The Emotional Lowdown

“Winston seems ecstatic about our fast-approaching departure. I must confess that I feel little or no excitement burning in my veins.”
– Len Sherman, Arctic Odyssey

On yesterday morning’s regular bike ride, Savai got teary. “This is the last time we’ll ever do this,” she said. So it was a bit awkward when we reached the bus stop and everyone asked, “Are you excited???”

Savai shrugged.

“Are you sad?”

Savai shrugged.

“Are you nervous?”

Savai looked at me.

“It’s like a sushi roll,” I said, putting an arm around her. “A lot of emotions in one big bite.”

Savai is not the only one who’s been feeling a little bit of everything, all the time. One might think that, for an adult at least, transitioning from the daily grind to the cruising life would be a fireworks show of anticipation and giddy delight, but all winter as people asked if I was excited, I thought: Um. I mean, intellectually I knew I wanted to go cruising with my family, but I didn’t feel that intense excitement pulsing through my veins. I wanted to feel it, but I didn’t. And, truth be told, I struggled with an uncomfortable combination of sorrow, stress, and fear—and some funky winter brain chemistry—as we prepared our boat and family to head north.

Sorrow

Life ashore is good; it’s hard to let go. All winter I was keenly aware of living through a series of lasts—last Christmas at home with extended family, last annual visit with our Canadian friends, last invasion of half a dozen children for a birthday party. Gearing up to say goodbye to home and community, family and friends, even my regular workday has been emotional.

Stress

This winter I woke an hour or two before my alarm every morning, my mind buzzing with tasks tasks tasks. Ready the boat. Pack the house. Prepare for a new way of living—all while trying to keep normal life running semi-smoothly for the kids. But it was a domino chain. Couldn’t fit the mattress in the master bunk until the boat was no longer a construction zone. Boat would remain a construction zone until we found renters for the house. Couldn’t find renters for the house till we got that master bunk mattress out of the middle of the family room. It was a mess of stress. But each day brought us one or two—or on good days, a dozen—tasks closer.

Fear

But closer to what? I still don’t really know. I know we will head north June 2nd with Graeme’s folks aboard, my folks on their own boat for the first leg, and our friends/crew, Becca and John, in a chase boat. I know the girls, the grandparents, and I will fly home from Sitka June 26th, and Becca and John and our good friend Eli will help Graeme take Dogbark around western Alaska to Nome. I know the girls and I will rejoin Dogbark in Nome July 15th, and the six of us will make our way, grace willing, through the Northwest Passage. At least this is the plan; cruising plans are always made in Jell-O. But will we safely avoid the melting ice? Will Dogbark’s (still-not-working-quite-right) diesel heater keep us warm enough? Will we bicker over colored pencils (as the girls did this morning) until we want to throw each other overboard? Will we thrive homeschooling, or will we dive? And will the dubious blessing of the Northwest Passage, its historic opening a cataclysmic effect of global warming, add a healthy sense of urgency and education to the trip … or a heartbreaking sense of doom?

It’s a lot to think about. But a conversation with a dear friend helped me remember that the ultimate answer to all of these questions is yes. And no. Just like in our regular life ashore, we will be safe and we will face risks. We will be comfortable and we will be uncomfortable. We will like it and we will not like it. Our family will thrive; our family will struggle. And the Northwest Passage will challenge us and teach us and make us feel a million emotions we can only guess at, emotions like joy, wonder, excitement and sorrow, stress, and fear. In other words, my friend reminded me, life will go on being lifey. And I will go on being me—feeling the world intensely in both mind and body—as we go.

There’s this notion that people who quit their jobs, sell their possessions, and pursue a B-HAG (big, hairy, audacious goal) like sailing the world’s oceans must be made of different mettle or be totally crazy or be extremely brave. I don’t actually feel crazy. (In need of more serotonin sometimes? Yes. Crazy? No.) And I don’t feel particularly brave. Graeme, my partner and our ship’s captain, struggles with his own fears and worries too. (Though they often involve things like diodes and GRIB files and goopy tubes of 5200 rather than which comforter combination will make our bedding warm enough.) We’ve stayed up talking many a night—or whispered about our worries in the wee mornings—as these months and seasons of preparation have marched by.

But it’s spring now. We leave from Port Townsend next Saturday. And I no longer feel mired in sorrow, stress, and fear. In fact, I feel excitement—the burning-in-my-veins kind!—for this big, hairy, audacious goal. There’s still a jillion things to do but, with lots of help, we’re knocking them off (and accepting that many will be done underway) and getting darn close to ready. So now I just feel grateful. Grateful for all the help and well wishes from family, friends, and neighbors. Grateful to have the resources, financial and otherwise, to go on this incredible adventure. And grateful for my dear people and my mate who listen in the lows, celebrate the highs, and support me no matter what drumroll of emotions whizz and bang in my chest.

My adaptation of an old sea saying:
“The sea teaches us to sail the wind we have. Not the wind we wish we had. Not the wind we thought we’d have. Not the wind we ought to have. But the wind that’s at our back, or nonexistent, or blowing a gale in the teeth right now.”