate, so grateful, so happy, so free… and so in love with the pristine, natural world that surrounded us…

Thanks to Patagonia for supporting Crystal’s visit!!

We’re going all the way back to April… On my way home from the surprise surf session on the other side of the island, I passed a lovely sailboat named, ‘Namaste’. Chris and Jessica waved me over. They invited me aboard for a timely warm meal, where I learned more about their prior adventures as avid scuba divers, experienced cruisers, knowledgeable riggers… and just good people! They offered to let me tag along on a drift dive at the pass, as they had an extra scuba rig and local diver friends who knew the ins and outs of this technical sort of dive.

A few days later, I sat nervously on the edge of their dinghy at the outer mouth of the pass. From the limited vision out of my smudged mask, I realized I’d pulled a raging rookie maneuver. I’d turned to face the water, my fins already dangling in the translucent neon blue… It was too late to turn back. I was feeling exorbitantly weighted and had no choice but follow through with my blunder. The sea swirled with the turbulence of the incoming tide…

“Allez, go!” Called the lead diver in the other dinghy. All six other divers leaned backwards and plunged coolly into the sea, Jacques
Cousteau-style. I bumbled to slide in feet first, the top of the tank knocking me in the back of the head as I slipped off the dinghy
pontoon.

I fumbled to adjust my mask and regulator, then noticed that no other divers remained on the surface. Chris’ head popped up and he signaled with an enthusiastic ‘thumbs down’ to get underwater as quickly as possible. My anxiety dropped away once my rhythmic ‘Darth Vader’ breathing sound commenced. Chris eyed me to make sure all was ok as we slowly descended to 30, 50, 80, 100 feet.

Soon the sea floor was in clear view, and the tug of the current became evident as the reef passed below. We saw a few sharks right
away, a brazen pack of barracuda crossed just in front of us, and a zillion other reef fish sought an evening meal as daylight dwindled.

Jessica reappeared and the three of us stuck together, riding the tide just a few feet above the reef—what a sensation! Underwater flight! I fixed my gaze ahead…

Jessica suddenly swam in front of me, eyes bulging and pointing to something behind me.

“Dear god, it’s either a tiger shark, a lemon shark, or an oceanic whitetip…” I thought, turning with a surge of adrenaline. To my relief and delight, a lone adult bottlenose dolphin hovered just a few feet behind me, gazing at the three of us with a curious smirk. I smiled so big that water leaked into my mask… The dolphin came nearly close enough to touch, then whipped around us in tight circles, stopping briefly to examine each of us. When his air ran out, he shot up to the surface to grab a breath of air than quickly came to find us again…

Meeting eyes with this magnificent and marvelously intelligent creature, a flood of emotions washed over me. There was an indescribable feeling of connection with this trusting animal. I wished we could have communicated better… I wanted to apologize for what we humans were doing to the planet. I wished I could look him in the eye and feel good knowing that there would be fish to eat and clean water for its offspring, and it’s offspring’s offspring… I wasn’t all that sure… The dolphin finally went on its way, but the sinking, hopeless feeling remained. The current finally sucked us into the mouth of the lagoon, the sea floor rose, and shortly after the three of us broke the surface.

As our chase tender arrived, we chattered in excitement about the dolphin encounter. What a gift, what a vision, what joy!!

That evening I ate with Chris and Jess aboard the catamaran of their French diving friends. They shared some unbelievable videos of their most amazing diving encounters.  An overwhelming passion for protecting the ocean and its creatures filled the cabin, and a flicker of hope within me returned. Maybe the emerging consciousness among humans will save our planet before it’s too late… ?

Not wanting to miss out, I dove with the crew again at 6 a.m. the following morning! Thanks for the awesome experience, Chris and
Jessica!!

The culprit of my ciguatera poisoning... a Kingfish I believe is it's English name?

After my recent ‘knockdown’ from ciguatera poisoning, I’ve tried to gather some information on the subject, mostly through local knowledge due to the extremely limited internet access here in the outer OUTER islands. As the symptoms dwindle now on Day 20 since the poisoning, I realize there is more to this occurrence than just another story to tell…

Ciguatera poisoning can be VERY serious. My case wasn’t nearly as bad as it gets, as some people go into a coma or even die, but what I went through was certainly nothing to laugh about. I was bedridden with severe muscular pain for three days, then in and out of bed with reoccurring pain off and on for another six days, and since then hindered by an incapacitating fatigue, all-over body itching, and reversal of hot/cold feelings in the nerve endings of my hands, feet, and face… Cold never felt so HOT!?

I’ve gathered from local elders in these outlying atolls (where I amazingly found a place that could haul Swell out of the water with a tractor for my quick jaunt to Cali), that ciguatera has been around for a long time. But in the last 10 years or so, the number of fish carrying this poison has dramatically increased. Why? Sadly, logic traces the cause back to human mishandling of our planet…

Swell on her way to dry land amongst the coconut trees for my trip back to Cali... I didn't get sick until I got back.

The microalgae that causes ciguatera thrives on coral that has been damaged or injured. The adverse effects of local development and rising sea temperatures and levels due to climate change upon the corals mean that more weak and damaged coral exists for this nasty dinoflagellite to flourish upon! In turn, more herbivorous reef fish are ingesting the algae and passing it up through the food chain where it bio-accumulates (like heavy metals do in fish) making larger reef predator fish such as barracuda and jacks prone to high levels of contamination in affected areas.

So, just don’t eat fish, right? Eating fish, for Polynesians, is about as essential as drinking water. Take away the main source of sustenance in the atoll regions (and all temperate seafood-dependent regions for that matter), and these people have a grave problem… There’s no Albertson’s down the street. For many in this area, the next meal is still swimming a few hours before mealtime. Local people are savvy to the ciguatera hotspots, but more and more often, a usually edible fish is contaminated in a normally uncontaminated area.

The fish that made me sick is eaten by the locals all the time, but for some reason this particular one I ate contained the poison… ? It may have been because a big south swell was running at the time the fish was caught. It’s possible that it swam over into the lagoon with the whitewash from a more contaminated area… ? But who knows…

Whatever the cause, the effect hit home hard this time! I’m feeling better every day now as my body rids more and more of the toxins, but supplies of lentils are dwindling as eating any animal protein whatsoever (including eggs, milk, cheese) brings back the muscle aches and a flurry of all body itching! At least Swell is back in the water now, as adding mosquitos and no-nos to the list of irritating symptoms, and I was bordering on insanity!!

P.S. The fun stories are coming!

With great sadness, I bring news of the passing of my dear friend, hero and role model, Dr. Arent H. “Barry” Schuyler. The Voyage of Swell was as much his dream as mine when our fated paths crossed in July of 2003. He proposed the idea to collaborate on a sailing adventure, and where our hands came together, magic was made. His eighty years of knowledge and experience, wisdom and creativity, imagination and generosity, combined with my 23-year old energy, determination, and wanderlust made us a powerful duo. In the two and a half years we spent preparing Swell and myself for the voyage, Barry and I developed a deep appreciation for each other–a friendship founded on shared humor, values and a love for the Earth …especially the sea…

Barry’s recent passing came all too suddenly. I would have liked to walk arm and arm with him once more down the docks of the Santa Barbara harbor. I would have liked to discuss worldly affairs and the weather again over a bowl of chocolate ice cream or on an afternoon sail. I would have liked to look in his eyes once more and thank him–for taking a chance on me, for turning my dream into reality, and for the insight and joy that his friendship gave and will always give me.

My sadness is mixed with love and respect and appreciation. I am indescribably honored and blessed to have known a man of his greatness—a man who lived his virtues, dedicated his lifestyle and career to the environment, and gave so much time and love to others. A life as rich and full as his cannot only be mourned; it must be celebrated and emulated. A person who gives endlessly knows no end. Barry’s spirit will forever be carried on in the love and generosity he shared with the world. He will most tangibly live on in my heart forever, stopping by whenever he feels, to spend a moment aboard Swell, gliding over the endless blue…

Each time I said goodbye, he would repeat Emily Dickinson’s famous words, which seem so fitting now: “Parting is all we know of heaven, And all we need of hell.”

“Good Luck, kid.” He’d say… “Don’t give up the ship.”

Don’t worry, Barry, I won’t give up… not on Swell nor the bigger ‘ship’ we’re all sailing in together…

Despite his humble request, a memorial service for Dr. Arent H. “Barry” Schuyler, will be held June 4th at UCSB from 1-4 p.m. followed by a gathering at the Schuyler residence. Contact me for further details.

Due to the rush to get Swell safely tucked away for my departure to California… I’m behind on stories… more to come asap.

The wind was picking up, simultaneously my hopes sank. The strong trades had not been predicted to set in for another 24 hours!? I was close, so close, but yet so very very far from the safety and comfort of safe anchorage. I put up more sail and drove Swell harder through the wind-whipped sea peaks. By 9 a.m. I spotted the atoll, and hoped the seas would smooth as I neared the lee. But the wind seemed only to strengthen, making it hard to point to windward and even harder to do anything but quick sail adjustments between wedging myself in the corner with the Da Vinci Code. (I’d never read it and gobbled up 500 pages in 3 days!)

Aside from the meal I’d made while heaving to, I was doing an experiment to see if I could avoid feeling seasick by eating only very simple food. Turns out that the easiest, most appetizing grub was a box of ‘Vita-Wheat’ crackers and these small squares of cream cheese that you find here. The box read, “Two Free Party Cubes!” Woooo hoooooooooo! Party! For the entirety of the trip, at the notion of hunger I smeared a ‘Party cube’ on a hardy cracker and voila… my nausea was surprisingly minimal for going upwind…

As I anxiously watched the minutes tick away, I downed the trusty delicacy and fretted over our timing. We turned the corner of the atoll around 1 p.m., leaving another eight miles upwind just to make the entrance at the pass!

Just before 5 p.m., Swell approached the atoll’s westernmost pass. I wished the sun be overhead. I wished the tide be slack, but my reality was a quickly ending day and an outgoing tide. I would have given anything to be safely anchored already…

There was no way out off that bouncing sea except shooting that narrow finger between the reef, a seemingly brazen act when you consider your entire home is at stake… but I read and re-read the chartbook aloud, “Favor the eastern side of the pass, taking the small island to starboard.” Swell fought against the current as I revved the engine to 2100rpms. We made slow progress, about two knots, gradually pushing our way into the lagoon…

Once inside, another 5.5 miles separated me from that sheltered corner of the reef where I could drop anchor!… I felt dizzy at the thought and dashed below to grab the Vita-wheats and party cubes. Throwing a few back, while straining to watch for unmarked coral heads, I felt some strength and focus return… I could see the masts of a few sailboats in the far distance…

I was SALTY, HOT, STINKY, EXHAUSTED, and HUNGRY… only three Vita-wheats remained!?!… I pressed on…

Opening my eyes, I squinted toward the sky, a mess of flapping wings. “Swreeee, skreeee, squeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

“What the..?”

I sat up, wrapping the sheet around me in the cool morning air… I’d slept in the cockpit. A frenzied flock of Black Noddy terns circled and dove all around.

The school of baitfish hiding below Swell was under full attack. From above, the hungry hoard of birds dove and hovered for a chance at breakfast, while a school of jacks, and a lone two foot needlefish darted at the baitball from below, sending the itsy black school fleeting in all directions and erupting the surface with a frenzy of bubbles and fin flaps. I looked around. The other six or seven boats in the anchorage bobbed silently in the soft light of dawn. Swell was in on the morning chaos! FUN!?!

The terns reminded me of Bernard Moitessier–of his grand friendship with the courageous little seagoers while he made his infamous tour de monde, nearly twice around the world without stopping (read: The Long Way!). Maybe this was Bernard’s way of congratulating me for my safe arrival?!?! Whatever the case, I thought the squawking and darting and leaping a fantastic alarm clock.

Looking around again, I abruptly stood, filled with joy… ”Oh yeah!!! I MADE it!?!?! I’m here!!?! I survived another adventure!?!” I shouted to my morning company. They seemed more excited about baitfish, but I didn’t care… I bounced up and down on my bed, telling the birds…

“It’s a new day!? In a new place!?! I’m safe!!! Woooooooooooooo!!”

The sea and sky were alive. Smiling and shrieking when the feeding frenzy climaxed with an attack from above and below, I smiled up at Bernard in heaven, reveling in a moment he surely would have enjoyed. Nature’s drama–simple and real—life perpetuating right there on my turquoise doorstep.

By dawn we were triple reefed, the headsail wound to less than half its size. See why I was so grateful for the day before!?!… One moment, bliss, the next, a battle. We fought to make headway through the day bouncing through sloppy, mixed seas…

By morning, the wind still blew stubbornly from exactly where I wanted to go. We bashed on until midday, when I decided I’d had enough. I turned the wheel hard to port, back-winding the jib and then reversed the wheel to starboard, locking us into a ‘hove-to’ position. A girl needs a break sometimes!

Aaaahhhhhhhhhh… the chaotic bouncing settled into an easy, lulling roll. I went below and downloaded a weather report, which called for the wind to shift back to east sometime soon, so I decided to remain ‘hove to’ a while, making use of the time to get re-situated… The charts had fallen from their bungeed spot in the ceiling and the starboard locker had burst open, ejecting half its contents into a heap in the shower pan, water had spilled over the kitchen sink and was dribbling out from under the stove… I organized the cabin, did the dishes, made a meal of broccoli and lentils and soybean sprouts, and then took a nice long shower on deck. Oh what a good shower can do for morale!

Then, not long after 4 p.m., the wind balked and swung, then set in again from the east! Excitedly I set the sails, trimming us onto a NE course not far off our destination. Back in my dry corner under the dodger, it was like I’d hit the ‘reset’ button… Sorted, fed, clean, and organized, I faced the sea again.

Sleep didn’t find me that night. I rose constantly to check our course, as the wind frenzied between east and northeast.

“You can’t have it all,” I told myself aloud. At least the sky was clear–no squalls or lightning to speak of, no ships in sight, and a big bright moon already in the sky at sundown, a sea companion I never took for granted…

I watched our little arrow toggle on the GPS screen, making pathetic way… then laid back and relaxed with the heavens…frustration fruitless, gratitude a haven… such a funny game, this life.

The next morning, the sea was an enormous, regal blue sheet of silk billowing out in all directions. It felt so good to see nothing, absolutely nothing but calm ocean all around. By midday a puff of east wind rippled its surface, so I put up all our sail and we fell into slow but steady 3.5 knots upwind reach. With the engine off, the sounds of sea came alive—various high and low notes and tones of lapping waves against the hull played happily on my ears. Combined with whispers of wind, the stretch of the sails and lines, the churn of the wake, and the intermittent call of a passing seabird… it was a sea symphony all for me! I sat in silence for hours, filled with gratitude, overwhelmed with freedom, staring out at all that blue… that healing, fortifying, open blue…

After dozing off, I woke to the relief of a 5:30pm sun, just ripening into orange in the west. I propped myself up for the show. The sun pitched a few last rays skyward behind a passing cumulus before dropping behind the dark horizon. The scattered clouds now bathed in reds and pinks, growing brighter still, then fading slowing back to grays. I watched until the day was only a burnt golden two fingers above the horizon, and a strip of neon blue fending off the imminent darkness. Now there was purple and scattered planets appeared. And then, like galactic candles being lit, the stars appeared. Their twinkling strengthened, and our own was now well at work across the world, starting a new day for millions of beings… The moon grew prouder now, seemingly unabashed by despite its top-heavy ¾ bulge.

I couldn’t remember the last time I had watched a day’s full transition to night…it seems we’re usually too busy to pay respect to the simple miracles of living on this big round Earth as it twirls through space…

A sharp gust sent Swell healing, shaking me from deep thought. A moment later I was at the mast, hauling down the mainsail and tying in a second reef…

Mowing the underwater 'lawn' in preparation for my upwind passage...

Swell was ready–dinghy on deck, gear stashed and stowed. My leafy companions—basil, aloe, mint, lemongrass, and sage plants were wedged securely around the cabin. The night was almost eerily calm. The Milky Way exploded across the sky from behind the silhouette of the island. Swell heaved slightly against the dock where I had come to top off the water tanks just before sunset. Everything seemed right, and yet, the pit in my stomach felt the size of a grapefruit. I’d spent the better part of the day in preparation, riddled with anxiety. I knew this feeling well. It was always there before a big passage, especially an upwind passage. It was the blessing and curse of voyaging alone—I could always change my mind. I had talked myself out of leaving all day long… the surf was up, and the wind was down… every reason to stay and get shacked! But I’d surfed everyday for three weeks and it looked like the winds would be light for three or four days–a RARE window of time to move east against the trades.

I had to go, I needed to be out there…

Two young guys sat drinking beers on the dock.

“You’re alone??!” They asked.

“Oui.” I replied, and led them through an abbreviated version of my, ‘I sail alone, but don’t worry, I’m careful’ speech…

They helped me untie the lines, all the while telling me how ridiculous it was to go alone, and where was my husband, and why did I want to go anywhere?

The older guy looked me in the eye as he passed me the final dock line. “It hurts me to see you go alone, it breaks my heart…” He said in French. I couldn’t tell him that I was scared too. That it had been so long since I did a passage like this, that I’d lost my confidence… but that would only have made it worse.

“Don’t feel sad!” I replied. “Let it give you courage! Don’t worry, I’ll be fine. See you in a few months!” And with that I pulled Swell away from the dock and motored slowly toward the pass in the dark… I knew there was only one way through the fear—Go. Go with prudence. Go with care. But GO, I must…

I think a few words from John Muir are fitting here… as one of my true heroes, a man who spent his life marveling at Earth’s majesty. His writings were often a plea for people to go and witness nature’s Beauty, Perfection, Power, and Truth for themselves!

I love this passage, from The Mountains of California, as Muir describes wandering through a flowery meadow, doing field research on flower species:

“Sauntering in any direction, hundreds of these happy sun-plants brushed against my feet at every step, and closed over them as if I were wading through liquid gold. The air was sweet with fragrance, the larks sang their blessed songs, rising on the wing as I advanced, then sinking out of sight in the polleny sod, while myriads of wild bees stirred the lower air with their monotonous hum—monotonous yet forever fresh and sweet as everyday sunshine…The great yellow days circled by uncounted, while I drifted toward the north, observing countless forms of life thronging about me, lying down almost anywhere on the approach of night. And what glorious botanical beds I had! Oftentimes on awaking I would find several new species leaning over me and looking me full in the face, so that my studies would begin before rising.”

Muir saw divinity in nature… “The clearest way into the Universe is through a forest wilderness,” he said. And “In God’s wildness lies the hope of the world—the great fresh, unblighted, unredeemed wilderness. The galling harness of civilization drops off, and the wounds heal ere we are aware.”

“Climb the mountains,” he wrote, “and get their good tidings. Nature’s peace will flow into you as sunshine flows into trees. The winds will blow their own freshness into you, and storms their energy, while cares drop off like autumn leaves.”

You heard the man! Get out there!

…stories from my recent passage to follow shortly…

In the moments where I can’t find comfort in where it’s all headed and I can’t seem to affect as much change as I’d like… there is one thing I try to do that seems to help in a small, but important way. Connect with the moment… connect with the people right around me and also those far away that I’ll never meet. Make it not about me, but about broadening whatever feeling or subject is bothering me, to incorporate all the other people in the world feeling the same way. Whether it’s anger or sadness or confusion or frustration, there’s always someone else in the same ‘boat’ and many worse… By thinking about the rest of those beings, I connect with the rest of the universe and get some perspective on the situation. I tap into the One Love, One Heart that is in all of us. It’s a beautiful thing! When the guy in the line behind you looks super hurried and stressed out, let him go in front of you. Or the surfer who is struggling to catch a wave… GIVE him ONE?! A smile to a stranger might be just what they needed in that moment. Imagine that lady in traffic who needs to get over into your lane as your mother… let her in!

This voyage has taught me to view all people as my family, all the kids like they are my kids, and to love and respect all creatures like they are my equals. We’re all one at the roots. We all feel the same feelings and have the same wants, and connecting to that makes you a part of something big, powerful, and often indescribably beautiful. By acting with patience and kindness, we can perpetuate love, connectedness, compassion, light, and peace in the world!! It takes practice and awareness… Some days I feel more up to it than others… but the beauty is that if you GIVE and connect when you can, and when you feel too tired or YOU’RE in a hurry… the goodness, the favors come back around.

Although at first glance, this doesn’t appear to be an ‘environmental issue’, I believe what Einstein describes above–our “optical delusion of consciousness”–is at the root of human problems, thus, I might go so far as to claim that practicing compassion is the at the root of healing our environment! So alongside limiting our use of ‘SINLGE-USE PLASTICS’, having a kind heart is something I believe we can do every day to make the world a better place!

… So after a week or more of putting things back in their places aboard Swell, she became a livable, sailable vessel again. But between the boat work, checking in with friends around the island, collecting trash in the lagoon, making sure Helmut was as ornery as usual, writing emails, and pondering how to save the world… I found myself spread thinner then usual. But when Eric, a single hander from Seattle aboard his Cal 33, ‘Secret Agent Man’ introduced himself and asked if I could teach him some yoga before he continued his voyage west, I told him, “Of course! Come back at sunset…”

Swell’s boarded cockpit served as our yoga platform that evening. I guided him through the basics of a sun salutation along with a series of poses I find particularly great for boat life. Afterward, I whipped up a veggie stir-fry and we chatted about the state of affairs in the world—plastic, peace, Polynesia, and polar ice caps were some of the subjects covered, and how sometimes I just feel like I can’t do enough! “I’m exhausted,” I finally told him.

The next morning I prepped Swell for sea. The urge to be in blue water was like an unreachable itch. Just when I needed a hand to put the dinghy on deck, Eric came over to say goodbye. He helped get Miti Miti and the engine all squared away, and then pulled out a book and read me a quote about compassion and the way of a warrior of peace and light. The last part described a condition called ‘compassion fatigue’, wherein the person gives out too much compassionate energy without restoring himself. He subsequently diagnosed me with the condition…

I laughed. I felt honored. We bid each other fair winds, and I assured him that just beyond the edge of reef, I would get a chance to ‘refill’. I pointed Swell’s bow to sea… With bright blue skies, 8-10 knots of breeze, and just enough of a wind angle to point toward my upwind destination, the glittering Pacific welcomed me… I relished the routine sail-setting and adjusted the wind vane with a smile. Swell heeled into an easy, close-hauled reach. I sat in the shade contemplating the whole of it all…

The island in my wake slowly shrank. Soon the details blurred together. I could no longer see the trees or houses, just the green outlines of the mountains with clouds gathering around their peaks. The lulling of my oceanic cradle rocked me into a light sleep. With each breath, the peace of the open sea restored me…

When I set out on this trip, I thought there would still be places where I could see what the Earth looked like prior to human impact. Sadly, I think I was wrong. Every place I have sailed has borne painful evidence of humanity’s maltreatment of the Earth. The coral is dying, fish populations are visibly low, and pesticides, sewage, runoff and toxic pollutants fill the sea near populated areas. Every day ships arrive with thousands of tons of imported goods to quench consumerist thirst and fill the landfills, ocean and air with the by-product–>plastic.

It’s easy to feel far from the world’s problems when they aren’t on your front doorstep. But lately, they seem to be presenting themselves more and more ubiquitously. Whether it’s food choices, water issues, climate change consequences, natural disasters, or energy dilemmas—every facet of human survival leads to an ugly reality of the world’s environmental affairs. Yet there are still so many people not willing to do anything about it…

What to do… what to do!? I ask myself daily… Where does the average individual start? When will the underwriters of change start making decisions for the common good? Have we forgotten entirely our dependence for survival upon the natural world? Must we really wait for catastrophes to induce change? Must we kill every last tuna before we figure out how to fish sustainably, burn every last drop of oil until we turn to alternative energy, turn the whole world upside down and THEN try to put it back together? It makes no sense…

Below is a speech that Roz Savage just gave at the 5th International Marine Debris Conference going on in Hawaii right now… if you aren’t familiar with Roz, she’s a British woman who decided to row her way around the world to raise awareness about plastic pollution in the ocean. Awesome.

What she had to say really hit home for me…

“On 13^th August, 2008, I attended one of the world’s more unusual dinner parties. A few hundred miles east of here, in the middle of the ocean, I boarded the JUNK Raft, a vessel made out of 15,000 empty water bottles, crewed by Joel Paschal and Marcus Erikesn of the Algalita Foundation. Like me, they were on the ocean to raise awareness of the North Pacific Garbage Patch.

We had spoken briefly before we set out on our respective voyages, me from San Francisco and them from Long Beach, and agreed that we really should collaborate with our campaigns. But life had got busy and we hadn’t got around to coming up with a strategy. Fortunately fate intervened.

My watermaker had broken and I was running out of reserves. Their voyage was taking much longer than expected and they were running out of food. Suddenly a mid-ocean rendezvous became more than a nice-to-have. It became a matter of life and death.

We met at around sunset that day, and they showed me a sample that they had collected. Even here, on the edge of the North Pacific Garbage Patch, they were finding that plastic outweighed plankton by a ratio of six to one.

Then Joel the navigator harpooned a lovely big mahi-mahi for our dinner. Luckily it was in better shape than one he had caught a couple of weeks earlier. When they opened that one, they found that its stomach was full of bits of plastic. They knew enough to realize that this fish would not be good for eating, because of all the hormone disruptors and toxins that come out of plastic. So it went back in the ocean.

This is a story that I often tell in my presentations. It has a bit of everything–a bit of drama in real life, ocean adventure, alas no romance with the hunks on the junk, no time for that–and it also has a message. It illustrates that plastic pollution is not just an issue out there on the ocean. It is a problem right here on our dinner plates.

At the joint press conference that the Junk guys and I did at the Waikiki Aquarium after I arrived here, we issued a plea that people should stop and think before using a “disposable” plastic item. It makes no sense to make a disposable object out of an indestructible substance.

I am currently based in Australia, preparing to row solo across the Indian Ocean, to complete my trilogy of Atlantic, Pacific and Indian Oceans. Down there, in particular, 2011 so far has been a hell of a year. With the emphasis on hell. Australia has been clobbered every which way by flood and fire. Then there was the earthquake in New Zealand. Then, on a whole higher level of disaster, Japan. More earthquakes. Tsunamis. Nuclear meltdowns.

We live in interesting times. From conversations that I’ve had, it seems that there is a rising consciousness that we have not been good stewards of this planet, and that it is starting to rebound on us.

This is a good time to be talking about marine pollution. It is not necessarily the biggest issue facing our world today, but it is one of the most visible. It is difficult for many people to get their heads around climate change, or ocean acidification, or collapsing fish stocks.

But ask them to picture how many plastic bottles, or bags, or coffee cup lids they personally generate in a year, and get them to multiply it by a lifetime, and by every member of their family, or by everybody in their city, or by everybody in the world, and you can see them start to wonder where it all goes. How come we’re not all up to our eyes in plastic?

And this is how we can start to drive home this concept that on a finite Earth, there is no “away.” What goes around, comes around. I find it abhorrent that something that is in use for 20 minutes will be around for a hundred years or more.

For me, personally, it has to do with the way that I came to environmental awareness. Seven years ago, in February 2004, I had my environmental awakening. Reading about the Hopi tribe of North America, I finally had my eyes opened to the blindingly obvious truth that we have to look after this planet if we want it to look after us. They believe that if we lose touch with our spirituality, with our connection to Nature, then we are flirting with disaster. Or more than flirting, we’re a dead cert.

When I had this epiphany, I was shocked and horrified that I had been so oblivious. And so I took to ocean rowing as a rather extreme way to get a platform, to raise awareness, to inspire action and wake people up to the fact that if we don’t start recognizing the interconnectedness of everything, our complete and utter reliance on the Earth and all its systems, then we are, not to put too fine a point on it, completely up the creek.

During my long spells on the ocean, I have grown to understand a few things about this planet:

First, it is not as big as we think it is. What goes around, comes around. Since I had my epiphany, the U.S. alone has generated 700 billion plastic bags, 150 billion plastic bottles, and lord only knows how much plastic silverware or coffee cup lids or bleach bottles. On my boat I am very aware of my inputs and outputs.

Second, mother nature rules. There is nothing like facing 20 foot waves in a 23 foot boat to remind you who is in charge. We can flout laws of nature for a while, but ultimately, she runs the show.

Third, we have to take responsibility. Every action counts. Every time we buy something, use something, or throw something away, we are casting a vote for the kind of future that we want.

We’ve all been doing what we can, in our small ways. Personally, I’ve been involved in a campaign to make the 2012 Olympics plastic bag free. This year I’ll be gathering samples in the Indian Ocean to assess the amount of pollution. At this conference we have the opportunity to take that up a level, and to spread the ripples of change much further. We have a chance to influence policy, and set an agenda for the world.

This is more than a quest to end the plastic peril. This is a spiritual quest. We have an opportunity to decide what kind of future do we want. This comes down to what we believe about the kind of future that we deserve. Are we amazing creatures, evolving towards our highest selves? We have been blessed with this thing called free will. Are we going to use it to save ourselves?

And it’s about more than just plastic. We are going to face a multitude of such challenges. Plastic is a useful testing ground for a new, more collaborative approach, which we will need in order to tackle the bigger issues.

Plastic has become a symbol of our throwaway society. Let’s move away from our emphasis on materialism, and instead place the emphasis on happiness. I wouldn’t mind so much if trashing the Earth even made us happy, but it doesn’t. Let’s return to simpler, more authentic values, the things that really make us happy, like good relationships, a sense of self-worth, a sense of peace.

In these turbulent times we have an opportunity for change. Let’s seize that opportunity, and change course for a better future. We could be at a tipping point, as people see that the old paradigm isn’t working. A few tiny actions on our part could make all the difference.

It took me 2.5 million oarstrokes to row the Pacific Ocean. Each stroke only took me a few feet, but added all together, they added up to something truly significant. Every action counts. Let’s pull together, and together, we can save the world.

Thank you.”

Thank you for your ACTION and PASSION, Roz!!

Kiwi fisherwoman with a whole beach to herself…

After 10 days or so, only certain twisting movements still hurt my knee. If I maintained mostly lateral movement, I could go without pain… so I put off seeing a doctor, and instead did my own rehabilitation which included icing and elevating, hot baths, arnica massages, and bike riding… and a rake treatment by the DJ at the wedding with an amethyst crystal!? It helped that the swell died for a week, so I was able to rest it a bit. There were a few minor re-injuries, one surfing, the other involved some off-trail blackberry picking…

Come on, could I really have sat on the beach?

New Zealand impressed me at every turn. Although I hardly scratched the surface, the landscapes I did see thoroughly awed me. The quantity of open space, the general attitude of respect for the environment, and pursuit of healthy lifestyles cast a positive feeling all around. Everything seemed really straightforward and courteous, like the huge sign when you’re leaving the airport that says “Way Out –>”, or the clearly marked public beach accessways that seem to be everywhere, and parking spots reserved for mothers with children.

Monarch Chrysalises at Katie’s house, chrysali?…

With a little extra help from their hosts, this one flew off to see the world…

It’s a wonder we’re friends

Katie and Ralph, gliding… check out Ralph’s surf video.

Chrissy Timoschuk, post-yoga apple binge.

N.Z. has the happiest cows in the world, picturesque open meadows and rolling hills, and long open beaches with no one around. Even a spot where hot springs well up into the sand so you can do have a soak after surfing the sandbar of your choice on a three mile beach. It’s camper van road tripping paradise, and I spotted more than a few harbors well suited for Swell!

Kiwis love their ocean!

Two things baffled me—NZ drivers: reckless speed junkies!?!?… out of the car, the people seemed so friendly, easygoing, and mellow, but get them behind the wheel and they turn all Jekyll and Hyde on you. They drive like it’s the Indy500!? Pedestrians have no right of way, grandmas are passing on blind curves, and logging trucks are tail-gating you even at relatively high speeds on two-lane roads like the Jalama road—tight and windy, with no where to pull over… can someone explain this? And the other…the Maoris? Where? I didn’t meet a single one? Yet another land with shameful history…

My friends, Seth and Helen Bloom, picked the right year and the right spot to get married, as the La Nina was keeping the cyclones and weather very west in the Pacific making for a killing of waves to be had along the NE coast. And sand points! Sand, oh how I miss sand… both on the beach and under the waves… NZ has some choice granules—not too fine, not to fat, squeaking underfoot and glittering like a million diamonds with only my friends and the seabirds around to squawk about it. Forests falling all the way to the sea, and hidden nooks of secluded beaches if you’re willing to explore a bit. A yoga retreat in the woods, a 300 yard walk from the beach… might be a good place to go and get some next level training! There’s a harbor only a few miles down the road…

BIG thanks to Katie and Geoff, Seth and Helen, and all who made my NZ time so unforgettable. Double high kicks!!

To make a donation to his family, click here.

My thoughts and love and heart and prayers are with all those affected by the events on Thursday… I cannot put sense to this kind of tragedy. From afar, the most positive way to deal with sorrow is to transform it into motivation. For those who won’t have the chance, we can seek truth and peace and happiness in our own hearts. Events like these give us all the more reason to pursue our dreams, connect with humanity, let go of what we hold too tight, and get out and marvel at the natural world. By showing love at every opportunity, regrets will be few… for we never know how long we have.

For now, Swell and I are safe…

When I saw Katie’s bright smile I forgot all about my sore knee and the irksome fact that after all the time spent studying charts, that it had only taken me five hours to fly there. Plus, we’d flown directly over a category two cyclone!? We chatted like wild monkeys the entire two-hour drive down the windy, two-lane highways. I nearly forgot about my bum knee until we arrived in her town, driving straight to the beach to check the surf… I limped to the top of the grassy dune to see swells lines stacked to the horizon—solid, offshore, short-period cyclone swell–absolutely magnificent. My mind drifted to the hardship in Christchurch, and I didn’t bother feeling sorry about my knee. I was resigned to the fact that I couldn’t surf, but from the look in Katie’s eyes—a mix between a wild horse and a rabid dog—she needed to get in the water.

Half and hour later Katie, her husband, Geoff, and I stood watching the sets from the parking lot at the main beach. For no good reason I had slipped my board in the car. I couldn’t help it.

“We don’t really have time to go anywhere else, so we’re gonna go out here.” Katie explained, possibly in response to my look of concern about the crowd. “It not as bad as it looks, probably only about five of them can actually surf… it’s just really easy to get out along the headland, so everybody goes out here.”

Everybody? I thought to myself… even me? My arms weren’t injured, I smelled like airplane, and I really, really wanted to sit in the line-up with Katie. A minute later I’d convinced myself and gingerly lifted my right leg into my wetsuit. The current sucked us out along the rocks, and deposited us into the line-up. I sat up carefully as not to tweak my knee as any twisting action meant instant shooting pain. I looked around and  found myself smack in the middle of the crowd, with no intention of catching a wave. When the sets rolled in the whole bunch worked into a frenzy, paddling to and fro and in and out. The wave was tricky–it either hit the outside bar and peeled off nicely down the line, or if it was too small, it only crested then fizzled for another 50 yards until it hit the inside sandbars. Katie had the right strategy—patience at the outside. I sat beside her, a smiling buoy, simply enjoying to see her face out in the sea and marveling at the odd sensation of watching the waves with no objective of riding them…

A set popped up ahead of us. The wave gods intended on truly testing me, as they sent a perfect right hand peak jacking my way…Oh the lovely angle of its face rising so temptingly, I would have hardly needed to paddle! Of all the frothing hoard of surfers, the best wave of the afternoon was headed directly for me… But in fact, any urge to turn and take it disappeared, when I realized that my dearest compadre sat poised and ready to my left, next in line for this right-hand beauty. She looked at me inquisitively, as if she wondered if I could really pass it up…

I made no movement to reassure her that it was all hers… “GOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!” I cheered and watched her gracefully turn and launch herself down its face. The wave peel off flawlessly, spray flying out the back as Katie lay turns across its face. She popped out 100 yards down the beach and I flailed my arms in wild cheers…

A happy man on a mini-mal paddled up and asked, “Did yew see that beyewtiful gurl ryding that incredibul whaaaaave?!?!?”

“That’s my best friend!!” I replied excitedly.

“Ahhh, I reckon I’d like to have her as my best friend too!?” I grinned. He was right. I’m lucky.

Katie so kindly surfed a few more rights for me, until the sun sunk and we felt a chill. I rode one in on my belly and we cruised on home. Geoff barbequed fresh veggies from Katie’s garden, and later I soaked my knee in their outdoor bathtub under the stars. For a girl with a limp, I was feeling quite alright.

The afternoon crowd was thicker than my liking, so I decided to float on the inside and see what scraps I could snatch up… low and behold, a set finally swung too wide for the others and came right to me. I swiveled around excitedly and dropped in, took a speed pump and then came off the bottom to do a zealous, ‘i-sat-on-a-boat-all-day’ top turn. On my re-entry, I nearly fell backwards but used everything I had to right myself. Just as I pulled my upper body vertical enough to center myself over my board, I felt my right knee go, “POP!!”

As I kicked out, the guys on the inside cheered, but I didn’t feel very proud. “It’s nothing… just drift for a minute and try to move it,” I thought as I floated out into the channel. Finally, I sided with denial and paddled back up for one more… I quickly proved what I had feared–I was injured. I paddled for the boat.

That night I stayed at my friend Kepi’s house, elevating my knee in bed with a bag of ice in the upper bungalow… It hurt. It was swollen. And I had a plane to catch in less than 24 hours…

All points have converged on a small town in New Zealand, where two of my best friends BOTH happen to have ended up with their significant others, totally by chance… I’ve been telling Katie (my fondest female surf buddy) that I’d be arriving there with Swell any season now for the last four years! Seeing as circumstances have not yet provided, I’ll get to check out the place she now calls home. On top of that, Seth (one of my oldest surf buds) will be celebrating his marriage to the wonderful Helen, amongst a reunion of friends that goes way back to my days at 24th St, Del Mar. All this fun within a few square miles… or kilometers, I guess… From every way I see it,  my presence is simply required! I just bought a plane ticket!

It wouldn’t have been possible to make it in time with Swell without installing some rocket boosters, so at least the automatic bilge pump is working while she awaits me… So with a pack on my back and a board underarm, a divergent adventure begins! I’m hopping a boat to the main island to catch a ride to the airport…

… Maybe seeing N.Z. will give me the motivation I need to depart my now beloved French Polynesian waters?

Ok, I’m off!… I leave you with this fitting morsel of Whitman:

Song of the Open Road–Walt Whitman

Afoot and light-hearted I take to the open road,

Healthy, free, the world before me,

The long brown path before me leading wherever I choose.

Henceforth I ask not good-fortune, I myself am good-fortune,

Henceforth I whimper no more, postpone no more, need nothing,

Done with indoor complaints, libraries, querulous criticisms,

Strong and content I travel the open road.

Meet standard marine sanitation hose, my dreaded nemesis. At first glance, you don’t think much of it—it’s a blandly white, 1 ¾ inch-diameter plastic hose reinforced with wire. How evil could it be? It serves important plumbing functions, usually the dirtiest jobs aboard boats. But despite its beneficial qualities, the task of removing it or placing it onto plumbing fittings quickly makes one forget any of its charm. This is the most stubborn hose on Earth! It’s like they intentionally make it just slightly too small for the fittings, maybe to weed out the weak… I don’t know? … But dealing with this hose is a task that makes me yearn for ‘Marine Man’ (my fantasy boat-fixing Superhero) to descend from a cloud to wrestle that dastardly hose while I make him a sandwich…

Excuses and grudges aside, my bilge pumps HAD to be fixed. There was corrosion in the wiring somewhere as well as a block in one of the hoses. My Dad and I had tried to fix them when he was here, but we didn’t have all the necessary parts for the job. I’d now rounded them up, and seeing as neither Dad nor ‘Mr. Right’ nor ‘Marine Man’ were anywhere in sight, I found myself alone to face off with my most detested foe.

The hose problem went back to the complication of the hull leak and the broken motor mounts. The details could be enough to make you click on an advertisement link, so in short, my engine now sits lower than before and was pinching one of the two bilge pump hoses that ran underneath it toward the exit points at the stern. Seeing as removing and replacing this crushed hose is an enormous job, I figured I’d wait until my next haulout (cringe at the thought… Please, ‘Marine Man’, I beg you to show up on that day!!). Instead, I’d devised an interim plan…

My idea was to use a Y-connector to link the pump that was connected to the crushed hose into the freely flowing hose of the other pump and then they would both push water out of the same, open hose… simple, right?

NOT AT ALL… Hours later I’d dismantled half the boat and was caked in bilge slime. I’d managed to wrestle free only one of the hoses from one of the pumps, and sat amongst my filth and tools, staring at the wiring diagram for the automatic float switch. The instructions made it look like a kindergartener could do it, but nothing, I repeat, NOTHING, on a boat is simple (except for maybe a bucket?).

But Bilge Babe kept at it–running, connecting, and testing the wiring configurations until the pumps whirled when the switches were flipped. I sealed the connections and all that remained was to cut the hoses and force them onto  the Y-fittings. Easier said than done…

It took all my strength and wit and determination… I willed their insubordinate, white plasticness onto each fitting, one-by one, using heat, dish soap, grease, mean words, my favorite music ‘Playlist’ on repeat, and force from my Mulabandha… (thanks Josh, your dad’s trick really works!). I fought those hoses until they were all in their respective places and secured with double hose clamps!! Yeah!! I did it!! Muscle flexin’ and a victory dance to some M.I.A.!! Yow!

I shoved it all back down into the bilge for the final test…

“No, no… you’ve got to be kidding…” The auto switches worked, the pumps turned, but they just pushed the water out of the other pump and back into the bilge because there were no one-way valves in the pumps… So much for my brilliant idea… Deep breaths… “It’s just a little more manual labor,” I told myself. “Turn up the music and get back at it…”

Somewhere in my subconscious, I know it’s dawn. Force my eyes open, I roll out of bed for a peek… What? It’s pumping, again?! So much for sleeping in… Part of me hoped it would be flat after the week or more of non-stop swell…  I wonder if my arms can take another day of this? Of course they can… “It’s now or never,” I tell myself. Easier to catch waves before the others come out. And surely they’ll be out… the end bowl is throwing round and makeable again, and if I can just pick off one or two sets I swear I’ll relax after that… sunscreen and a gulp of water… I’m out there.

… That might have been the best session of my life! I know I said that yesterday and the day before, but… that last wave, really? Did that just happen?

Back aboard Swell… yum, this mango tastes divine!… mmmm, walnuts too… whooooa… look at this set coming in… I should just go back out and get a few more while the sun isn’t directly overhead, right… ? It’s not like I can get anything else done while this wave is taunting me… I’m fixated like a mutt on a bone. But these are the days! When I wake up in my favorite reality there’s no choice but to live it like there’s no tomorrow! The dishes and laundry are piling high and the water tanks are almost empty. There’s green scum clinging to the waterline. My neck and shoulders feel like industrial strength rubber bands, but time will be here tomorrow… this swell might not be! Back into my new Patagonia R1 Jane spring suit!! Yeeeeeeeoww!