NIGHT SHIFT NOTES
JUNE 6 // En route to ILE DE LA MADALEINE
2:35 – The moon is nearly bright enough to light the pages on my book. If I concentrate hard enough I can almost make it through a sentence.
2:45 – Silver fins slice the surface. I can’t see their details, only the shape they take as they pass through a tunnel of moonlight. My friends are back and here to keep me awake. They play around the transom just long enough to check in and make sure we’re okay. We are okay. They move on.
3:00 – I meet a painter. The artist takes a brush and walks the horizon with deep blood orange. She walks back and forth blending it into navy, and then into black. Color is added again and again warming the seam. On the opposite side of the canvas, the moon tucks beneath the covers.
3:15 – A satellite passes over head. I start to think about space. I stop thinking about space, understanding that maybe there are some things meant to be misunderstood. I set the thought down with intentions to pick it up later.
3:25 – I find a half frozen chocolate in my pocket. Better than finding crinkled cash in old blue jeans. I melt it in my mouth. It tastes like jersey junction, the local ice cream shop where I grew up. I’d roller blade there and spend all the quarters I made ironing my mother’s work clothes on candy.
4:00 – This morning’s sunrise is the greatest present. I want to unwrap it forever. I am embarrassed with myself. Everything makes me want to cry. I set up the fishing pole to distract myself.
4:17 – Staring at a fishing pole is less entertaining than staring at the wind indicator. I take my boots off, peel my socks back, and stare at my toes instead. This is interesting.
JUNE 7 // En route to ST. PIERRE & MIQUELON
21:43 – I reach my peak of anxiety as the sun sinks. Another breathtaking setting sun I find little appreciation for. I try to stop and like it, love it, try to marvel in its hot pinks and purples. Instead I notice the steam pouring from my exhales, the instant temperature drop and the jolting shiver that shakes me from my toes up. Night time is coming again.
23:20 – I play games to stay awake. These desperate games distract me from looking at the clock. The first game a play is called “stand up, sit down”. It’s as simple as that. I stand up and tell myself to do so out loud, “stand up.” I stand for roughly 4 seconds. And then I sit down, “sit down.” I do this again and again. Interestingly enough, the forced physical movement via vocal instruction gets difficult.
The second game I play is a balancing game. The seat that sits behind the helm is in the shape of a dome. I take my hands off the wheel and feet off of the floor grates. I balance on my ass and count how long I can do this before I have to use an appendage to break my fall. I feel my abs weak, and get discouraged quickly.
The last game comes out of my mouth. I hum. It comes out by default as “The Little Mermaid.” When I finish humming Disney I upgrade to Celine Dion “My heart will go on forever” Then I realize I am not far from ice berg alley. I stop humming this song.
1:30 – I wake Luke up 15 minutes early and am feeling awful about it. But I am a hazard behind this helm.
JUNE 8 // ST. PIERRE // FRANCE
5:43 – We arrive at the St. Pierre Yacht Club just after sunrise. We drink wine and eat triscuits for breakfast. After 240 miles and nearly 3 days we fall into a very very deep sleep.
8:00 – Two French men (customs) knock on the hull. Puffy eyed and half asleep we welcome them aboard. We provide them our passports and documents. My hand is shaking as I sign papers because I am still cold from the night before. The empty bottle of wine sits on the counter. Luke’s zipper is wide open. The boat is a mess. We are a mess. They seem to respect that we have just sailed for 3 days and don’t ask any unnecessary questions. They leave and we fall back into a coma.
17:30 – The weather forecast is a disaster. A gale is passing through for the next 4 days. Thirty-five knots of wind has us heeled over at our dock. Exercising patience on this secret French island. We walk the streets. Hike the hills. Eat fresh bread. The list of chores and tasks aboard Desirée grows like bamboo. Every day trim it down.
JUNE 14 // AVALON PENINSULA // NEWFOUNDLAND
21:00 – We have entered the ice berg zone. We are in the region where 7 have been reported. The sun has set…again…like it always does. Can’t see anything…again. It’s foggy and windy. We turn off our running lights to eliminate the back glow, in hopes of seeing just a few more feet ahead. We drop all canvas besides a 2nd reefed main to slow down. Lightning flashes twice a minute but there is nothing to see besides birds circling. Fog, wind, lighting, blackness, circling birds. I have a bad feeling in my tummy. We agree to take shorter shifts tonight. I go down below to try and rest.
21:35 – Laying in my bunk with the lee cloth. Waves rock us from the side. I wish I could say it feels like being rocked in a cradle, but it doesn’t. My body is flexed to stay in place. I’m doing better burning calories than I am sleeping.
22:15 – I smell ice. I think about the fact that I smell ice for another hour, maybe longer and I don’t say anything. I don’t trust that it is possible. I tell myself that it is not possible. You can’t smell ice. But I do.
12:00 – Luke goes down for a nap. My eyes are glued to blackness. We move forward under power at 3 knots. I may as well be asleep because looking ahead is completely useless. We are traveling blind. We are gambling. This is torture. A few minutes pass and I think we are really stupid. Another few minutes pass and I feel like an arctic explorer. This goes on for the next three hours.
3:00 – We switch shifts. For a moment we sit together in the companionway watching the eastern sky start to change color. My anxiety lifts for a few minutes by having Luke awake, and next to me. We stare into the darkness. I give him a detailed report of my watch.
3:15 – I squint my eyes to focus. I squeeze Luke’s arm, my fingers form a vice-grip with alarming pressure. I extend my opposite arm full length and point, “Look…….look.” My seriousness is relayed in my grip, not my voice. We pass a wall of white 1/4 of a mile away off the port side. It’s an ice berg. It’s a fucking ice berg. A chunk of glacier the size of a three story house silently drifts into sight. We stare it harder than we’ve ever stared at anything in our lives. It disappears into the fog within a minute or two.
I am just a little girl from Michigan, this is hard for me to wrap my head around. I feel the exact same way I did when I was 12 years old, in the front row seat at the movies watching “Titanic” for the first time. My eyes round as grapefruits, my arm hair standing on end.
We spend the next hour staring into the abyss. Looking for more. Looking for anything. Having a sophisticated conversation – “Wow.” “Yeah.” “Wow.” “Yup” “Wowww.” until I exhaust myself and have to leave Luke alone.
4:00 – I lay down debilitated. I never expected to have so many emotions about a piece of ice. I can’t get over it. It took my breath away. It froze me just as solid as it. It was magnificent. It was petrifying. It put in perspective what I have been willing to risk. I have absolutely no proof. No video. No photo. It was just a minute in time that only Luke and I will remember. I think we just shared one the most epic minutes of our lives.
So I did smell ice. Ice berg sighting no. 1 – check.