One hundred years of sailitude
The first tall ship voyage I ever went on was in 2023 on the 1877 Iron Barque Elissa from St. Petersburg Florida USA to Galveston Texas USA. One the second day of the seven day voyage I was not having a good time. My sleep was poor and I found myself regretting my decision with no alternative but to endure my situation. One the second night of the voyage, the captain decided that we needed to furl the fore royal just as sun was setting and sent me higher into the rigging than I had ever been under a purple orange sky. When I reached the yard and finished securing my gaskets, I looked up to see a giant peach a few feet from my face. There, under the full moon in the Gulf of Mexico, I resolved to never complain about sailing again. All sea voyages are echoes of previous voyages. Fair weather begets foul weather begets calm seas begets rough seas and so on and so forth ad infinitum.
... BUT, if someone were not resolved to not complain about conditions under way, then one might consider portraying in a negative light the lack of privacy while at sea. It wouldn’t be entirely fair to say a lack of privacy so much as a lack of solitude, the time when one sits in silent reflection of their own thoughts and experiences. A crew member on the Bark Europa remarked of One hundred years of solitude as being “the book where everyone has the same names.” On a ship with no less than two Phils, two Laurens, a Carl, Karl and Carlos, dozens of hims and hers, 20 “clews” and 45 “sheets” it seems unfair to critique repeated nomenclature. As in the book, life aboard the Bark Europa has a meter of repetition.
Away from land there is an illusion that we can “disconnect.” However, the human condition of connection does not begin and end and the length of a constant internet connection and we find other ways to binge without streaming. Biographies, preferences, opinions and all manner of exchange between strangers become the episodes that we promise “just one more” before going to bed too late and waking too early.
And every morning a sailor is born anew from their berths as though for the first time. Sleeping below the waterline, you are reminded of your time growing inside your mother, the whooshing of the ocean undoubtedly similar to the first sounds you heard even before you took your first breath. For some, the birth is easy, with a gentle tap alerting that it is time for breakfast before stepping out into the morning light. For others, coming into the world a sailor is more difficult, being jostled out of bed with hushed voices in a dark room before the sun rises, wondering the heeling of the boat is a positive of negative omen for the coming watch. Harder still are those whose births coincide with the changing of the calendar. There is no breakfast, no dawning light, just frigid winds and twilight. Although the “dog watch” is the most difficult for sleep and clear recollection of details, it is here that one finds the solitude promised by sailing that is elusive during the 17 hours of daylight. It is there that one can finally sit with their thoughts and reflect on time spent underway. And while we continue to have ambitions of deeper self-reflection while standing watch, the unfortunate truth is that at such an early hour, with only one coffee in our bodies, there is usually one simple feeling that can crystalize into a fully formed thought. “How can summer be this cold???”
Thank you Eefje Smeulders for encouraging me to write this blog about my experience. The alternative “100 years of sealatude” would have been about seals.
