Life at sea

Change is the defining factor of the sea. Over time, at sea, change comes to define you, too.

One week ago today, at this precise moment, I was sitting at a bustling seaside canteen, on a wooden bench piled high with my two over-stuffed backpacks and camera bag, waiting for a 4,000-French-Pacific-Franc-taxi to the Nuku Hiva airport. As I sat I sipped the canteen’s home-brewed lemonade, scratched the ears of the friendly brown island pups who padded by, and listened to the locals’ morning chatter, all in French.

 Island dog. ©Erica Cirino

Island dog. ©Erica Cirino

One week ago today I embarked on the beginning of the end of a 2,300-nautical mile sailing expedition from Honolulu, Hawaii, to Tai-o-Hae, Nuku Hiva, Marquesas, French Polynesia, with eight Danish sailors and scientists. What stood between me and the end of the journey–my home in New York–was 24 hours, a stretch of time over which I’d fly more than 10,000 miles. Before touching down in New York, my airplanes would stop in Tahiti, and Hawaii — where it all started.

Hawaii. I remember the night we left, Honolulu, vividly. As our ship motored out of Kewalo Basin Harbor’s rocky mouth toward the Pacific, the sky and water were endless and black, the same dark entity. The world was opened up to our exploration and enjoyment. While we could still feel the security Honolulu’s warm city lights, we hoisted the jib and cut the engine, surging forward over waves warm and wild on wind power alone. Sailing into the unknown.

 Leaving Honolulu. ©Erica Cirino

Leaving Honolulu. ©Erica Cirino

The unknown. The sea is always changing, but over time its actions fall into familiar patterns. Day after day the sun rises, the sun sets. Waves crest and break. Wind speeds and slows and blows into new directions over the blue undulating waters. Change is the defining factor of the sea. Over time, at sea, change comes to define you, too.

 Waves and sky. ©Erica Cirino

Waves and sky. ©Erica Cirino

You. You might think you have a reason to go to sea. Many people do. Many hope to find something. Many hope to find themselves. I did. I went to sea twice, each time wishing to come off the boat a different person than when I stepped on board. But I didn’t change in the ways I expected. Each time I sought more peace, and instead I uncovered inner turmoil that I started to confront; each time I sought confidence, and instead I discovered insecurities that I began to try to cope with. I learned that inner change is inevitable at sea, but that it’s impossible to predetermine what it is about you that will change. Crossing the sea has just been the start of the larger spiritual journey of my life; there will always be more work to be done, more room for change–I feel that deeply, humbly.

 A portrait on my most recent sailing expedition. ©Rasmus Hytting

A portrait on my most recent sailing expedition. ©Rasmus Hytting

The journey. At sea you are forced to cope with both your wildest dreams and your most tormenting demons. The sea itself is a fantastical dreamscape: blue and sparkling, brimming with life — leaping dolphins, gliding birds, splashing fish. It’s home to the most intense sunrises and sunsets on Earth. And out there, the intensity of the sea sets your soul on fire.

 Sunrise with seabird. ©Erica Cirino

Sunrise with seabird. ©Erica Cirino

Intensity. About two weeks into the journey, it hits you how isolated you are from the colleagues, friends and family members you interact with on a regular basis on land. Your days at sea are different than the days you spend on land. There are fewer distractions out here. You eat, you sleep, you talk, you steer the ship, you raise sails, you turn winches, you tie knots, you cook, you clean. That’s about it. There’s no Instagram or Facebook, text messages or phone calls, emails or television. Life at sea is intense because there is no way for you to escape, to enter an alternate reality. You are here and must deal with the discomfort, you must embrace the intensity until it becomes your intensity.

 Sailing-scape. ©Erica Cirino

Sailing-scape. ©Erica Cirino

The discomfort. We shower, wash and cook with seawater for 23 days. Our toilet is a bucket that wants to skitter across the deck when we try to sit on it. Our clothes are slick and smelly. Our hair is greasy. Our hands are calloused. We tan and burn beneath the strong equatorial sun. We eat from cans and boxes and the occasional fish from the sea. We sleep in shifts throughout the day, coming together during mealtime. Sometimes the closeness is too much. But over time your crew becomes your family, and you accept that. I learned to live like this, for 23 days, and then for 11 more after we arrived in Nuku Hiva, anchoring in the bay but still living on the ship.

 Malene Møhl and Torsten Geertz bird watch from the cockpit of S/Y Christianshavn. ©Erica Cirino

Malene Møhl and Torsten Geertz bird watch from the cockpit of S/Y Christianshavn. ©Erica Cirino

Living. By now I’m back home, back in my apartment in New York–alone save for my sweet dog, who seems to have aged over the two months I’ve been away. It’s cold outside but radiant heat keeps my studio cozy. Here I have a shower with warm, pressurized, running water. Here I have a stationary toilet that flushes. Here I have two sinks and a too-large refrigerator filled with fresh produce, beer and chocolate from the grocery store down the street. Here I have my car, internet and a cellular connection, social media and work, friends who text and colleagues who email. I know I have changed because I am consistently uncomfortable with these things that have not changed, while I’ve been away.

I have changed. Since coming back home, I have begun to consider my values, my happiness. I’ve asked myself what it is I want to get out of life, what makes me feel fulfilled. Today what pleases me are not the luxuries of life on land but the knowledge that I can cope with the discomforts of life at sea. That I can embrace the intensity required to entertain my dreams and stand off with my demons and still come out the other side ok, alive.

Alive. I miss the raw realness of life at sea.

 Sunrise wave on the Pacific. ©Erica Cirino

Sunrise wave on the Pacific. ©Erica Cirino

Life, death and sea lions

 Sea lions in Monterey Bay, California. ©Erica Cirino

Sea lions in Monterey Bay, California. ©Erica Cirino

In the early morning haze

I watch a hundred or more

Wet, round, brown bodies 

Flip, flop and shimmy

Through sparkling blue waves.

Sea lions.

They are gaping, gasping for air 

As they heft their mass across the sea. 

I had, up to that point,

No idea that sea lions were capable

Of such a laborious task,

Normally I see them socializing or

Resting on rock rookeries.

Out here they must move fast

To avoid sharks and killer whales.

By the speed at which they move

I can tell they are clearly aware

Of the possibility of attack.

And so I contemplate

Whether or not sea lions 

Live in fear of death, 

Like so many people do.

Or if they just forge ahead,

Heaving up and out of the water,

Straight into a place of danger–

Of sharks and killer whales–

Driven by the necessities 

Of finding food

And a place to rest 

And breed and build a life.

I do not think sea lions

Live in fear because 

Even the imminence of death

Does not hold them back 

From diving into the unknown.

Today the sea lions appear full of life

Because they live without fear. 

Originally published to Medium on October 7, 2017. 

New stories by me to read - September

A Day in the Great Pacific Garbage Patch

If you’ve ever wondered what it’s really like to cross one of the most plastic-polluted parts of the world, you should check out this video.

Danish environmental nonprofit Plastic Change completed the last leg of its two-year expedition collecting microplastic samples across several seas and two oceans last fall. The final part of the journey took the crew from Los Angeles, California, to Honolulu, Hawaii, in 23 days. Before that the organization had sailed its sloop “S/Y Christianshavn” from Denmark through the Mediterranean, across the Atlantic, through the Caribbean, through the Panama Canal to the Galápagos, and then up to California. I accompanied them on their L.A.-to-Hawaii sail to witness and document what is considered one of the worst-polluted stretches of ocean in the world, the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. This video outlines one day (Day 14) of the group’s scientific research at sea, as well as major ideas related to the world’s plastic pollution problem. Mange tak to Plastic Change for taking me on board. 

Video credit: ©Erica Cirino.

Meet me in the sea

 Green sea turtle and divers, Honolulu, Hawaii. August 2017. ©Erica Cirino

Green sea turtle and divers, Honolulu, Hawaii. August 2017. ©Erica Cirino

I’ve been long drawn to the ocean, 

Its depth, its breadth, 

The way it crashes on shorelines

Vast and varied, on sand or shell,

The ocean doesn’t discriminate

Where and on what it breaks.

The ocean is unrelenting, 

The ocean is dynamic, 

The ocean is life.

It reminds me to live deeply,

Not necessarily comfortably or easily,

But to inhale life slowly and fully,

Drawing it in and breathing it out rhythmically

Like the steady streams of air I take and give

Through my diving regulator

When I’m a few dozen feet below the surface

When I kick, kick, kick my finned feet smoothly

So I can hover just above a coral reef, in the thick of

Streams of swift and sparkling fish, just above 

Several somnolent sea turtles and swirling sea grasses,

Where, nearby, I see sleek whales and dolphins swimming and playing

Sharks and rays shimmying, gliding fast with little effort,

And jellyfish bobbing up and down through the water column.

The sea is full of life, 

And, I realize, we are life, 

Like coral, a fish or a turtle, a piece of sea grass,

Like a whale or a dolphin; a shark, a ray or a jellyfish.

All of us exist together in this sea. 

The question is: Once the water gets deeper,

Once you’re surrounded by sharks,

Do you flee to the surface or sink to the bottom, 

Or do you suspend yourself

In that deep sapphire blue water of existence?

In this ocean, I hope you seek the depths,

In this ocean, I hope you’ll join me here.

Originally posted to Medium on September 1, 2017.