TRAVELING. It leaves you speechless, then turns you into a storyteller.
After a year at sea, I have a few stories to tell. They have been percolating for a while, but the perfectionist/procrastinator in me wouldn’t let them loose until they were just right, and in order, and accompanied by edited pictures. Somewhere along the line, early in 2017, I abandoned detailing every new island, every dinghy ride to shore, every fish caught, dolphin spotted, snorkeling splash. And the more miles we put under our keels, the more I couldn’t write about the present unless I had finished sharing the past. And that was the beginning of the end of the blog. That was 2017 Ziggy.
2018 Ziggy has a plan. With the turn of a calendar page I am giving myself permission to tell the stories in any order I want, about what I want. No chronological tales, no 5 images to a blog ratio. Just stories. How we finally broke the vegetarians’ silent mantra Wish for no Fish and landed two 10 pound tuna on a beam reach up to the northern tip of Bonaire. Or the time we bounced to the beat at the Dinghy Concert in Grenada. Or how no island is perfect but they all come pretty close – be it the wines, bread and cheese of the French Islands, the bluest waters of Antigua, the kindest people in Grenada, the schools of fish in the reefs of Bonaire, the beach bars, conch fritters and mooring sites of the BVI, the sandless waters off Bottom in Saba. Sometimes the best stories lie in the miles between the islands, when it’s just Windancer and the crew rolling across the vast blue.
And then there is the Schadenfreude side of our trip – the trial and tribulations of life on a boat. Seems people love to hear about the woes. Now, some of the woes may seem like the complaints of spoiled old white people sailing in the Caribbean, but this is a part of boat life. How at times I would trade a year of sunsets for unlimited hot showers, air conditioning and the ease of popping out to the grocery store. Ok, maybe not 365 sunsets, but when it has been 29o for a year and you have wiped out down the stairs slipping on human sweat, you just may get a touch of boat fever. Or when one of you is blessed cursed with a super sensitive nose that can smell something fishy in the head, only to discover the bait ball ballet under the hulls meant tiny minnows swam up your water intake valves. Every time you press your Raritan Elegance toilet switch (an oxymoron if there ever was one), you flush in a gallon of dead-fish infused water. Or when you discover a slow leak has filled the starboard bilge and is seeping over the floor boards boards while in 14ft seas with squalls blowing in and you took your seasick pills too late and you can see the lights of Puerto Rico and the crew democratically votes to keep going, and all you want to do is cry. Those are the tales I should be telling.
These stories are really for John and me; if we don’t start writing it down, the years will slip away and our journey with all its beauty will simply fade into memories. So, I am going to start to tell our stories; I invite you to follow along. I make no promises, commit to no deadlines. 2018 Ziggy may be writing, but you can’t abandon a lifetime of self-inflicted perfectionism overnight.