Into the Abyss : But a Blip in the Ocean

"When I grow up, I wanna be a pirate." - Former me, age 5ish...
And I really did. I wanted to swing by ropes from boat to boat waving plastic swords (all swords are plastic when you're 5ish) demanding cookies and cake... that's what I wanted to be.

 But out in the ocean, the last thing you'd like to meet are them pirate types - especially when you're delapan ratus delapan pulah delepan (Indonesian for 888) miles away from the closest splotch of land.. There's no calling the coast guard or radioing a ship for assistance. There's nothing. And in the real world, pirates aren't nice. Or so I've heard.

Stocked up with canned vegetables, a freezer full of chillis, and enough tofu and tempe to circumnavigate the globe [and the rest of the planets] at least 27 times, we licked land goodbye (18:42 pm, Friday 26 October) and prepared for the great vortex of blue that awaited us.

Approaching our last wake point before 3512 miles in a straight line...

The wind whisked out of Bali just in time to celebrate captain Kirk's birthday, which was conveniently located the day before Halloween which was conveniently located the day before Christmas [island] - which you have to celebrate - which created a plethora of convenient celebrations to mark the start of our Indian ocean crossing.

All through the first week, dolphins leaped at our bow and spun through the air and awed us with their magnificent beauty as we chased the sunset. One tanker overtook us, one tsunami warning buoy beguiled us, one soap wrapper floated by. Apart from that, there was nothing.

And then the winds picked up and the dolphins were lost in the 3-5 meter swell; lee cloths went up because life became a constant 30 degree lean to the right, and it's hard to not roll out of bed at that angle. We saw one bobbing coconut and a plastic bottle, but for all we knew there may well have been treasure chests lurking nearby - the seas flamed like a furnace.

Bathing (by hanging onto the stern ladder) became restricted to holding on with both hands, and only when there were at least 2 people to supervise; it's not as easy as you might think to furl the gib, lower the main, start the engine and about ship to rescue fallen sailors.

The captain trying to ski swim off the back of the boat.... the captain was the only one crazy enough to try this... the captain was also almost lost to the sea...

Electronic devices died left, right, over board and centre. The deck became littered with flocks of flying fish (54 found dead - one rescued).

Storms came and went. Movie nights were either done verbatim, or moved indoors.  

One hand was constantly clinging on for dear life whilst the other caught falling people and produce and toilet seats. Make that falling everythings - things learned to magically fly every time we heeled at the mercy of a giant wave. Our bodies glimmered blue with bruises.

17 50 379 S; 086 45 777 E, Day 12, I flew across the galley and somehow succeeded in piercing my tooth through my chin. It hurt a lot. It bled a lot.

The healing of my pieced lip... and no it did not make me turn yellow... I think that may just be the camera.

White waves mesmerised us by day, shooting stars awed us at night. Our trusty swivel, sea force stove kept our stomachs well sated.

Shortly before our furthest point from any land (902 miles away from Cotos Keeling and 902 miles away from Chagos), we spotted a small fishing boat -- the last thing you expect to see out in the ocean. Another two vessels purpled on our radar. Pirates??We sat nervously watching... they eventually disappeared.

At 14:04 pm, Day 13, we hit the half way to La Reunion mark - 1756 nautical miles in. Pop pops and tom thumbs and a message in the bottle went off. Hugs did their rounds. And then we all sat back down and carried on being mesmerised. We still had a very long way to go.

The excitement that is beer oclock (especially on time zone change days, where 5ish oclock came around twice)

Do you Speak Lion?

Us human types are always on the run. As an African, I learned to run before I could walk - it's the only way to dodge the lions and hippos and the tokalosh.

And then you get older and you learn how to run away from the wooden spoon [after you've taught a toddler to pee in your sibling's dustbin on a daily basis (unfortunately I was the sibling with the dustbin)]. You learn to run to the smart kid who always does the homework while running away from the teacher who knows you have not. You learn to run away from bullies. From darkness. From dodgy looking people. From hijackers. From big spiders. From the tax man. From commitment.  

Us human folk run away from our fears. And as a result, some people learn to run very far and very fast. Some don’t ever stop running. But they don’t normally run to anything in particular. Except maybe the bar (which isn’t necessarily a bad thing – I’m writing this at a bar and it’s quite a lovely place really and it has free wifi and a beach and human life and everything)

I like to think that everyone suffers from stupid irrational fears. I enjoy pretending to be hardcore, but underneath my goofy smile lies a terrified bundle of nervations ready to implode.

My fear of a boring life has kept me running circles round the globe for years. It’s also birthed new fears: sharks, dragons, plane crashes, human traffickers, sinking ships and Australians.

My fear of tomatoes has terrified me the most and led me to Le Tomatino in Spain where my every bodily orifice lay coated red for months to follow and has temporarily led me to be a vegetarianist. I’m proud to say that only a few days ago I willingly added tomato to my burrito. I’m practically cured.  

Granted some people claim to run for fun. But this is a lie because A) running just isn’t that fun and B) they're actually just running away from unfitness and unwanted body fat. There's always something chasing us.

Instead of running, what would happen if we just sat down and learned to speak lion?