It weighs heavily on all of our minds, but perhaps most especially those of us who live on or near the Gulf.  Some are having flashbacks from Katrina—only this nightmare, unlike a hurricane, has no end in sight, and using the word “recovery” is euphemistic at this point.

The cap has, literally, been knocked off of Pandora’s ubiquitous jar. All the horrors of the world—fear, destruction, ugliness, poverty, greed, deception, and death, in addition to a rainbow sheen and poisonous gas have been unleashed. Even if BP can manage to stop the flow of oil, the damage is done. The earth’s black blood is all over their hands—and ours. While many would like to demonize BP for its risky business practices, the truth of our own greed also stares back at us in the mirror. I am not one to chant Death To America for her “oil dependence,” but I acknowledge the ways in which we are all like Pandora. We open the forbidden jar, we eat the fruit from the tree because we feel we must have more, always more, but we rarely count the cost. BP’s shareholders want a return on their investment, everyone wants to drive their own personal vehicle wherever they desire and fill it with reasonably-priced gasoline, we want the convenience of disposable plastics, and we want to fly all over God’s green earth at a moment’s notice. Perhaps we cannot count the cost ahead of time, but from time to time, we get a foul taste of the consequences of our own pride and greed.

The questions run on without answer: when will the oil stop gushing? What will happen if a hurricane comes and stirs it all up and flings the disaster far and wide? Will the oil enter the Gulf Stream and ruin two coastlines? Will it end up on BP's own doorstep? Will there be anything left of the beautiful reefs we just visited in the Tortugas? Will the fishing industry ever recover? What will happen to all the people whose livelihoods depend upon the Gulf’s waters? Whole states, already teetering on the edge—will they fall into the abyss, never to recover? Will we ever call the Gulf Coast home again?

Of these thoughts I have spent many a night despairing. Foolish the one who reads the news before going to bed—it does not make for a peaceful night’s sleep. After one such night of gloom and doom that left me weepy, my only solace was to pray (what I usually do as a last resort instead of a first response) and so I prayed, sensing the enormity and irreversibility of this man-made disaster.  As is often the case, opening my Bible before going to bed eased my mind (and made me sleepy) and revealed an answer, though not the one I expected.  The first half of Isaiah 9, to which I first opened, addresses the distressed (that would be me and several million others):

Nevertheless, there will be no more gloom for those who were in distress. In the past [God] humbled the land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali, but in the future he will honor Galilee of the Gentiles, by the way of the sea, along the Jordan-
 The people walking in darkness
       have seen a great light;
       on those living in the land of the shadow of death
       a light has dawned.
 
The rest of the chapter goes on to talk about God’s future blessings on Israel (you can read it yourself if so inclined), but, as Isaiah often does, he then speaks of the Messiah—“to us a child is born” who will be called “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the increase of his government and peace there will be no end.” Furthermore, it is foretold that he will “reign on David's throne and over his kingdom, establishing and upholding it with justice and righteousness from that time on and forever.” That word “forever” puts everything in perspective. It may seem that I take these words out of context—but the promise for God’s chosen people is extended, by His grace, to those who accept his Messiah. And the message of a messiah is always a message of hope.

Our problems often seem insurmountable; this oil spill is no exception. It may have far-reaching and unforeseen consequences. My grandchildren will still be feeling the residual effects of this spill. But is it hopeless? No. When Pandora finally claws her way back to the jar and gets the lid clamped back on, there is yet one thing left inside: hope.

The earth holds her secrets tightly—creatures we have not yet discovered nor categorized, plants that contain pharmaceutical miracle cures, precious stones and useful fuels stored miles below her surface.  We have drilled down beneath even the Deep, tapped into something we don’t fully understand and meddled where perhaps it was better we had left things alone. But if she is anything, the earth is resilient. Life finds a way—even though things shift constantly, and sometimes suddenly, the earth renews itself. It may take time (certainly more time than we mortals have), and the landscape will look drastically different than it did before, but eventually, there will be recovery. The coral reefs that are destroyed will be replaced by something else. Oceans give way to deserts and become oceans again. And let me not neglect to mention the promise that someday, after the cleansing fire, there will be a new heaven and a new earth, and a Garden to replace the first. For those with faith to believe it, this is a comfort indeed.

“This motor has never given us any problem,” said the overconfident captain of our ship.  The next day, I stood in waist-deep water, dinghy full of children, and tried to call him because the darn thing wouldn’t start. The irony, of course, is that he had fiddled with something that morning, but had given her a good test run to make sure everything was fine before the kids and I made our trek to the beach.

About halfway up Sister’s Creek, I sensed the motor wasn’t getting the fuel it needed. My response was to speed up a bit so we didn’t get stranded in the mangroves. If we could get to the beach, it would be something, because on a holiday weekend, there would be someone there who could lend a hand if it came to that.  Well, we made it, the engine dying as I brought the boat into the beach. Jay didn’t answer his cell phone, and I knew the VHF was switched off, so we decided to stay and enjoy the water and sand and sun while we had a few hours, then figure out how to get home. Surely, by then, Jay would get the message I had left and would know what we should do.

This time, when I parked the dinghy, I made sure she wasn’t going to get stuck on the beach. We checked her every half hour and let out a little slack in the rope keeping her comfortably afloat, but secured to the beach. When it was time to go, everyone was loaded in, lifejackets on, hats on, arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times, push the start button and…nothing. I am not the problem-solver of this family. I am the problem-discoverer (and, occasionally, the problem-causer), but that skill is not very helpful when someone doesn’t hear the cell-phone ringing. I tried to trouble-shoot, but I’m not mechanically inclined, so that made things difficult. I tried asking nicely, but the motor doesn’t speak my language. Finally, I decided we could just manually pump fuel into the darn thing. It started. It ran—hallelujah! We drove home as quickly as was advisable.

If Jay had answered my frantic calls, I would not have had the glorious honor of saying that I had figured it out on my own and gotten us home.  Of course, if he had answered my calls, he would have said, “try tightening the hose clamp” and I would have had to admit that I left my multi-tool at home. Guess what’s going straight into the dinghy emergency bag!  But, of course, the same mishap won’t happen next time. It will be something else. If this keeps up, I’m going to have to write a parody called “50 Ways to Strand Your Dinghy.”

Many of our adventures (if you’ve read any previous entries, you’ll know adventure is simply a euphemism for mishap) begin with Tanya doing something dumb. I have told the following story before, but it is worth repeating in this context.

When I first spent time on a sailboat, I broke something important, by accident, of course, and the result was a forced overnight sail from Key West to Naples. This night sail, full of stars above and phosphorescence in the water below, was so beautiful that I became convinced that I wanted to do this for the rest of my life. So, you could say that a mishap started it all for me. It was the first, but certainly not the last.

My sister would agree with me when I say I wasn’t dealt a great hand in the common sense department. I try to compensate for it with book learning, but no amount of books and articles on sailing and boat-handling compares with common sense to give one the know-how they need on the water. A person, like my husband, with a solid dose of common sense, runs into only a fraction of the embarrassing situations in which I frequently find myself. As for the rest of us, we learn by experience (which is simply a euphemism for pain). My only saving grace is that I am an extrovert, so I usually have a friend around to help me in my distress.

The latest adventure (mishap) involved me and the dinghy. I have learned from previous experience (pain) that you should really secure the dinghy well so that it doesn’t try to drift back out to sea while you’re having an outing on shore. I’ve gotten good at really dragging it up onto the beach and either anchoring it or tying it off to something secure. I took the small ones to the nearby sandy beach on Saturday to enjoy some well-deserved swimming and relaxation, making sure to secure the dinghy well on shore. It was just out of sight, so after about an hour, I had one of the children check it to make sure it was where we had left it. It was.

We then proceeded to have a lovely afternoon, swimming and finding interesting sea life, losing track of time in our enjoyment. We swam, snacked, and made new friends. I forgot entirely about the dinghy, and was blissfully oblivious to the tide. When we were becoming overcooked, I packed everyone up and we headed around the dune to the dinghy. Our newfound friends came along to wish us well and carry some of our things (very kind of them). As we approached, I knew immediately that we were in trouble. The tide, instead of trying to pry our dinghy loose and strand us ashore, had simply crept out and stranded us by leaving our dinghy high and dry. Thankfully, the newfound friends were gracious amid my embarrassment and helped me and the kids drag the darn thing down the beach and through the mud to water deep enough to float her. From there, I continued to wade out (losing both flip flops in the muck—and retrieving them when they floated to the surface) until I could start the motor.

A favorite saying in our home has become “all’s well that ends well,” so that’s where I’ll end it. We made it back safely, and will probably not have to do that again…especially since I just checked the tide tables so I can time the next outing a little bit better!

We are beginning to get used to the new normal.  For anyone interested, our routine goes something like this:

-Coffee and some kind of reading first thing in the morning
-Jay starts the generator and watermaker, Tanya rotates ice bottles from freezer to cooler/auxiliary refrigeration
-Breakfast
-Jay goes downstairs to work, or to fix something that has suddenly broken
-Tanya and kids do school (Grammar, Bible, History, Read Aloud)
-Chores
-More school (Writing, Math, Drawing, Independent Projects)
-Lunch
-Outing/Free Time
-Read and Rest (out on the trampolines “under the tent” –in the shade of an awning)
-Smoothie Time, Tidy Up, Dinner Prep
-Games, Swimming, Free Time
-Dinner, Read aloud, Geography “I Spy” or Crossword Puzzle
-Quick cool-down shower in the cockpit
-Bedtime for kids
-Galley Clean-up for Tanya, Project for Jay
-Writing/Reading and Bedtime for grownups
-Fire Drill at 2 a.m. when it starts to rain (grown-ups run around naked on deck
closing all the hatches)

When we are traveling, all bets are off. No matter whether it’s a weekend or weekday, while underway, my job is to keep the good snackies coming while kids entertain themselves by playing, reading, napping, watching movies, building with Legos, etc. I also help with sailing, keeping watch, tidying up and playing gopher. We usually end up playing dominoes for many hours in the cockpit. We tried cards, but they blow around. Dominoes seem to stay put in a stiff breeze!

The cats have their own routines. When underway, they find a comfy spot and stay there until we arrive at an anchorage. That may mean 24 hours of staying put. They seem to be very patient, especially when the children give them extra attention. After we arrive, they come out of hiding and behave normally. During the workday, Spice naps in a secret location, while Sugar keeps Jay company, fills his workspace with cat hair, and tries to eat his lunch. At night, they prowl around and meow at us if we don’t pet them enough. 

The week rotates around finding food (a dinghy ride to the dock, a walk to the store and a taxi and dinghy ride back to the boat), doing laundry (some things washed by hand, some taken by dinghy to laundry facilities), and keeping the bread baked and boat clean. Weekends are set aside for slow breakfasts, family “church,” resting and finding fun things to do. We go to bed exhausted every night, but with a real sense of satisfaction. That’s life afloat in a nutshell!

Seeing a place first from the water is a lot like coming in through the back door. We arrived at Boot Key Harbor on Sunday and began to get situated in our new “yard.” The City of Marathon Marina consists of maybe a hundred moorings, a few spots along the wall near the marina office, laundry facilities, concrete block showers/bathrooms, and a large space called the “lounge” with a book trading library, TVs, wireless internet and several comfortable tables (where we did school this morning while I washed clothes). This is a very cruiser-friendly place, with many folks calling the harbor home all year long. I haven’t been shopping yet, but things like Publix and West Marine are within a mile or so—walking distance. There is a park next to the marina, and the public library is just a few blocks away.

But I haven’t been up the road yet. We’ve explored by dinghy, and that gives us a pretty good behind-the-scenes picture of this community. There’s a lovely little white-sand beach ten minutes away up Sister’s Creek. Along the serpentine route, there are large, beautiful houses with private beaches and docks.  In the other direction, there is a bridge, a few marinas and a network of small canals. We saw a seafood place and lots of fishing boats, but the residential part looked fairly shabby. Only in the Florida Keys does a mobile home come with waterfront property! Near where we are moored, there are also homes on the water, more like middle-class cement-block and stucco dwellings. So it looks like a pretty typical American town, with all socio-economic groups represented. I don’t know what I was expecting—I guess I had no idea what it would be like. I’ve only been a tourist in the keys, and that was when I was a kid. I’ve left expectation behind and am just trying to take things as they are and enjoy every day.  

Tonight we find ourselves in a place called Newfound Harbor, about half-way between Key West and our next destination, Boot Key Harbor (near Marathon).  It is just a quiet place to anchor for the night, but I am once again amazed at the starlight out here, away from the lights of civilization.
 
I made an attempt last year to memorize Psalm 19, partly because it is a lovely poem from the Bible, and also because I need the spiritual reminder of  the last lines, which read, “Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.” But the first lines of the Psalm are thus:
 
   The heavens declare the glory of God;
       the skies proclaim the work of his hands.
   Day after day they pour forth speech;
       night after night they display knowledge.
   There is no speech or language
       where their voice is not heard.
   Their voice goes out into all the earth,
       their words to the ends of the world.
 
Now, I know if my friend Howard reads this, astronomer that he is, he will think that’s just drivel, especially since it’s poetry, written to make simple things confusing. But we have this in common: a crick in the neck from staring and staring and staring at the sky. On the night sail to the Tortugas, I couldn’t get enough. I have a little red flashlight, a star chart and a great pair of binoculars, and I used them to find all sorts of things I’ve never been able to see before. There was no land anywhere, no light pollution, just the glowing band of the Milky Way like I’ve never seen it before. Perhaps Howard and I are awed for different reasons but even when we do not speak the same metaphysical language, the stars still speak to both of us.
 
Unfortunately, unless there’s a massive blackout, or one likes to go camping in Vermont or out to sea, the average person is not going to get to hear the voices of all the stars explaining what glory is because they’ve been drowned out by Edison’s wonderful invention. I hope Howard and Kristin get to take their daughters (given starry names, of course—Mira, Stella, and Lyra) out to the desert someday and follow their dreams as we have pursued ours, with this in common: to go where one can see—and hear—the stars without interruption.  It is a worthy pursuit and I wish them well.

Day 1   We left the marina at 10am and spend the night at Egmont Key.

Day 2   Sailed all day and motored all night.

Day 3   Sighted land at about 10:45am.

Day 4   Did the high dive and swam. Toured the fort.

Day 5   Went to the fort and swam. Snorkled in the afternoon.

Day 6   Did chores early and swam. Snorkled in the afternoon. Saw a sunken ship.

Day 7   Left for the Marquesas at about 7am.

Day 8   Left for Boca Grande Key.

Day 9   Arrived in Key West. Ice Cream!

Day 10   Grandparents came to visit. Went to Aquarium and Pirate Museum. 

Day 11   Southernmost Point. Sunset at Mallory Square.

Day 12   Leaving Key West.

Arrival in Key West meant two things: plugging into dock power (air conditioning!) and lounging poolside with cocktails. I should feel guilty—tough adventurers don’t need A/C and swimming pools. But by the second drink (a Bahama Mama in honor of Vicki, who made me my first one), I forgot all about feeling guilty. We kept looking at each other and saying sarcastically, “This is SO terrible! What a hard life!”

While my clothes magically washed themselves in a machine, I sat around and ate the French fries from Jay’s burger platter and watched the kids swim under the waterfall at the far end of the pool. The same amount of laundry took me three days to wash by hand last week! The lesson: it’s hard to appreciate your life if you’ve never been uncomfortable. We always took cool air and hamburgers and washing machines and swimming pools for granted, but now they bring us unimaginable pleasure. Life is sweet and keeps getting sweeter!

First stop: Garden Key, Dry Tortugas. These lovely little islands take their name from the sea turtles who flock here year round, some to live all their days in this 100-acre National Park, nesting and getting fat on sea grass and their favorite delicacy, lobster. The islands are dry—having no fresh water other than that caught in rainstorms or made in desalinators. Garden Key (so named because they tried fruitlessly to plant a garden here) is home to Fort Jefferson, a two-story, red-brick hexagon built in the 1800s to guard warships in its deep anchorage and protect shipping lanes between the Atlantic and Gulf of Mexico. It was ill-fated; built on sand, the cisterns cracked and ruined fresh water supplies.  The rifle-cannon, invented around the time the fort was built, rendered it obsolete before it was even completed. It was sometimes used as a prison, its most famous prisoner being Dr. Samuel Mudd, the conspiratorial physician who assisted assassin John Wilkes Booth after he shot Lincoln.

The kids had a great time roaming around the fort; it’s a great place for young imaginations. They were also the proud recipients of Junior Ranger badges, thanks to the thorough examination given by Ranger Tree Gottshall. Other highlights of the trip included snorkeling in clear coral-filled waters, exploring a sunken Windjammer by dinghy, and swimming with sharks and barracudas. Eli and Aaron especially took to snorkeling like, well, fish to water, with Sam and Sarah tagging along not far behind. All in all, it was a great introduction to a cruising lifestyle for everyone. We learned this week that it can be hot and unpleasant, and that there’s a lot of hard work that has to be done, but that the rewards are well worth the discomforts.

Tomorrow we head to the Marquesas to stop over before heading to Key West.

Leaving was anticlimactic, as is so often the case with monumental occasions in my life.  I usually don’t feel the emotional impact until later, and then it is prolonged. For a year after Jay and I got married, I still woke up next to him incredulous every morning.  After four years of long-distance dating, maybe I had gotten used to the seeming impossibility of my ambitions. Maybe that’s why, even out of sight of land with fathoms of water under our twin keels, I can sit here in the rocking cabin and calmly say, “We set sail today.”

There was no going away party at the dock this weekend to celebrate the long-awaited departure of the “Robinsons.” No fanfare, no pomp—we simply untied the dock lines and left, as if we were going for a day sail.  Of course, it is understood that we are only going away for a couple of weeks. But I know better. A couple of weeks and a massive oil spill heading this way could well stretch into a couple of months and a trip to the other side of the Gulf Stream.  It may not, but life is funny like that. One moment you live in the suburbs and the next you find yourself cruising along at eight knots in azure seas. Of course it doesn’t always happen that fast, but looking back, it certainly feels like a big change in a short period of time.  And if we are back in a couple of weeks, we will be different people who return. A two-hundred mile trip offshore with an overnight sail—out of communication range—represents the next step for us as a cruising family.