all that is gold

Hello all!

It has been about a month since I left the boat in Puerto Williams. Although spent in the comfort and luxury of my parents’ beautiful house in Victoria, BC, the in between time was not passed idly. Instead, there was a lot of food dehyrated, new gear bought and new charts photocopied and printed – in preparation for the new undertaking.

Tomorrow, two friends and I will set off in kayaks (I’ve downsized considerably from Silas Crosby). We’re northbound this time –  another considerable change. We start from the beach in Heriot Bay and will finish somewhere much farther north in two months’ time. It’s a different sort of trip, to be sure.

While I won’t be able to do any blog updating while we’re underway, we will be updating our position via a SPOT gps unit, when possible.*

If you need some more armchair adventuring (never enough), you can follow along on our SPOT page.

http://share.findmespot.com/shared/faces/viewspots.jsp?glId=0bNNfoFYhFZhMdu0KfSIV4XvQ7qFZHqZV

We’ll be back in July!

*To make this VERY CLEAR: If we cease to check in…DO NOTHING. We have an extensive communication plan in place.

From the top of the hill the island shakes down over the surrounding sea

A quilt of smooth green and ribboning fences.

The old woman stops, hands on her hips, to watch us approach.

She smiles wide, rocks back onto the heels of her rubber boots.

She points to her piece of smooth green, her ribboning fences.

The people here, she tells us, work hard with their hands.

She smiles when I talk, rubber boots walking sure, heel to toe side by side.

I ask where she was born and she looks to the south.

The people here, she says, are like trees with roots that grow deep

but with seeds that are blown to parts far and away.

She asks where we’re going and we point to the south.

She quints at the sun: I once went away to the north with my mother.

Like seeds strewn across water from high and away

these islands scatter down over the surrounding sea.

Between a boat yet half made and the sea and its rising

the old woman stops, hands on her hips, to watch us walk on.

At high tide the land draws back and the spaces between are wider

For these short hours the quiet shelled things live the full turn of a day

while farther below things carry on heedless

On coasts everywhere whole armies burst forth at each pull of the moon.

For these short hours the quiet shelled things dig deep, hope to live til the day.

At low tide two women with baskets gather clams clamped tight.

On coasts everywhere whole armies bend low at each pull of the moon.

The sound of their voices sets sail on the calm bay water.

The two women stretch tall, lift full baskets of clams clamped tight.

They turn with the tide and head up the beach for home and

leave the sound of their voices to hang ringing over the calm bay water.

From clear cross the cove I watch smoke gently rise from each roof on the shore.

The tide has come high now and at home the water’s been put on to boil.

As night starts to fall the light draws back and the spaces between can seem wider

but from clear cross the cove I still see light gently flicker through windows on shore

As far away from this place things carry on heedless.

We could be anywhere right now, we said all day as we made our way slowly up Reloncavi Sound. On on all sides the mountains crowd around, visible only for short, bright moments when the clouds part. High up and barely visible are sheer faces with clinging snow. Rain is unmistakable in its approach; to the north gauzy curtains of grey fall down layers of dense green slopes until the first few drops give way to a steady patter.

What we mean to say is this: instead of being here we could almost be home.

We nose our way slowly through a small passage at the end of the day. On the bow I am here but I am also far to the north and some years ago. In the glassy depths ahead I search for anything pale – the look of a looming rock was an early lesson (and loud).

These hiding rocks and towering slopes are not even connected, not related in any way to the ones we know so well. But the heft of them on every side is familiar and sure and it is the way our eyes scan as easily, they way the greys blend as smoothly as they ever did back then that makes us see that place in this.

Still half asleep I slide feet into boots, put on my jacket, grab my headlamp and climb the ladder out into the night. The sky is clear and the wind from the south is cold. I pull my hood closer around my face and think about the icy places from which this wind has travelled.

It has been four months since we were at sea and yet tonight in the cockpit it’s as if none of it ever happened – the cold days on the road, nights camped in the desert, sunny naps on ancient ruins. Months erased in the way my shoulder finds the same spot under the dodger, the way I stand here wedged and swaying and look out at silver waves.

There are moments like this that fit like old sweaters but this is not one of them.

We just did this, I think, I was just here.

The open sea is quite a place to spend some time, but I feel no desire to go there again right now.

But tonight it’s okay and so sheltered from the wind I allow the months to recede. As the boat sails on, my mind follows the same worn pathways, trips over the same small troubles.

To think we are ever tomorrow born new is a folly. In the quiet moments at night we must marvel instead at this: for all the thousands of miles we travel we here find ourselves somehow the same.