Adventures to Everywhere

Clenching the Record

Sat, 5 May 2012 12:43:08 -0400

Or “How to Break a World Record”. I had a lot of success breaking records last year at the Deja Blue II competition in the Cayman Islands. In fact, I managed to break the national record in the discipline of CNF three times. Once to 50 meters, once to 55 meters (a pan-American record) and last to 58 meters. I exceeded, by far, my original expectations of breaking the current national record by two meters, from 48 to 50. The last day of the comp I threw a Hail Mary pass and plunged 5 meters deeper, 1 meter pass the world record depth, to 63 meters. I managed to clench the tag at the bottom plate and return to the surface under my own power. Unprepared fully for a dive that big the attempt culminated in a blackout, my personal best depth and personal worst blackout.

After the competition, I was left with the same feeling as the first Intermediate freediver course I ever took. Excited and satisfied with my performance but even more excited and curious to ‘explore my potential’, the mantra of Performance Freediving International. With three new national records under my belt I left Cayman determined to return next year with a new goal, the world record. Ren, sharing my sense of dedication to the world record, helped outline a series of events for the year that ensured my success as a two time world record holder. Watch the videos.

MOVE ONTO A SAILBOAT
Yep, it’s that easy folks. If you want a freediving world record all you have to do is sell most of your belongings and store the other most with your parents. Hopefully you have three sets of parents who have plenty of space to accommodate your junk. Hopefully they are willing to accommodate your junk. Hopefully you can sneak half of your stuff by them before they know what’s happening, leaving a tall, teetering stack of boxes that they will make room for later.

By selling your stuff and moving onto a boat you leave your clutter-less life open for new experiences and plenty of time to train. The maintenance associated with keeping up a sailing vessel becomes part of your training. Climb the mast, dinghy to shore, hold your breath as a wave washes over the cockpit during heavy weather. Every moment becomes an opportunity to become a better freediver.

QUIT YOUR JOB
You say you can’t quit your job? Well, now, that’s bologna. I did it, so did Ren. Of course, we don’t have a huge pile of cash buried in our backyard (not to mention, we don’t have a backyard anymore). We don’t have bills either. We don’t have the socialization a workplace offers, but we don’t to answer to a boss either. We don’t have traffic jams to deal with, but...we don’t have traffic jams to deal with!

We make enough money to keep going by teaching freediving courses but will have to include a web based revenue stream eventually. Where there’s a will, there’s a way. Make it happen and sort out the details later. And yes, your parents will get over it!

MARRY A FREEDIVER, OR TURN YOUR PARTNER INTO ONE
I can honestly say that none of this would have happened without Ren. Especially being isolated on a boat, without a training partner, gym, pool or any other training resources for that matter. Having someone there who understood the importance of providing motivation, sometimes where there was absolutely none, to sit on the hot, sweaty boat, alone and practice static apnea tables, was huge. Not only did he make me train when I didn’t want to, which was pretty often, he also knows first hand what the pain of freediving can be like...and he offered little sympathy. When I wanted to quit my apnea tables he did not look at my contractions and say, “Oh no honey! Stop that! You’ll hurt yourself!” Nope, not Ren. He provided me with encouragement like, “Control yourself damn it! Why are you letting the contractions beat you up like that! Come on, hold onto it for 5-4-3-2-1!” Then I was allowed to gasp for air.

The training was hard but finding the inspiration to train was the hardest. Everyone around me were drinking frozen cocktails, staying out late and lazily moving through the islands on their boats. I had to decline the cocktails, get to bed on time and get up, dinghy over to land and run during aerobic training. Or get up early before a passage and jump off the back of the boat to do negative dives. Or excuse myself from a social evening to slip away and do my last set of stretches for the night. No easy task for someone who understand the value of a good time...if ya know what I mean.

Nila Girl's "Gourmet" Galley #4

Fri, 6 Apr 2012 14:26:44 -0400

We have made Banff brownies twice in Nila Girl’s galley. Once on our passage to Jamaica (please reference Day 3 blog post) and once while my brother, Corey, came to visit. I am not much of a baker, never have been but I will admit that if you really want to make someone feel truly happy, special, have a big dish of warm homemade brownies waiting for them. These are the sentiments I want to impart to both Ren and Corey, which is why I have made brownies for both of them. Homemade brownies does not mean you’ve opened a box, added water and baked them in your oven. Homemade means you have dirtied at least four different utensils during the measuring and mixing process. And in the case of these brownies, you have used more than three ingredients. Besides, Banff brownies do not come in a box at the store. In fact the vegan, no sugar added recipe is the brainchild of the ever inspiring Banff Luther of Pavana.

These brownies mix up wet. Even after baking they are a moist, sticky mound of black pleasure (why is it that the brownie description is already sounding like the preface of a porn novel?). The brownies are so dense that your fingers get lost in them as they sink deep into the gooey food while you are just trying to hold one of them (again, maybe I should omit the words “Banff brownies” change them to “Chuck Longwood” and send this article to Hustler).

Banff always had a fresh supply of these brownies made up. If he had a vice, this was certainly it. He was not ashamed to turn us all into brownie seeking zombies searching for our next fix. So here we are, in the Bahamas addicted to Banff brownies but there is a serious problem. Bahamians cannot bake brownies. They can do bread. Their fresh, warm coconut bread is unrivaled. They can also make a sort of tart, so I have heard, I never tried one myself though. Why would I? The tart does not have chocolate in it. But they make brownies in the fashion of their English brethren, dry, bland and wholly unsatisfying. Like a little square of dry chocolate cake, crumbly and bad. Banff brownies are in the sharpest contrast to these abominations of chocolate. Remember folks, we cannot all be good at everything. Bahamians, stick to bread. By the way, you owe me $1.75 for the crappy little confection you misnamed “brownie” that I bought in Governor’s Harbor. Yes, I ate it anyway but not because I wanted to. Only because I am compelled to finish everything on my plate. This is in thanks to my half Italian heritage, I am sure. You have got to learn when to say, “Basta!”

Journal to Jamaica-Day 4

Fri, 6 Apr 2012 13:53:48 -0400

DAY FOUR:
A.M.
There was a nice surprise waiting for me this morning at shift switch, and no, it was not a severed head. We were scheduled to do three hour shifts. Mine ran from 9:00pm to 12:00am then on again at 3:00am to 6:00am. Ren woke me for my 3:00 shift at almost 6:00! This means we were further along when I woke up than expected, a welcomed surprise indeed. The sun is rising right now which is huge for the mental component of the sail. Waking up tired at 3:00am is a lot different than waking up to a rising sun at 6:00am. What this really means is that I got to sleep through the night, for the most part. I am not sure if I ever entered the deep sleep phase of the sleep cycle but I definitely dreamt for the first time since being on this passage. I think this is the first time I have had time to dream. To really stretch my sleep legs.

My Mom and I were walking through a dusty little town. The place had an Eleutherian feel. This vision must have been the product of the time we Ren and I just spent in the Bahamas, no doubt. Actually the town looked exactly like the part of Georgetown, Exuma you have to walk to get to the community trash receptacle. I only walked there once. Funny how even the most insignificant details imprint themselves into your subconscious. Eager to be considered important, worth recalling at a later date. Imagine all the information that must be stored in our brains if only we could recall the stored bits of data on demand. Wow! I’m blowing my own mind here, and I digress.

Mom and I were walking through this town during a small festival. We were trying to get a handle on the local flavor. We wore big smiles and talked to everyone. We attempted conversation but were readily rebuffed by the locals. Their noses turning up at the site of us, or maybe at the sound of our voices. We walked into a big ping government building to get a drink of water. A tall white woman with bright red hair, green eyes and a green sequined evening gown hung up a sign advertising her newly missing dog. The big grin on her face did not match the anxiety she should have been feeling over her lost companion. Her smug smile in sharp contrast to the sympathy she tried to elicit. Dream sequence ended. Suggestions?

Oreo greeted me with a lot of tail wagging and rolling over on my feet this morning. Amazing how such a small mammal who contributes nothing to conversation or the necessities of the household can make you feel so loved. It is kind of like the alcoholic brother you have living on your couch. You can be damned if he is going to send a few bucks your way to help with rent. He is not going to get up early and whip up some breakfast for you before you’re off to work. But the guy is funny and you love him because he is your brother. Anyway, Oreo greeted me happily and I responded happily especially when I learned that we only had sixty eight miles to go. As of right now we have fifty eight nautical miles left and are averaging almost six knots. It looks like the end is in sight. As a matter of fact, I think last night was my last night shift. We should be in Jamaica in about 11.6 hours, roughly 6:00pm, and this is a conservative estimate based on only five knots average. I cannot believe we have managed to shrink a six day passage down to four. Where there is a will, there is a way.

MIDDAY
Another hot, hot, day, another nap (two hours), and another dream this afternoon. I will spare you the details of this dream but let’s just say this, we were traveling the world by horseback. A white horse with a blue trimmed saddle. I woke up mad at Ren for having gotten two tattoos without even mentioning it to me first. The worse of the two being a hug snake covering half of his back. In real life neither of us have tattoos. In real life, as in my dream, a huge expensive surprise tattoo will not be a cause for celebration.

I awoke to only thirty two miles to go. This should put us in Port Antonio at dusk or just after dark. Jamaica does not acknowledge daylight savings time so we are gaining an hour of travel time. Imagine that, they do not amend Time to fit demanding work schedules. Sounds like a bunch of backwards people huh? I bet they say, “hello” when they mean “goodbye” and I bet they walk on their hands too. We shall see.

Ren is fishing again, hunting mahi. He has been having a great time as we have been traveling the perfect trolling speed. This is the hottest part of the day. Usually we try to sit as still as we can and read, fish a bit, write something, anything non-physical. Any workouts or chores to be done must wait until at least 3:00. At this time, not only is the heat starting to subside a bit, but our stomachs are perfectly settled from lunch too so we get pretty productive. No worrisome digestion getting in our way. Training for this record has made me intensely aware of the digestive process. It takes thoughtful schedule management to make sure breakfast has had time to digest before the dive. If the digestive schedule is considered, the dive is much more comfortable and a lot easier as the body is not wasting valuable energy on a process it could have taken care of earlier. This principal works for anyone, not just freedivers. Avoid midmorning indigestion or unpredictable evacuations by eating on time and slowing down. Do not eat on the way to work, eat well before you get there. Chew your food, a talent inspired by our friend Lance on EZ. I’m still working on this one. The body already knows what to do, learn to use your body properly and will not leave you feeling used.

P.M.
This place is lush and green...and mountainous! We cannot wait to explore Jamaica and take lots of pictures. More to follow...

Journal to Jamaica-Day 3

Fri, 6 Apr 2012 13:52:29 -0400

DAY THREE:
A.M.
My A.M. shift ends at 7:00. I have been at the wheel since around 2:30am and have done my fair share of hand steering. Usually we just set Duane the Wind Vane and he steers for us. This frees up our bodies and minds. Having to hand steer takes a lot of mental fortitude. Looking ahead a the deep blue nothing, staying on course, occasionally fighting oncoming waves, staying awake...for hours.

Ren took over at 7:00am and I went straight back to bed. Before my morning nap I had slept one hour the previous night. My nap tacked on almost four additional hours of sleep. Usually we get eight to ten hours of sleep per night, uninterrupted. Change this healthy pattern to maybe five hours per twenty four hour period, not a consecutive five either. Five hours taken in one to two hour increments, not healthy. We are both extremely tired. The lethargy can be blamed partially on the oppressive sun.

I woke from my nap sweating. The waves have turned into a lake and the wind is non-existent. Not even a breath of it to dry my sweaty body. We have resigned ourselves to firing up the ol’ “Iron Jib.” We hate to do this because running the engine both wastes fuel and costs money. However, we cannot spend the day going nowhere either. I have a flight to catch from Montego Bay to Fort Lauderdale in a couple of days to try to hustle us some money teaching freediving. Also, let’s look at the numbers. Since we have left North Carolina we have only had to purchase fifty nine gallons of diesel. Fifty nine gallons and we run the engine whenever we need to. This means, we have not been exceptionally frugal with our fuel. Back home, Ren’s F-250 Ford diesel pickup held thirty eight gallons of fuel. He would burn a whole tank of fuel per week on average, running around town. This does not account for out of town trips, the diesel for his tractor, or the diesel for my car. Our little Perkins is nice and efficient. Today she will run to keep us on track. She is currently running 6.3 knots with some help from the mainsail and spinnaker with only one hundred and forty four nautical miles to go to get to Port Antonio.

MIDDAY
The wind is so calm that we had to take down the spinnaker to keep it from flapping around. The engine is making sure that we maintain a respectable speed. Today is really going to affect our overall trip average which stinks because we made such great time the first couple of days. Besides the breathold tables and arm workout I will do later, when it is cooler, my goal is to dry out a bunch of my cold weather gear that got soaked during the more turbulent weather of the last couple of days. Nila Girl still has some leaks, a problem I am hoping we can completely eradicate this summer. When water leaks into the boat usually when we are heeled over pretty far or taking waves over the bow, it leaks mostly in the v-berth area. This means that our freshly laundered sheets and some of our clothes have become tainted with sea water. The tainted items will never dry. The salt in the sea water hold water in, keeping things feeling damp. I can hang the affected items out and get them crispy in the sun but there are still two problems:

Salty, crispy clothes itch.
When the items contact moisture again, even just the humidity, they feel as wet as when you first found them doused in saltwater.

We will have to rewash everything when we get to Jamaica.

P.M.
A beautiful end to a beautifully calm day. We just ate supper in the cockpit under the nearly full moon. I seared up a piece of mahi for Ren and made a cold pasta and pea dish. My belly was craving something without a lot of seasoning and I wasn’t in the mood for any meat tonight. Oreo had fish and cheese.

Speaking of Oreo, his spirits were exceptionally high today, as were mine and Ren’s. Since the seas was so calm and the winds were down we had to run the engine through the entire day (it is actually still running now). This means that we had a calm day on the ocean. The kind of day where we were afforded the opportunity to accomplish some goals. I dried out all of the salt tainted clothes and bedding described before. Ren re-glued pieces of our dinghy that were causing air to leak. I made Banff Brownies, a recipe passed on to us from Banff on Pavana (see earlier blog entries for Banff description). The brownies are sugar free, for all of you athletes in training out there. Oreo walked all over the boat, going out on the gunnels anytime he wanted. We relaxed and enjoyed the calm. I was able to do another breathold table and stretching session today. My arms are really sore from the workout yesterday, I love the feeling of soreness earned through physical exertion. It is good for the mind to push the body to hurt.

We still have not seen anything notable in the water. No turtles, dolphins or anything, except the beautiful fish we caught. We are now only ninety eight miles from Jamaica. I am looking forward to exploring a strange new world. I am also looking forward to the trip back to Fort Lauderdale. It will be sobering to see some old friends again. I also look forward to the prospect of making a bit of money. It feels good to line the pockets with a bit of cash.

Journal to Jamaica-Day 2

Fri, 6 Apr 2012 13:50:41 -0400

DAY TWO:
PRE A.M. (2:00 A.M.)
Ren and I just switched watches. After a four hour fit of no sleep I am sitting in the cockpit with Oreo under a waxing full moon, completely exhausted but resigned to my watch. We passed the “night necklace” we wear while on water like the baton in a relay race. Dangling from the necklace is a whistle and a strobe...just in case. However, we mitigate the risk of falling overboard at night by staying in the cockpit at all times. Never leaning over the lifelines, not even to urinate. If one of us must go forward, escaping the safety of the cockpit, they must first wake the other person and wear a harness. The harnesses are made of strips of purple webbing that wrap around both legs and arms, joining up in the middle with a clip that attaches to the jack lines. The jack lines run the entire length of the boat and are only on deck when we are traveling. Ren made the harnesses for us before we left. This precaution may sound like overkill to the sailor already well seasoned by salt but losing each other...well...that would be devastating to say the least and this kind of accident is mostly preventable.

I just sat back down from tweaking the sails. Ren’s approach to keeping watch includes constant vigilance to the sails’ shape, our direction and speed. He is always trying to bring the boat back to a homeostatic condition, pulling in one sheet, relaxing another in his constant attempts to gain speed and efficiency. It is this commitment to Nila Girl and our ETA that makes Ren a great captain. Personally I find the tweaking tiresome. I prefer to view my watch schedule as four hour appointments with myself where I can read, write, type up this blog entry, or spend time with Oreo. Tweaking sails is a minor inconvenience to the true purpose of watch keeping. My myriad of activities must also be interrupted-every fifteen to twenty minutes-by a visual sweep of the horizon and radar if we are using it. So far, no boats on this particular watch. I could really get some serious things done around here if it wasn’t for all the sailing.

Oreo is faring well but like me, takes a day or two to get adjusted to the new sleep, or rather, non-sleep patterns. It has been almost twenty-four hours now since we have parted Salt Pond and he still refuses to pee. His bladder will give in, it always does, maybe even sometime later today. Let’s hope he’s not lying in his bed when it decides to throw in the towel.

A.M.
We are all sitting in the cockpit watching the sunrising overhead. I have always preferred the sunrise to a sunset. The sunrise, if awake before dawn, is a welcomed friend, come to bring promise of a beautiful and full day ahead, unlike the sunset who is always trying to turn the lights out. Also, I gain a sense of accomplishment from watching the sunrise. Any schmuck can catch the sunset but it takes another level of commitment to be up for the sunrise. This morning, the pressure is off, literally off Oreo’s bladder as he had decided to urinate, finally. We just did the math and we made about one hundred and two miles from yesterday AM through the night. We are averaging over five knots, we are making great time.

All three of us are tired this morning. We will spend the day partly lethargic, sleep tonight when its is our turn and then we will be in the groove tomorrow. We will feel better rested and in turn healthier by then. I have failed to mention that I have a set of workouts to be completed every day while traveling. We made a lot of progress reaching depth at Dean’s Blue Hole. Diving almost every day I was able to become more and more comfortable with the world record dive I will be attempting...soon. Since we will not be able to dive for the next few days because we are sailing, I have a daily exercise schedule. Yesterday included two stretching sessions and a series of eight breatholds called a “breathold table”. The table was successfully completed and the stretching was great. Today, two stretching sessions and an arm workout, yum.

MIDDAY
The morning, in one word, sweaty. Ren caught another dolphin, a bit smaller than yesterday’s, but just as beautiful. I made tuna salad with the remaining tuna, which turned out excellent (mayonnaise free for all of you training athletes out there) so we kept the dolphin, as previously planned. Ren fought the fish up to the bow and back down the starboard side of the boat passing the rod around numerous obstacles, shrouds, sails, the stern railing. Each time he passed the rod around something from one hand to the next, he also had to be careful not to drop the rod or let the dolphin rip it from his hands. Fishing off of a sailboat is a real challenge. No fighting chairs, harnesses, or wide open sterns to secure fish from. Just a bunch of rolling from side to side and nowhere to stand. After finishing his lengthy dance around the boat Ren pulled the yellow and green fish out of the water and stabbed a knife into his brain, killing him and alleviating the suffering. He finished pulling the fish all the way into the cockpit, our living quarters, blood everywhere. We promptly laid a black rag over the dolphin’s eyes to reduce the chances that he would freak out and thrash about if he decided to come back to life. We watched in amazement as the fish turned colors from green and yellow to stark white and a brilliantly bright light blue color. His light blue dorsal fin was tipped in black like it had been dipped in ink. I am not sure if there is an evolutionary advantage to the color change but the radiance of the spectacle is unparalleled Although, the rapid color adaption of the octopus is a close second only trumped by the vibrant colors of the mahi.

We are now less than forty miles from Inagua where we will be making a turn to the West to head through the Windward Passage and deeper into the Caribbean. I will not conceal the fact that thoughts of pirates flooded my sleep deprived brain last night. My only distraction from the thought of six men with semi-automatic weapons ripping our boat apart only to find what we already told then we had, nothing, was the inspired cadence of Mark Twain.

P.M.
The wind has picked up and I have the first shift 9:00pm to 1:00am. Before the shift starts we decide to watch just one episode of our TV series du jour, Pushing Daisies. Ren and Oreo cuddle up in a corner of the cockpit and I arrange the computer and external speakers so that we can both see and hear the show. I stay in the cabin while Ren stays in the cockpit to keep a watchful eye on passing ships. The show if full of really interesting cinematography. The colors are vivid and the plot and characters almost fantasy-like. It is an entertaining show.

Watching such a benign program with my little family helps to dry the tears a bit. They have been pouring out in fifteen minute bursts at unpredictable times. There must be something hormonal going on with me because, although we are leaving comfortable territory for the unknown, I still have Ren and Oreo with me. We are still living a dream. I predict a combination of emotions, both controllable and incontrollable are at fault here. Brewing a pot of emotional instability just for me. Ren is very patient with me right now. He understands that there is nothing he can do to fix the problem. His patience is not beyond asking me once, “You still like me don’t you?” It will pass in another day, whatever it is. In the meantime, “I want my Mommy!”

After the show I settle in for my watch and am interrupted within the hour by Ren who cannot sleep. Nothing surprising there, it’s hard to sleep here right now. He takes the first watch from me and I sleep for one hour and toss for another two. It is comforting for Ren to take the wheel. When he is on watch I am exempt from making decisions which is great. When he take the wheel I can lie down confident that everything will be fine. The rough seas are going to leave me exhausted.

Journal to Jamaica-Day 1

Thu, 5 Apr 2012 16:42:21 -0400

DAY ONE:
A.M.
I woke up to the gentle rub of a familiar and rough hand on my back.
“Come on Ash, time to get out of here,” as Ren tried to coax me out of bed. I whined, and whined and whined, until he had to ask me again. Not so gently the second time around. We stayed up too late last night saying goodbye to Jeanette and Brian from Puff. It’s likely the last time we’ll see them for a few years, unless I get sponsorship to go to the Vertical Blue competition in Long Island this coming November. Hint, hint. 5:30am was not in my useable vocabulary this morning. The only thing that was may have been, “this sucks.” However, when it’s time to go, it’s time to go. No amount of bitching on my end was going to change the fact that we have ten days to get from Long Island to Jamaica in the forecasted light winds. Ren thinks it will take at least six days to cover the four hundred mile distance, again, the winds are forecasted as light.

I ripped the covers off of myself and stomped around with a sour frown on my face. It was dramatic, especially considering I had to make my point in the confined space of our cabin. All the while Ren is humming and dancing about. He is more of a morning person than I am. It’s a quality I love about him. He bounces out of bed and spreads his contagious good cheer song and dance by little song and dance. I immediately felt bad for making a tough situation worse with my crappy attitude. We worked together to haul the dinghy onto the bow of Nila Girl. By carrying the dinghy on Nila Girl instead of towing her behind us we will gain up to one knot of speed. We only tow her on shorter, one-day excursions. Ren, engine already warmed, pulled Nila Girl up to the government dock in Salt Pond where we have been beating around for the last month. Oreo was awarded one last land pee and I threw away one last bag of trash. Reluctantly, Oreo and I, answering Ren’s whistle, walked back over to Nila Girl after out ten minute land break. Ten lousy minutes to last us six days on the boat. I was looking on the voyage with trepidation. We neglected to say our goodbyes to Mike and Jackie at Long Island Breeze. We did not say goodbye to the donkey, Grey Boy, who we made friends with, visiting him nearly every day. We taught him how to play tug of war with a piece of rope in lieu of nipping at people for affection. I suppose that’s the nature of the sailing life. Unparalleled experiences, new friends, landscapes but leaving a wake of farewells behind you. You are always saying goodbye. As the captain pulled us away from the dock I said my silent goodbye, shed a tear, straightened the cockpit for travel and went back to bed.

MIDDAY
We ate leftover lobster and garlicky rice from the previous night’s “goodbye supper” for breakfast. On the side, some of the homemade blueberry jelly my Grandma canned. The rice was made garlicky by adding a pickled mixture of whole garlic cloves and gardenier mix Ren’s Mom helped us can. The mix is perfect to add a punch of flavor to anything or to eat straight, as an appetizer. The day is hot, sunny and the water a deep purple. I cried once at the thought of leaving a month’s worth of routine and new friends behind. Not to mention, the most perfect freedive training alongside world record holder, William Trubridge. We dove every single day almost, great preparation for the feat ahead. I always cry when it’s time to move on but the tears dried as Ren reminded me that we are on our way to Jamaica. The anticipation of the new adventure creeps into all the empty spaces in my heart leaving Long Island has left. I am ok again. Oreo is hot this afternoon and may get a haircut tomorrow. It is particularly hard to keep him comfortable during a passage but it is hard on all of us. Now back to “The Autobiography of Mark Twain.” Thanks Mom and Dad...and Corey for brining it over for me!

P.M.
We caught a skipjack tuna about midday. Oreo had a supper of tuna, including the roe while we had lightly seared, but slightly overcooked tuna steaks on a bed of pasta. We also caught a dolphin but readily released her since we had meat already. The tuna is going fast so we will keep the next mahi we catch. The sunset was brilliant but foreboding. Anxiety was starting to creep in as the sun hung lower and lower in the sky. I always dread the first couple of nights watch. Everything is intensified at night when veiled in a cloak of darkness. The wind blows harder, every bump against the hull is deafening as I imagine the boat twisting in half and breaking apart between waves. All of this teamed with a little sleep deprivation should be a torture technique. Tonight could be a long night punctuated with tears as I tend to get homesick while at sea. No distractions, just your thoughts and a lot of time.

The Blue Hole

Tue, 20 Mar 2012 14:27:26 -0400

To save our legs and backs from the long, desolate walk to the Stella Maris airport on Long Island, Ren and I decided at the last minute to rent a car to pick up Corey. Since the wind had been honking for days and had us immobilized in a little cut called Joe’s Sound we were stuck further away from the airport than we had intended to be. We would use the car to spend the rest of the windy day touring Long Island from North to South, beers in hand of course.

The Stella Maris airport is quaint to say the least. If you have never had the pleasure of arriving in an island nation via small aircraft, I recommend it. With nothing but a chain linked fence to separate you from the landing planes you get a free show of watching the planes come in, which doesn’t happen all that frequently. A huge contrast from the impersonal atmosphere of the Ft. Lauderdale airport, watching 747s land one after the other from a window lined wall in the airport’s Chili’s. In fact, the chain linked fence seemed a little restrictive after visiting places such as Norman’s Cay, Exuma where you look both ways before walking across the runway to get to the beach. At airports like these, you wait all day to run over to the airstrip at the one and only chance you have got in days to watch the small Cessna flying overhead pass just in front of your face as your toes inch closer and loser to the runway and the landing plane. It is a humbling feeling to be so close to the magic of a landing airplane. No amount of frequent flying prepares you for the up close and personal of a small plane.

As Corey stepped off the small plane at Stella Maris, he greeted us with a shit eater. He had already had a long day of traveling which culminated in the last leg of his flight directly over the Exumas. The diminishing excitement he was feeling from having just flown over the Bahamas with its multi-blue hues and desolate beaches, was replaced with the elation of seeing us and knowing that his vacation was not ending with the landing of the plane but just beginning. Beginning in fact with a semi-cold and sweaty beer. A Sands delivered directly to the one hand which wasn’t already occupied with baggage.

We loaded up the car, which is an overstatement as Corey packed extremely lightly, and drove South, catching up on the last four months of our lives apart from each other. The longest stint Corey and I have ever endured. Ren and I explained the nuances of living aboard Nila Girl and traveling the Bahamas. Corey’s first lesson on island living came about 20 minutes into our excursion. Two young boys in blue shirts and black slacks, undoubtedly their primary school’s colors, carrying bookbags, hailed us, Bahamian style for a ride home. The youngest of the two boys held out his arm and waved his hand up and down as if to say, “slow down”. We have come to recognize this gesture as synonymous with an outstretched thumb. Ren pulled our compact rental car over and the two boys piled in the back seat on top of Corey. The boys took turns explaining to us (rehearsing the stories they would tell their Mothers, no doubt) how they had missed their bus, probably due to gross negligence on their part, common to children that age that find themselves engrossed in an after school game demanding all of their attention. Even the attention they were supposed to reserve for watching for their bus. Corey was amazed that the boys were fearlessly hitching rides home, a feat we wouldn’t have dreamed of trying at their age, or even the age we are now if back home. It is as if the children in the Bahamas were never taught to fear the stranger, as we were, out of necessity for our safety. Here in the islands, safety from strangers seems to be a non-issue. It is like the locals have never been confronted with the deviance of strangers so have no fear to instill in their children, fear where trust should be. It helps that most of the people on the island are related in one way or another.

The three of us goofed off with the kids until we reached their home. Corey was right at home smashed in the backseat with the boys. Being a guy who has always been great with people, he had the boys smiling all the way to Millers, where they lived. After dropping the boys off, with smiles on our faces, we ventured further South with one particular destination in mind, Dean’s Blue Hole, Mecca for the competitive freediver. Making a left off of Queen’s Highway, we snaked up, down and around the sand path leading to the Blue Hole. Arriving on a small spit of beach at the end of the sand road we got out of the car and walked down onto the beach to get a better look at the hole. From the car, you could only see the effects of the intense wind, slamming waves into the side of the cliffs surrounding the hole and the whitewater of foaming waves rushing into the bay of the blue hole. Walking around the corner, the beach gradually melted into the ocean floor, creating a teal blue band of water over white sand. The teal abruptly gave way to an intense dark blue as the ocean floor fell away into over 600 feet of blue hole. The blue hole was not as large as I expected, only a punch of deep nothingness in the cliff lined bay. In the middle of the hole is the Kabah of the freediver’s Mecca, the platform installed by William Trubridge of Vertical Blue, also a world record holder. The platform is used by freedivers from all over the world to try their hand at plunging to the depths of the crevasse.

Ren, Corey and I decided to get a better view of the hole we so eagerly traveled miles via sailboat to dive. Climbing through a path lined with green vegetation up the cliffs, we reached the top of the protective natural wall of relic coral reef surrounding the hole. We perched on top of the swiss cheese rocks, shaped by time, wind, waves and the rise and fall of the sea level and peered down into the blue, getting an even better sense of the dramatic delineation between the shallow waters and the drop into the abyss. Corey was grinning into the sharp wind, up at the oppressive sun, and down at all of the possibilities of adventure this trip may have in store for him. Possibilities, he wasn’t sure of the details, but anticipating their emergence. Ren and I smiled at each other knowing that we had finally reached our first real goal in the way of freedive training for the Cayman competition, Deja Blue. It is at this spot that we planned on spending a lot of time and energy preparing for the comp, which will mark the end of the season’s cruising adventure.

We accepted beer, and Ren, a shot of Henessey, from visitors of the hole which we ran into at the top of the hill. As the rain started coming down in lazy, fat, blobs, we made our way back to the rented Nissan and adventured back North to Nila Girl.

A couple of days, and a lot of details later, we found ourselves further South from Joe’s Sound in a sport called, Salt Pond. From here we intended to hitchhike down to the blue hole for our first day of training. We packed three separate bags with dive gear, dry clothes, wallets, sunscreen and lunch and headed South down the windy, hot concrete of Queens Highway. As the day got warmer and our bags got heavier, we became more and more desperate for the reprieve from our walk. Just in time (not to be dramatic) we lucked upon a van who was willing to give us a ride. The European style van could not deliver us all the way to the blue hole but relieved us of about 10 miles of walking (out of the 30 we would need to cover). Needless to say, we would not have decided to attempt such a long trek on foot if we were not sure already of the good nature, and willingness of the locals, to pick up strangers. Our second and last deliverer picked us up less than 1/4 mile from where we were dropped off by the van. “George of the Jungle”, a self-inflicted nickname, drove a white Ford Ranger with a neatly kept truck bed. Ren jumped into the passenger seat, all the better for our crew as now we had the captain communicating directly with our ride. Maybe Ren could even sweet talk old George into carrying us all the way to the blue hole (which he did). Corey and I rode in the bed of the truck, heads bobbing, as the Ranger plugged along. We shared huge smiles, liberated, riding in the back of a stranger’s truck, speeding down the highway with the wind on our teeth and our futures uncertain. There was only the “now”. The exact moment we were in where all responsibilities and stress melted in the hot sun and was carried away by the wind. Problems to worry about later, or never again if we could surrender to each and every moment in the now. Problems left in the dusty wake of a white Ford Ranger. George stopped once to grab himself a beer, drinking a roady and driving is not uncommon in the Bahamas, apparently you just can’t get drunk. George bought the beer and jumped back in. The short, tight dreadlocks that covered his head swayed back and forth around every turn. His dark, black skin in sharp contrast to the sparkling white truck. The bright sun illuminated the disparity of the black and white. It was a beautiful sight, a beautiful moment.

George of the Jungle turned left onto the long dirt road leading to Dean’s Blue Hole. This time, as we approached the blue-turquoise bays leading up to the hole, anxiety crept up my spine. I had to shake my body to keep the tremors at bay. The anxiety was not negative or foreboding in any way. I then gave in to the sensation. It felt as if Kundalini herself, the coiled snake, had awakened and began her ascent up my spine. This intense sense of awakening, all in anticipation of the freedom we were about to explore through the two training dives we had planned. Even better, for the first time, I was going to share the solitude of the depth not just with Ren, but with my brother too. It sounds like a contradiction, to share solitude, but it’s really jut the illusion of the solitude you are enjoying. The momentary silence and independence delivered during a depth dive.

For the second time we pulled up to the deep blue hole. I stared at the diving platform anchored out in the hole. The platform contains an arm with a line suspended down into the depths. The diving line, as the Beowolf antagonist, Grendall, would say, “...is the brute existence by which I define myself.” It is this line that I will follow down to the depths, as deep as my mind and ears will let me get before I am forced to turn around and start the dreaded ascent to the surface, the reality check of the dive. After about 40 minutes of donning the wetsuit, warming up, and getting into the proper mental place, I made my first depth training dive of the season. 30 meters just to get out the kinks. Corey and Ren spent their time talking about the proper warm up routine and attempting practice dives. Unfortunately, whatever funk Corey brought from NC (and eventually passed on to us) was making equalizing his ears and sinuses impossible. No worries though, just being in the blue hole is enough. Not to mention my excitement at my brother seeing me dive for the first time ever, in real life, not just on video. 30 meters felt like just stretching the legs so I breathed up for 5 more minutes and plunged down to 40 meters. Other than a little arm fatigue the dive felt great. Maybe the elation was from having knocked 40 meters off, meaning the next dive could be even deeper putting me closer and closer to the record. Maybe the elation was from having Ren and my brother there for the first real dives I have made in a while. I believe the elation was from feeling for the first time that I may just pull off getting the record. Since this day I have made more dives to 50, 55 and 60 meters. Just 5 more meters down, 5 up and I will be satisfied.

We celebrated the dives with a short trip to one of the adjacent bays. Corey and Ren snorkeled around, hunting for some lobster or conchs while I stayed on the beach, basking in the sun and the new and welcomed self-assurance that flooded my brain. The boys emerged from the blue and brought home the proverbial bacon in the form of Spanish (slipper) lobster. We had a lunch out of a bag we had brought from home. Leftover black beans, rice and plantains wrapped in tortillas with a shared grapefruit and orange. Not to miss the return trip promised to us by George of the Jungle, we hiked out and caught our ride. The trip only got better when the Ranger pulled of the highway onto the rock parking area at Max’s Conch Bar, where we ordered beers and two bowls of fresh conch salad. When I say fresh, I mean Gary, the guy behind the bar with the machete chopping up conch salad, went around to the back of the little blue shack with palm fronds for a roof and plucked two conchs out of a pile. We watched Gary masterfully extrude and clean two conchs in minutes. A feat that takes Ren and I no less than 10 minutes per conch and includes us ripping the skin off the raw flesh of the conch with our teeth, really tapping into our animal natures. Corey loved the conch salad and I regret to inform that we never did find fresh conch to harvest ourselves while Corey was here. He would learn to be satisfied with fish and lobster. He would also succeed in spearing a lobster himself.

We sat there on our respective bar stools under the shade of the palm fronds. Corey and I searched the walls of the little open air shack which were lined with license plates from all over the place. Desperately scanning for a NC tag, we enjoyed our cold beers and again, embraced the overwhelming gratitude rising up in us for the fortune of the day, the weather and the reunion.

Nila Girl's "Gourmet" Galley #3

Tue, 6 Mar 2012 03:22:55 -0400

Please note the “ “ around “gourmet” in the title of the Nila Girl’s “Gourmet” Galley blog entries. These “ “ act as a disclaimer so that you will not expect each entry to be a life changing work of art. Far from it even. Sometimes I would like to report on what we eat when the cookey does not feel like cooking. What goes on in Nila Girl’s galley when we have spent the day freedive training and only have enough energy left for the most basic meal?

It is my job to feed the family. Only on the rare occasion can I complain my way out of this essential duty. In the same rare way that Ren can convince me to get out of bed, get dressed and dinghy Oreo over to the beach for his pee-pee, way before I am ready to move; I can con Ren into making up some vittles for us. When I will not cook and he will not be convinced to take over, we resort to our family smorgasborgs.

Smorgasborg supper is a long standing lazy supper tradition passed down to me from my family. Mom, Dad, Corey and I would gather around a kitchen counter, armed with knives, cutting up cheese, pickles, pepperoni and sometimes olives. We would take the cutting board, now loaded with the recently cut goodies, into the living room and make toppling towers with the bits of food stacked too high on top of saltine crackers. We never called the meal smorgasborg, we just called it “crackers and cheese”. The name, smorgasborg, is unique to Ren and myself. The simple meal/snack of goodies was expanded to include bananas, raisins, sun dried tomatoes, leftover bits of fish, simply EVERYTHING from the fridge. We add and add to our own cutting board until it resembles a veritable smorgasborg, a plentiful buffet fit for a king. We know the meal is fit for a king because we tried it out on King Oreo. He approves of smorgasborg night mostly because we must drop more food on the floor as bits of overcrowded food are pushed closer and closer to the edge of the cutting board with every swipe of carrot through blue cheese dressing. As I scoop up a handful of raisins and pair them with a couple of green olives I taste the pungent cheddar cheese and salty pepperoni of my past. I enjoy the flavor until my tastebuds are assaulted with the conflicting tastes of raisins and olives.

Funny how food does that. It becomes the bookmark by which we remember past experiences or the vivid tastes of food for the first time. Something about taste and flavors sends signals to the brain, singeing memories into our psyches to be recalled at the next bite. You may taste bitterness every time you eat scrambled eggs, recalling the harsh words your parents screamed right before their divorce as you sat by, eating scrambled eggs and ketchup. A cheap hot dog made perfectly with ketchup, mustard and too many raw onions (that you will not doubt regret later) may conger up memories of running around with your teammates at the ball park growing up. Waiting, and eating hot dogs, before your game began. I will never eat pasta fagioli again without thinking of my Papa and the last meal I remember eating with him, pasta fagioli he had made, cluttered with bright green peas. Tacos were a favorite in my family. We ate tacos often but still not enough for my taste. I remember sometimes running out of sour cream and substituting mayonnaise on our tortillas. I secretly loved the mayonnaise substitution. Not a tear was shed by me when we ran out of sour cream. For some reason, I did not transition from a sour cream to mayo user in my adult life. I use the obligatory sour cream on my tacos like everyone else, except I long for the mayo...or the taste of childhood. As I sit here writing, I am also in the process of making burritos for lunch. Maybe today I’ll use mayo.

Awake

Tue, 6 Mar 2012 02:15:00 -0400

I am sitting here on one of our saloon cushions at 1:15am. At this point, I have already slept for five hours and will go back to sleep after I get out a bit of restless energy. This kind of midnight sleeplessness happens often now that we are on a boat, without jobs and without a grueling social schedule. After routinely getting plenty of sleep night after night, the body readjusts to it’s new rhythm. A more natural rhythm that doesn’t leave the body starved for sleep. Down in the early evening, up in the morning with a midnight interlude to the sleep. During the usually quiet, middle of the night, sleep respite is the perfect time to surf the internet if any is available, read a book, or write if the mood strikes. Sometimes it is Ren awake, sometimes me, but rarely both because as soon as one of us wakes up, the other one instinctively stretches their cramped limbs and discovers they have the entire bed to themselves. Whoever is not awake slips into an even deeper sleep as they stretch horizontally across the bed. The v-berth, when occupied by only one person, is the roomiest spot on Nila Girl. Tomorrow, Ren will be well rested, bright eyed and bushy tailed after ten or eleven hours of uninterrupted sleep.

At this moment, the wind has been howling for twenty-four hours straight. A cold front has moved through and Nila Girl is confined to a narrow strip of water called Joe’s Cut located on the northwest side of Long Island. We made it here two days ago from the balmy and bustling, Georgetown, Exuma and the Captain deemed this place adequate protection during the strong bluster, scheduled to keep our hair tangled for four days. The blowing wind has offered a unique chance for us to catch up on boat chores. Today I scrapped glue off the cabin floor while Ren wired an outlet to the v-berth. I placed random artwork and pictures in attractive places around the boat while Ren replaced the hinge on one of the lockers. The blowing wind allowed me to finish reading Kate Chopin’s, The Awakening, without guilt.

When the wind is too strong to sail with, you can use it to rest instead but only after you have adjusted to the sounds of a boat trapped in an intense weather pattern. The howling is exacerbated against the hull of the boat with small waves splashing against Nila Girl. Every ill-adjusted halyard running up the mast is audible as it smacks up against the metal. Ting, ting, ting, ting....arrrgh! The wind is restful after the first 12 hour period of the storm. The 12 hours you spend adjusting every ineffectual piece of line and chain to keep it’s clamoring from climbing up your spine while you try to sleep. Ah, to be blessed with one deaf ear, as I was. I never really thought I would find a practical purpose for my disability but then again, I never knew I would be living on a boat either. My stormy nights are simplified by turning over on my left side, exposing my useless right ear to Nila Girl’s commotion. The Captain resents my potential as he gets up for the tenth time of the night to adjust this or that, because I cannot hear the ruckus outside, but he has his own useful gifts including near x-ray vision, which is annoying to me since I have undergone surgery to improve my eyesight and I still find my capacity for long distance vision inferior to his natural talent. Oh well, I get over it quick as I turn on my left side and fall fast asleep during the weather fronts.

My brother, Corey is scheduled to fly in the day after tomorrow. I will spend another windy day tomorrow making two batches of hummus so we have plenty to snack on while he is here. I worry a bit about the duration of this wind storm since it is Corey’s first vacation in a long time, his first trip overseas, and his first time visiting calm, clear, beautiful waters such as those Ren and I enjoy every day here in the Bahamas. I hate that instead of leaning his head against the window pain of the small engine plane he is taking from Nassau to Long Island, mouth agape, as he flies over miles of blue, turquoise, and even bluer waters, spotting sharks, fish and sailboats along the way, he will instead be seated upright, white knuckled, gripping the armrests on either side of him, visualizing the small plane catching a gust of the stiff wind, throwing it off course, careening in a death spiral out of the grey sky down to the white capping seas below. The waves swallowing the plane, burping in contentment with it’s latest meal. Maybe my imagination has run away with me from slack of ten hour straight sleep, or better yet, maybe my brain is turning to mush from all of the sleep. Either way, this is what I worry about as I wait for my brother to arrive. I will pass the time tomorrow preparing for his arrival by making the hummus and finishing up my weekly meal plan.

Corey will spend his first day here, a windy day, with us on the boat instead of jumping directly into the water to harvest supper as we had hoped. But the weather will clear by the next day and we will enjoy a half-day family sail south down the coast of Long Island, finishing up the day with the long awaited dive session. Making sure to harvest Corey’s first lobster supper of his trip. It’s not just the diving I’m excited to share with my brother. It’s everything he hasn’t seen yet. Buying warm coconut bread from one of the local bakeries, shopping in an ill stocked “grocery store” but still finding yourself eating better than you ever could at home, ordering a sweaty Kalik from the only restaurant in town, tasting the Kalik and realizing it is actually terrible beer but nothing short of a cold, canned Budweiser after mowing grass in 90 degree weather could taste better at that moment, toting the laundry to a laundromat on the dinghy while the waves come over the bow and soak you in saltwater, taking pictures of the “end of the road” whatever that may be, walking half way through the island to the top of a hill where you can see both the mighty Atlantic Ocean and the calm Exuma Sound at the same time, passage making on Nila Girl, trying to get a glimpse of the flamingo flocks in the Acklin Islands, not to mention, just chilling in the cockpit with the full moon overhead and a candle flickering on our cockpit table sharing wine and a lobster supper catching up after the longest period we have ever spent apart...ever. It is going to be great to have our little brother on board.

Nila Girl's "Gourmet" Galley #2

Sat, 25 Feb 2012 10:26:53 -0400

It seems that of all the foods we crave while adventuring on Nila Girl, which are many, pizza is at the top of the list. It’s hard to find descent pizza in the Bahamas and if you do, it’s not likely to be worth the pretty penny you would spend on it. Ren and I crave Antonio’s Commentatore pie from back home. Lots of sauce, garlic, eggplant, basil and two cheeses perfectly melted on top with just the right amount of cheese grease drip when you fold a slice in half. We miss ordering out a Commentatore and drinking one beer each while we wait for the pizza to be ready for pick up. We pick up the pie and eat it with lots of crushed red pepper while taking in a movie projected on a king sized sheet in our old living room. Next year, we’re bringing the projector with us on our cruise.

As Banff of Pavana, Ren and I perused the grocery aisles in Spanish Wells, Eleuthera, we brainstormed about the night’s supper. Within minutes, and almost jokingly, Ren sighed, “Pizza would be good.” I groaned and immediately started pouting, knowing that this wasn’t an option until Banff, a beacon of light on our grim pizza situation, said, “Alright, let’s do the pizza thing.” Banff already had the whole wheat flour and yeast needed to make the dough, which was really the only limiting factor. Pavana was also adequately overstocked with everything we would need for the top of the pizza or anything else your culinary heart desired. In short, Pavana was like a floating grocery store, but not Food Lion. Pavana was a Whole Foods or Fresh Market, complete with organic selections and vegan options. I think I spent a total of $40 shopping at ‘Groceries a la Pavana’. Anyway, Banff already had pizza sauce, soy cheese, jalapenos and mahi to be grilled and added to the top. Nila Girl isn’t exactly shabbily stocked herself. She was to contribute fresh parmesan, straight off the block (thanks to a little Italian ancestry) and a nice big salad with all the fixings. We picked up some mushrooms to add to the top, payed out and met Oreo at the grocery store sliding doors where he was keeping a close eye on the golf cart we rented.

Eager to get back to the boat and start the dough, we finished our uneventful self-guided golf cart tour of Spanish Wells and hopped back into Banff’s dinghy to head back to the strong ships...

Digression:
Spanish Wells was uneventful if you consider I stayed up half the night researching the small island and it’s history of inbreeding. It is safe to say that I became momentarily obsessed with the history of Spanish Wells, which includes Anglo-Saxon settlers, racial pride, and a long line of inbreeding. I searched the internet for pictures of the people and family trees with branches intertwining like the trunk of a ficus. Needless to say, I was disappointed when we got there. First, the long history of inbreeding was not readily apparent in the people. They looked normal, just with a backwoods sense of style. Second, the place reminded me of my hometown of Richlands, NC but Richlands about 30 years ago. Industrious people with a big red streak in a mostly white town. Nothing unusual about Spanish Wells if you are already from the rural south.

We needed to shower, feed Oreo and pack our “supper time bag” (a waterproof bag made of recycled sailcloth by Ella Vicker’s Recycled Sailcloth Collection, perfect for keeping food items dry on the wet floor of a dinghy) for Pavana. Snapping photos of the locals while heading out of the harbor area, I spotted something strikingly red floating in the water. so red, it reminded me of that scene from the book, The Giver, where the young giver gets his first glimpse of color in an otherwise black and white world. The color he saw was red and the imagery was powerful. We approached the bobbing red objects with caution until...holy geez! The floating red balls were bright ripe tomatoes with the occasional red bell pepper sprinkled in. Apparently a box of fresh tomatoes and peppers had fallen off the dock right into the dinghy’s path, and nobody was claiming them. Guess what goes surprisingly great on pizza...yep! Tomatoes and red bell peppers.

Banff weaved in and out of the crimson gates as Ren and I stretched to retrieve very piece of valuable food we could. Trust me, if retrieving floating food with a dinghy was an olympic sport, we would be representing Team USA. A local, who was working on his boat engine nearby (I told you they were industrious people), noticed us scrambling and joined in on the aqua-harvest. He relinquished his bounty to us poor sailors and we greedily grabbed the goodies. Besides being on a budget, we were Team USA of the Aqua-Harvest event, not him. He should check himself! Ah but the pizza was looking better and better. We wiped the drool from our mouths with our sleeves and continued on to the boats.

The four of us, Oreo was always welcomed on Pavana, met back up on Banff’s boat around 6:30 or 7:00, all freshly showered and hungry. Banff had already let the dough rise and it was time for the art to begin. Ren saddled up on the settee with a cold Budweiser and watched the magic happen. Oreo sat right between my feet and waited for me to drop some magic on the floor. Banff worked on shaping the whole wheat dough and grilling the fish while I threw together the salad and prepped the toppings for the pizza. Cucumbers, chopped spinach, grated parmesan, tomatoes, squash, zucchini and some basil colorfully lit up the stainless steel mixing bowl the salad was contained in. For a dressing, I mixed together olive oil and pear infused balsamic vinaigrette. Banff opted for Amy’s Goddess dressing (a noble choice). When the pizza dough was sculpted, Banff added jarred tomato sauce and swirled in spoonfuls of my Nonnie’s homemade pesto, which I will be bringing a lot more of for our next cruise. Pesto is good for a lot more than just pizza and pasta, folks. The base of the pizza was painted perfectly with the sauces before flaked bits of lightly seasoned, grilled mahi were sprinkled in. The already radiant pizza required some more green so chopped spinach and jalapenos were thrown on top. The tomatoes and red bel peppers we found were sliced and delicately arranged on the bed of spinach, offsetting the green. A few sliced mushrooms, the yellow soy cheese and white parmesan...voila! The beauty of the meshing pizza ingredients made the raw colors palatable.

Banff popped our canvas into the oven and the three of us started giggling in anticipation. Oreo did not giggle. In fact, he was pretty pissed that I had prepared my share of the meal without dropping a single slice of anything. Don’t worry, he always gets his share of, well, everything that we cook. So that we didn’t start gnawing our fingers off, we passed the pizza cooking time in the most painless way possible. Ren and I cracked open a couple of beers and the crew settled in for two episodes of the hilarious TV series, 30 Rock. The laughter was the only thing strong enough to distract our appetites. Of course, we checked on the pizza no less than four times while watching. The hardest ten minutes of the evening came when the pizza was taken out of the oven and placed on the counter to cool. Who’s idea was it to let food cool anyway? We stared at the pie and suffered through the last ten minutes of our second episode.

Finally, the moment arrived. The pizza was judiciously served in even amounts to prevent WWIII. Since I am an athlete in training, i got a fair share of the pie too, despite being of the fairer sex. The salad was dispersed, a mere afterthought lying next to the pizza. A fluffy side dish to keep our slices comfortable before we devoured them. We ate, savoring every bite, while watching a third episode of 30 Rock. If you haven’t seen the show yet, you’re walking backwards. We shared a solitary tear when supper was finished and the dishes were licked clean. Banff took Nila Girl’s crew back to our boat and we said our goodbyes. You see, homemade pizza was the perfect last supper to share with our new friend on Pavana. We parted ways with a good taste left in our mouths, already eager for our next encounter with Banff.