Tag: Travel

The inadequate identity of Sailor (or of any other…)

The inadequate identity of Sailor (or of any other…)

I always suffered of identity problems.

It seems self explanatory that identity is the sum of the qualities, mostly beliefs, that define a person’s image. The role this person has in society also feed the sense of identity. It is a common human perception to feel we are individual, unique beings, and we look for evidence to support this perception.

I am walking a very perilous philosophical path here, a walk that I will abandon for now while I keep pondering on it. The identity example serves me to bring you the latest news about life in the boatyard, although in a very elaborate way. This blog used to be about sailing but this deviation toward self questioning and rumination has been evident for quite a while now. Thanks for your patience. Sailing will resume as soon as possible.

Why all this fuss about identity?

I’ll answer saying that is a conceptual element that always puzzled me. I never bought the assumption that we have a true identity that define us and that we have to discover, or better assume.

Take first names. They are the first element of identity, clearly stamped on an ID card. You didn’t even pick it yourself, somebody gave it to you even before they could know anything about you. How much a Fabio am I in the end? This is a silly example that shows how identities are imposed by family and society, they depend on the fortuitous place you happened to be born in and often times they all clash with whom you really are. I can continue bringing more evidence. Are you defined by your job title? Your nationality? The color of your skin? Your gender? Your bank account balance?

Of course the answer is yes and no, and that’s why I find this fascinating. Because who we really are is way more vast than our identities, and it is our job to find out. Or not.

Deviation from the route #2

My tiny sailboat Tranquility is going through some serious transformations and I obey as her temporary keeper. Sometimes I believe the fantasy that boats find their servants by mean of seduction. Once they hooked their victim firmly they start to extract resources in form of time, dedication, labor and most of all money. The servant is usually unaware of the asymmetry of power at work and think they are the one in charge of the situation. They are not. However this relationship of convenience is one to be trusted, as usually boats give back love and dedication in time of need.

Likewise this physical transformation of the watercraft I inhabit reflects an inner transformation. I sense that from weak signals I receive from my surroundings. The fun thing about transformation is that we cannot foresee the outcome, or you would not go that way. Once you have the future it is already the past. It is like playing chess, when you know what is going to happen the game is finished and you have to start a new one.

I met a sadhu high in the Himalayan mountains long ago. He was summoned by a guesthouse mate who was very into spirituality and had met the fella on a bus station earlier that week. The guy was thrilled about the meeting and I was hanging around curious about what a mendicant dressed in orange had to say.

The sadhu looked at me in the eyes for five second at most, then uttered these words: “you are about to jump on the next level” or “this life is taking you to the next level” or something like that. The other guy received the response that he was a fresh soul, coming to earth for the first time and he missed to be with god very much. That explained why he was so spiritual at least in my mind. He was trapped in an unfamiliar reality and wanted so badly to be one with god. Then we asked the sadhu what was his duty in this life: he was here to learn how to convey the “grace” (the best word I can recall) not by words as he just did to us but by staring at people in silence.

The colorful scene happening in a cafe of a barren Himalayan village could be just a travel annedocte from long ago. It took me ten years to realize that the transformation he was talking about had happened not even one year after that “prophecy”.

One day of 11 years ago after a conversation with a friend during Easter holiday I quickly took the decision to leave my career, family and friends to move to a Venezuelan archipelago and run a sailboat charter business. We can ponder a lot about if all this is coincidence, self-fulfilling prophecy, magic, destiny and such without getting a spider from the hole (transl. of an idiomatic Italian phrase). What is evident is that the before and the after look quite different from each other, they are two completely separate identities. So which one is the right identity? Both? None?

I’ll borrow an image that Alan Watts borrowed form Buckminster Fuller (feel free to borrow it as well):

“ suppose we have a rope, and one section of this rope is made of manila hemp, the next section is cotton, the next section is silk, the next section is nylon, and so on. Now we tie a knot in this rope—just an ordinary one-over knot—and you find, by putting your finger in the knot, you can move it all the way down the rope. Now as this knot travels, it’s first of all made of manila hemp, it’s then made of cotton, it’s then made of silk, it’s then made of nylon, and so on. But the knot keeps going on. That’s the integrity of pattern; the continuing pattern, which is what you are. Because you might, you know, be—for several years—you might be a vegetarian, and you might be a meat-eater, and so on. And, you know, your constitution changes all the time, but your friends still recognize you because you’re still putting on the same show. It’s the same pattern that is the recognizable individual.

The pattern stays the same even when conditions change.

If I looked at myself before the event horizon of my departure for Venezuela all I was good in making with my hands was rolling cigarettes and playing basketball. I was a discrete cook, a good basketball player and I smoked way too many cigarettes. In every other department my hands were clumsy, slow and uneffective.

In my childhood I used to play with my father’s tool. In the courtyard of the apartment building where I grew up I would shape scrap pieces of baseboard into medieval swords and play with other kids, or cobble up a rubber band slingshot out of wood, nails and clothes pins. It excited me but I quickly lost interest in working with my hands. I substituted it with daydreaming.

Wasn’t it much better to imagine to be a mechanical engineer and design and build car engines in the comforts of my mind rather going through the troubles of doing it for real? I had landed with both feet in the world of abstraction and I was very happy in it.

What kept me solidly anchored in the world of abstraction was another element. I was fascinated with the study of language. I took pride of reading books when I was a little kid and I would devour many good and not so good novels and stories and when I earned the title of kid who read the most I went to the trouble of lying about reading a long not so exciting novel about a prehistoric saber tooth cat to keep said title. The teacher gave me a pass on that but I remember from a look in her eyes that the jig was up.

Writing was a direct consequence of it. I of course dreamed about being a writer, and particularly a famous novelist. Not a best seller writer but a novelist whom both critics and public praise for depth of thought, irony and for creating marvelous worlds that stretch our sense of reality. Maturity and input from society values quickly made me understand that investing in such a path would be risky in its outcomes and very likely lead to being poor (something tells me that it was my destiny anyway…). I resorted to other occupations, deciding that being a psychologist was a good way to use language for something socially useful and make a living with it.

Life decided otherwise and this process of transformation brought me back to use my hands in conjunction with my mind to transform reality. The smooth surface of my palms began to show sign of hard spots. Knuckles quickly developed wounds one after the other, with open ones taking the place of old scars. My nails became in need of serious cleaning all the time. The perfectly comfortable dreams of designing custom made objects and structures faced the obvious lack of experience, training and skills. I learned that sailing is hard on your hands, and hard on your mind.

This transformation for sure affected the reality of my identity in a deep way and it was not foreseeable when the sadhu spoke to me. If I knew what was going to happen I would have started to ask myself questions, make judgements and ultimately give up the entire idea thinking that I could do better taking a different path. I am happy I did not, because ultimately I am at best marginal if not naive when it comes to making judgement on what’s good or bad for me.

Putting it all together

The liquid consistency of contemporary life finely expressed in language by Zygmunt Bauman certainly affects identity, it stretches boundaries and allows degrees of freedom that were unthinkable in the past. At surface this whole identity business is still chaotic in my mind as I reject definitions of nationality, age and such as important individual traits. However I recently realized that the knot that slides through the imaginary rope, the never changing pattern, the ultimate identity that works no matter what changes I go through in life is the identity of Writer. Writing has always accompanied me and it will, both as an urge and as a pleasure.

The fact that I am without any doubt a Writer is corroborated by at least four other people. One is a talented world creator who weaves poetic images and hallucinatory quests in the realm of fantasy. Another is a published science writer who likes to express his talent in fictional adventures. There is also a professional designer who uses words to draw humorous and moving pieces. Finally, a student and teacher of language in a rogue mission to shock and awe you through a mix of erotism and wit. They are the Rebel Writers, and I am a proud member. The proof that I am a writer is that I belong to this group of writers, because only writers, and a very special kind, are allowed.

Whatever the next level, whatever transformation is happening I will keep writing about it.

Guna Yala tropical rainforest: “el camino Guna” trail Cangandí to Mamoní

Guna Yala tropical rainforest: “el camino Guna” trail Cangandí to Mamoní

I have one problem living aboard a small boat: not enough walking.

I walk sporadically. I mainly sit, swim or row. I miss walking quite a lot, and once in a while I go for a long hike, out of the blue, totally unprepared or trained. It is usually Kate who plans and organizes such trips as she possesses a genuine wanderlust and the right planning experience.

We heard about the “camino Guna” from local friends in the Robeson islands, a very traditional area in the Comarca Guna Yala. The trail across the old growth tropical rainforest was used by the Gunas to reach a road in Mamoní Valley, precisely in San Jose de Madroño-Chepo District. From there cars would take them to the rest of the country.

Today Gunas use a different path to travel to Panama. Cars drive through a paved road and easily deliver people and goods to the Cartí ports. From there it’s easy to step on a boat and go anywhere in Guna Yala, and so the Cangandí-Mamoní trail is rarely used.

Kate needed to travel to Panama and from there to the US to visit the family. Discovering about the trail made us dream about going from Guna Yala to Panama on foot, instead of the classic way through the Cartì road.

Kate and I usually share this interest in making complicated choices.

Approaches to the Mandinga area

Tranquility at anchor in Ailitupu, Robeson Islands, Guna Yala

We sat aboard Tranquility for quite a while in the quiet anchorage of Ailitupu, in order to figure out the logistic of the trekking, and we took a day trip to the village of Cangandí with our friend Justino, to learn about the area.

Cangandí has a very unfortunate recent history. First a big flood destroyed most of the village so they had to relocate much higher on the hill. Then, last January, a fire destroyed many buildings.

Gunas from other villages helped collecting clothes, hammocks, kitchen utensils and anything they could to help the families who lost their house in the fire. Kate and I contributed with few clothes and spare ropes, that were particularly sought after to hang hammocks.

Kate got very interested in the Mandinga River watershed while she researched the history of US nationals trying to tamper with the local indigenous community, and she dug up quite an impressive amount of information. All of that was on maps and websites but we lacked the real world knowledge to figure out the logistics.

Mandinga Airstrip: those are tractors used to build the airstrip.

Justino guiding our visit in the area

There was an unsuccessful attempt by the Standard Fruit company (now the giant Dole) to introduce modern agriculture in the area. The americans built a dock, a waterway, an airstrip and finally a road. They settled in a village at the end of the airstrip where, according to Justino, Gunas and american kids where attending the same school.

Today all that development is in ruins, ocean and forest claimed their space back, but the failing attempt left behind the Rio Nicuesa canal and the Molilla road, that the Gunas still use and keep open.

Preparing for the trip

Our reconnaissance did not unveil any easy approach . There are many pieces to put together to move from our boat anchored in Ailitupu, to the beginning of the trail.

First there is the boat ride that takes you to the Molilla road. Costs vary depending on the size of the lancha and your ability to penetrate Guna economical logics. But for two people only it’s fairly expensive. From Molilla, it’s about one and a half hours walk to to get to the the beginning of the trail in Cangandí.

We considered anchoring Tranquility just outside Rio Nicuesa, by the ruins of the old docks built by Standard Fruit. The anchorage is calm, protected and isolated and would save us 30$of the boat trip from Ailitupu, as we would dinghy in to Molilla Road. However neither of us liked the idea of leaving our boat (and Beta) anchored there for a minimum of three days while we were walking the camino Guna.

Finally an opportunity came knocking at our boat, when a fellow italian cruiser asked if we wanted to join a group to visit Mandi Yala, a picturesque village of about 700 Gunas on the hills that surround Rio Mandinga. We told Simonetta that we were happy to share the first part of the trip with them and that we would find a way to head off for the camino Guna.

Day 1: approach to the camino Ailitupu-Mandi Yala-Cangandí

Kate packed an ultra light travel backpack for her family visit and we joined the group of 13 people on a lancha to Molilla, the arrival point of Rio Nicuesa where the road to Cangandí starts. We brought food, hammocks, dry clothes, cameras, first aid kit. I finally realized the dream of owning a machete, which I bought in the Cangandì general store.

In Molilla, Simonetta had arranged a car that would take part of the group and their supplies to Cangandí, to spare a little bit of the walk. We joined the people on the car and at 9 am we arrived to the village. There we learned that a party of nine Gunas had just left for San Jose, to go meet a group of tourists.

We started to ask around for a guide that would lead us across the jungle and the mountains. The first Guna who approached us asked for 100$ to take us there and back, leaving right away. Even though we were eager to start the journey, it was a little over our budget, especially because there were so many other unknown costs ahead of us, so we declined the offer. We still didn’t know how much we would have to pay for sleeping, for a meal, for the car in Mamoní, for my return trip to the boat.

Justino, who was there to lead the group told us that we could find somebody for less and shortly after he introduced us to Juan Pablo, the porter who was helping the other visitors move their bags to Mandi Yala. He could do it for 50$, but we could only leave the next day.

When we realized that leaving that same day was not an option anymore, we took the opportunity to visit Mandi Yala with the rest of the group. They had planned a two nights stay in the village on Rio Mandinga, for a full immersion into the community. We walked for almost two ours to get there, at a very leasurely pace, getting to know the rest of the people who were coming from different countries, Italy, Venezuela, Spain.

Mandi Yala turned out to be very beautiful. In particular, I enjoyed observing the carpentry knowledge of the Gunas, the way they build their houses. I had the impression that there this knowledge is far superior to other places I visited. The majority of the houses are built only with fast growing renewable plants that can be gathered in the vicinity, with great skill and limited tools.

Kate posing at the arrival in Mandi Yala. The first day was perfect to get used to the area and walk around in the jungle

Traditional Guna building under construction

These planks were milled used a chainsaw and an axe

Guna washing machine in Mandi Yala

We felt very welcomed in Mandi Yala. The population there meet very few foreigners and showed a lot of curiousity for us. At a certain moment, Kate was surrounded by Gunas women and kids looking at our pictures on the phone while we were communicating in our tentative Guna.

Young kid working in the fields

Gunas can be curious and shy at the same time

We walked back to Cangandí by ourselves and the Saila (Gunas chief) placed us in a house that we shared with the village teachers. We set our hammocks and went to the river with the last light of the day still on us.

The life of Guna communities depend on rivers. All day long people go to the river, but it is especially early in the morning and at the end of the day that the river becomes the center of the life in the village. There they bathe, do laundry and gather water that they carry on their shoulders hanged to thick poles, uphill to their houses.

Visiting a Guna ranch

River crossing is an everyday activity here

After a refreshing bath we headed back to our place. We finished up our yuca, barley and lentil meal and took position on our hammocks, listening to the voices of the village, a kid with a Cradle of Filth t-shirt listening to Death Metal and the news coming from our neighbor’s TV. It didn’t take long for me to be fully asleep.

Day 2: Cangandí to Campamento Tule Yala: 7.82 miles 8h37min

Our party of three heading for the jungle

Next day at six thirty we were following Juan Pablo, who was walking with an empty backpack and his hunting rifle. We began crossing an area of ecological succession in the forest, which corresponded to species of plant re-colonizing Gunas farms no longer in use. Check out what ecological succession is on wikipedia.

Thanks to Kate I always learn very cool scientific terms that correspond to very real For example I fell in love with the term impervious surface, which describes all the surfaces a ing that obstruct water absorption by the ground (picture asphalt parking lots).

In the forest I recognize an area of succession by how I feel in it. The first impression of an area of species succession, is that it is hot. The canopy is not high enough yet to provide shade, and the thick growth of the opportunist and pioneer species stops any breeze. Biodiversity is minimum. On the contrary, in the old growth forest the air is cooler, the smells more rich and profound and the variety of species is incredible.

There is a variety of shapes happening in the forest

A Jungle Pilgrim

Juan Pablo walked very fast, balancing his hunting rifle on his shoulder. I walked with Gunas before and noticed that they don’t know fatigue, they barely drink or eat anything and they can carry heavy loads on their shoulders.

Kate and I were chatting, stopping for pictures, commented of every single encounter along the trail. Juan Pablo was not very talkative, and waited for us to catch up mainly at confusing forks in the road, or at the river’s banks. For the great part of the time we were walking alone.

At first we were not happy with this style, we were expecting more vicinity from him, more information and talks. We were also feeling bad because it looked like he was annoyed with us and our slow pace.

Soon I started to understand and appreciate his silent lead, as it became evident that he was trying to push us to keep moving. The trip was taking a lot longer than expected and he was focused on doing his job which was to deliver us to destination before nightfall.

Internally we were fighting. We wished we could take it easier, take a plunge in the beautiful swimming holes all along the river, stop to explore a certain habitat, take a closer look to the mushrooms and moss growing everywhere. Sometimes we just wanted to take a big break and lie down, but San Jose wasn’t getting any closer and we had to keep moving.

The trekking was breathtaking and brutal at the same time.It’s hard to imagine people going back and forth on the arduous trail, carrying goods on their shoulders. According to Juan Pablo, there used to be isolated families living on the trail, plantations, and an active checkpoint close to the frontier between the Comarca and Panama.

In his stories Juan Pablo referred to a past that is no longer here, and I realized that he came with us to earn some money, but also because he truly enjoys this walk, which he used to do much more often.

One of the many times we had to wade the river

The hardest part was wading the river, and walking by its banks. We crossed the Cangandí river at least ten times, water thigh deep, with our rubber boots filling with water and becoming heavier. The slippery stones in the river bed provided with unsure footing. After each crossing we had to empty our boots of water and then keep moving.

I preferred the forest trail which was for the most part on solid ground, sometimes muddy, with fallen trees to get over, around or underneath. Surprisingly very few insects and mosquitos bothered us, and animals started to show their presence.

Big spider, just outside of the trail

Looking at a troop of white-headed capuchines

Kate had a close encounter with a boar, that crossed the trail few feet in front of her. We also spotted a troop of white-headed capuchins up high in the canopy, different species of wild turkeys, frogs and spiders. Wildlife was very aware of our presence in their home, and kept a safety distance.

The night camp

We finally arrived at Tule Yala at 3pm, eight and a half hours after our departure. San Jose was at least two hours further, behind the highest climb of the entire trip, and Juan Pablo thought it was a bit of a stretch trying to go across that same day, especially because we were exhausted.

There we met a group of german tourists, accompanied by two connationals and aided by nine Gunas porters, the party that had left the day before. They were going in the opposite direction, from Mamonì to Cangandì, and they were just setting camp in Tule Yala, getting the kitchen ready and deploying their tents under the roofs of the building that use to see a permanent Guna settlement in charge of checking the border with Panama.

Juan Pablo connected with his paisanos, while Kate and I asked the german guides any piece of information that could help us getting Kate on a car to Panama.

I was still worried if Kate would be able get a lift to Las Margaritas, if I would find food for my trip back to the boat. Kate spirits where particularly high and showed no worries. She very much enjoyed the location and she was confident that all would resolve for the best.

With a lot of daylight left we went to take a bath in the nearby stream and prepared our hammocks for the night. Talking with the tourists we learned that they were on 4 days journey to San Blas, then they would hop on a boat to Colombia, where they would do another trekking.

Rainald, the tour guide shared his local knowledge with us, and also very kindly offered us some of the food they were cooking for the group, a hot dinner of soup, mash potatoes, salad and steak. Similarly the paisanos shared food with Juan Pablo.

After dinner we settled in our hammocks and exchanged few more words with Rainald. I asked him some more questions about his job and his company, Yala Tours ( yalatourspanama.com ), which is very active all over Panama. I was very impressed in looking at the organization of the trekking. He created a good business, and he seemed to enjoy his job very much.

The map of the trekking

Day 3: Tule Yala-Mamoní-Cangandí-Ailitupu: 19.93miles – 11h

By 6 am in the morning we were packed and ready to start the journey to the Mamoní valley. There light had just started to shine on the trail, the air was still chilly and to rain was coming down in little showers.

It didn’t really matter. The steep climb made us sweat profusely and even before reaching the top we were completely soaked. Our cardiovascular system was struggling to push us uphill and Juan Pablo offered to carry the heavier pack and that gave us an increase in speed.

We finally reached the 1288ft of the last hill, the highest point of the trail, which marks the border between Guna Yala and Panama and it is also the line of the Continental Divide of the Americas. Water falling south from that line would flow to the Pacific, north and it would end in the Atlantic.

Once across the environment changed drastically. The forest left space to old pastures for cows and horses, few ranches. Occasionally you could see reforestation efforts, lead by group of foreign investors that are trying to build conservation initiatives in the area.

We headed for the road and the first visible ranch, coasting fences, meeting cows and passing a dead horse surrounded by vultures busy with the cleanup. San Jose was not even visible, but we would try stop at one of the ranches to ask for a car and for some food.

The ranch of señor Aurelio was one of the first buildings in the valley, and we were welcomed by him and his wife to sit under the porch.

We asked if they knew of any car leaving for the city and they told us that a group with the staff of Mamonì Experience would come soon. I also bought some food from her tiny store.

Soon a 4×4 pick up truck appeared on the road. I ran to meet them and after a quick exchange they kindly accepted to take Kate to Panama City.

It was such a relief to know that at 7:40 am she was already heading for the city. I kissed her goodbye and gave her appointment in Costa Arriba, where I would sail alone with Beta.

I walked back to the ranch chatting with Aurelio’s wife, drank her delicious coffee, looked Juan Pablo in the eyes and said a ver (let’s see).We could still make it in time for me to join Simonetta’s group if I could handle the Guna pace.

I was feeling great, my legs seemed to respond to my commands, with no sign of fatigue or pain. The challenge of being back before a certain time gave me extra motivation, and so we went.

I was staring at Juan Pablo’s ankles like they were a lure, the same way greyhounds chase the artificial hare on the race track. We climbed again the hill and in a little less than one hour we were back at the Campamento, where the group was still packing up and getting ready to move.

We drank a little more coffee with a ton of sugar from the paisanos, and at about 9 am we resumed our trip, charging ahead, crossing rivers, climbing hills, and squeezing into the thick forest.

This time I was less concerned about my surroundings, as my mind was focused on reaching the village before 3pm, to be able to catch the group on their way back to Ailitupu. I was just looking ten steps ahead of me, focusing on staying glued to Juan Pablo.

Nothing else really mattered. I could see the presence of the forest around me, its ever changing perfumeme, the scary sounds of life in the jungle.

Staying closer to Juan Pablo gave me a better opportunity to talk and learn about his life. He generously shared with me his knowledge of plants and animals, and he asked me questions about Italy and our boat. Every little break was an opportunity for a chat, and to check my watch.

At a certain moment Juan Pablo took my heavier backpack before the last stretch. According to his mental calculations we were on time, and he didn’t want to mess it up at the very end. With less weight on my shoulder I felt renewed and could walk even faster, so the last two hours went by swiftly .

At 2:20pm I walked by the main store of Cangandì where I located Simonetta and the others, and by 5pm aboard Tranquility, wrestling to put the dinghy in the water and go pick up Beta.

The chief of the village and others I met before leaving asked how it was, referring to Juan Pablo for better explanations in Guna. They seemed genuinely impressed with what we did.

I celebrate with a cold beer. I was still full of endorphins for the physical activity and the beauty of what we just accomplished. I am again convinced that walking is the best form of transportation, even more than sailing.

Sailing on the classic sailboat Joana

Sailing on the classic sailboat Joana

Freelance working can be tricky. It comes suddenly after periods of calm, and it forces to reshuffle my schedule to fit jobs and other life commitments. The month of February looked already busy enough for us when Maria contacted me asking if I was available to help her with two charters aboard Joana. We had to make a total revolution to our plans, but the opportunity was too good to let it pass.

I’ve been introduced to Maria and Cathy, owners of Joana, by Kirk, a friend of a friend who I briefly met in Georgia and then finally again in Puerto Lindo. At the bar of Linton Bay Marina, getting to know each other, they told me that it was good that I charter experience as they could use some help on their ship Joana, a beautiful 72ft gaff rigged steel yawl. Of course, that help could be needed in a non specified time in the future, as life afloat is all but easy to plan.

I had admired the lines of this ship from afar when she dropped the hook in Linton Bay anchorage, particularly liking the low freeboard of the steel hull, the classic rigging and the general rugged appearance. In a world of mass produced, performance-oriented plastic boxes, Joana stands out like a rare gem. If you don’t trust my words, check out some pictures of Joana on their website.

Zidars touring Panama City (photo credit Sue Zidar)

The job offer had to be fit into an ambitious plan, with the imminent Kate’s parents visit to Panama, our plan to haul out Tranquility on the hard for bottom paint and yard work, and an again postponed visit to Italy. I remember having meeting after meeting with Kate trying to fit everything in the short month of February, not without stress. What we would do with our boat and our cat?

Eventually we found a solution: I would spend few days in Panama City with Bernie Sr. and Sue and Kate after we made arrangements with our Guna friends and local authorities in Islas Robeson, to leave Tranquillity safely anchored and Beta earning his board on shore, helping make a Guna house  pest free. Then, I would travel back to Guna Yala and start working on Joana.

I joined Maria aboard her ship in Esnasdup, a quiet anchorage in the vicinity of Green Island. In Guna Yala there are more than 300 islands and little cays, all with both local and Spanish names, and Attilio, the lancha driver, had a little hesitation when I told him where I needed to be dropped off.  Lanchas are the taxi-boats that move people, goods and everything else from the arrival point of the only road in the ports of Cartì to the numerous islands.  The reshuffling of our plans involved me taking many lanchas, from and to the port.

One of the many islands in the Guna Yala archipelago

 

I could only arrive to Joana one day before the beginning of the charter so I needed a crash course: anchoring, sailing maneuvers, food and other supply stowage. Maria is very patient, and gave me a good tour and tutorial of my duties in the fore deck area, where my main actions would take place. As we left for our sailing training, she showed me how to set the gaff rigged mainsail, the cutter (that’s what she calls what I call the staysail) and the Jib.

Joana’s gaff rigged mainsail

Joana underway, mainsail, cutter and jib flying

Setting Joana under full canvas requires quite some sweat and fine technique compare to what I am used on Tranquility. By owners’ choice the running rigging has no mechanical help other than the purchase system of hand carved blocks. Without winches, everything has to happen in a specific moment, with a thoughtful planning ahead and sometimes with Maria leaving the helm for few moments to give a hand forward.

It all looks like a little ballet, as one of Joana’s guest once noticed, a sequence that I practiced everyday as we moved from one anchorage to the other. By the end of the trip I felt very at ease on the job, also learning few tricks of the trade that could be definitely used elsewhere.

The cruising area

Joana’s route for these two trips was in the area between Salardup and Rio Diablo. This chain of more than 30 islands stretches a mere 15 nautical miles but offer countless opportunities for snorkeling, laying on the beaches of uninhabited cays and fishing, all in the protection of coral reefs that create flat and crystal clear waters, a very relaxing and comfortable place to be even when the trade winds pick up to 30 knots as it happens for few days at the time during the dry season.

Maria fileting the snapper she speared few minutes earlier

In the galley there was another kind of ballet happening. There was always activity down below, even under way, to make sure our guests received everything they need in therm of meals, snacks and drinks . During the charters we were blessed with good fishing, and we could put on the table a selection of seafood and fish, from lobsters and crabs, to red snappers, Spanish mackerels and conch. Maria and I served the catch of the day in many different ways, including sashimi, sushi, ceviche, grilled baked and steamed dishes.

Surf: snappers ready for the grill

Turf: Chicken Curry

Baking time

In Green Island I had a particularly prolific fishing night, with four good sized red snappers brought on board. Also, we had the opportunity to spot the infamous two meter long crocodile that lives in the area, and that twice came alongside Joana before being scared away by our enthusiasms/excitement. Fishing is good where crocodiles live!

It is always a pleasure to see happiness on the guests’ face while they enjoy sailing in this environment. We surely do our best to help realize their goals and accommodate their needs, but the Guna Yala islands do us the biggest favor, as they naturally make one feel comfortable and surrounded by pleasurable experiences. Maybe it’s not a case that I keep coming back here, to absorb the good energy that are so plentiful in this corner of the World.

My new friend Turk naps on my bunk

 

More islands…

February is not ended yet and a new chapter awaits me. Work commitments will keep Kate here in Panama this time, while I will solo travel to Italy for a brief visit to family and friends. As I stated before, life on a boat is not as easy as one may think, compromise and complicated life arrangements are mandatory.

The last item on the list will be the yard period, that we hope to start around mid March. Tranquility needs some attention after being basically trouble free for a long time. Fatigue is unsparing at sea.

Impossible at the moment to make any further plans.

 

Walking in America

Walking in America

Walking in America for us is not optional. We are living a very peculiar lifestyle, and we get to experience situations that very few people have access to.

The good and the bad, like walking on a disused railway track like iconic vagabonds…

It happened yesterday, when we took our much needed stroll to the grocery store to gather provisions, 2.7 miles away from where Tranquility is docked.

It may seem far, but to us it is a reasonable distance to cover for food.

Walking gives us a nice opportunity to see the places we are visiting, have sometimes meaningful conversations, exercise the body and the mind.

It took us almost an hour to get there, walking in the countryside of the Delmarva southern tip, passing by a golf course, fields of cotton, horse ranches and a cemetery. The path was not well suited for pedestrians, but at least traffic was not too bad, and the mild and sunny afternoon was a special treat.

walking in america
Cotton fields near Cape Charles VA

When I walk in America I always feel a little bit subversive.

First I always notice that nobody else is doing it. I am of course not talking about big cities, or downtown strips where people walk purposely on sidewalks that keep them safe from traffic. In that case they probably just parked the car not far away or left the train to cover the last steps to get to their destinations.

I am talking about walking in city outskirts, suburbs, small towns and strip malls.

As live aboard cruisers we end up in random places where we need to get supply, or just visit particular sites, and we don’t have a car, mainly because we cannot carry one with us onboard I guess.

Everywhere we need to go, we go on foot, hire a cab or rent a car if that requires long traveling.

And when walking is the only option, it feels strange. Drivers give you “the look” (a combination of astonishment, curiosity and pity ) as they pass you, some of them even press on the pedal trying to “rolling coal” or honk to acknowledge your/their presence.

It’s no coincidence that road signs state “stop for pedestrian” rather than “stop for people”.

walking in america
With no alternatives McDonalds’ become our only watering hole. This one had a nice map that shows where we are

Walking in America is becoming more and more dehumanizing.

Pioneers who once used to walk through plain and savannas are now regarded as “pedestrians”, somebody who is in the way of the traffic flow.

If this sounds a little too dramatic just consider for a second the very basic concept of “Jaywalking”, which happens when a pedestrian crosses a roadway where regulations do not permit doing so. It is considered an infraction but in some jurisdictions it is a misdemeanor and requires a court appearance.

What happens where there are not designated paths for pedestrian? Would that be a case where walking becomes a criminal act? ”

Jaywalking” is a clear sign that the road belongs to cars. That’s why we felt somehow safer when we walked alongside the railroad tracks, luckily not in use anymore.

When we walk a random intersection we often ask ourselves if an officer would be entitled to fine us for Jaywalking. When walking in America it’s not always clear where you are supposed to step around intersections, roundabouts and other traffic infrastructures.

When people we meet learn about our walking intentions, they always offer us rides or the use of their cars out of kindness. It is very kind of them of course, but I can’t fail to notice how they look concerned about our safety. To  their eyes it must look abnormal to walk few miles for groceries. It’s not just that, it is straight-out dangerous.

Every time we have to explain that it’s OK for us to walk for a couple of miles, that this is how we exercise and add other reasons to motivate this apparently bizarre behavior of walking.

Maybe for people used to the home to car routines, it could be hard to understand that on our boat we don’t have very much floor area. Walking becomes very enjoyable every time we have a chance to do it, because otherwise we would be sitting or standing.

The lack of safe walking paths all along the US East coast is discouraging. The more people stop walking the more trails and walking path are disappearing.

I am sure urban planners like Kate would have sophisticated explanations about why America is so badly designed for walking, but it seems reasonable to boil it all down to one main responsible: cars.

Everything in America is designed and built around cars, the most important form of transportation, in particular commercial areas like strip malls, shopping plazas and such.

When we were living in Georgia, the sight of a person walking on the side of the road would trigger a big flag. I remember saying this to Kate: “Oh look at that guy, he’s walking (not jogging) on the causeway… that’s a big flag over there” meaning that when a somebody in civilian clothes walks somewhere the reason must be a problematic one: a broken down vehicle, a homeless situation, too poor to own a car, a person up to no good.

“Can you imagine being there? With this heat?”

Now that we don’t own a car anymore our point of view completely switched. Now we are the anomaly, the vagrants, the subversives.

At a certain moment during our walk, Kate stopped and looked at me saying: “I feel weird, we are not supposed to be doing this”.

“You are right” I said, “It shouldn’t take us three hours to do groceries, it all should happen faster, so we can do more things”.

Time is a valuable resource, therefore it is better to do things as quickly as possible, especially moving, at the expenses of something that makes us truly human like walking.

Walking upright is one of the basic human characteristics, a revolution that boosted our survival skills allowing humans to walk faster and farther, facing up to spot potential dangers, and liberating our upper arms to accomplish more tasks.

It is sad how today walking is somehow endangered, how Fitbits and other exercise apps had to be invented to force people to walk more.

Walking is so unusual that it changed name and shape: It became “walking workout” and people can’t wait to go hiking during weekends, to regain the health lost for not walking in the first place.

I like to walk, i like it a lot. I think that together with sailing it is my favorite form of transportation.

The advantage is that walking is way cheaper than sailing, you only need a pair of good shoes, and that only if you are picky walker. Any shoes will be fine.

Walking in America s becoming more and more a privilege, regarded only to who have the time to afford it or to who live in communities where walking is not a Russian roulette played with cars.

Or to people that have no alternative, like us who chose a different lifestyle, or like people less fortunate living on the edge of poverty, that everyday have no alternative but go out walking in America.

Seek and Destroy

Seek and Destroy

Mid March may not be the best time to start thinking about 2015 resolutions. Getting through the first quarter of the year however helps to skim the unreasonable off the cauldron of expectations. The recent  approval of my permanent resident status (Green Card) gives us more oxygen and several degrees of freedom to think about the next moves, and what is going to be with our lives. So with this renewed spirit one should think that now the way is all downhill (or downwind). Well, that’s not exactly the case.

First we have to ask ourselves one question: are we ready to resume cruising? Sadly the answer is no, and even if it’s unreal to think that one day Tranquility will be in perfect shape, with every detail addressed and we will be full “ready”, loaded with enough cash to sustain the costs of cruising, we have to be honest and admit that the day we are cutting dock lines and sail away is not imminent.

We were contemplating a summer cruise of New England shores, the same shores that saw us on the first chapter of our endeavor. The idea was to leave Coastal Georgia in May-June and head north to savor the wonderful summer in New England. That area had been my home for two summers, the first one as professional crew on Superyachts, and the second as a boat owner who was assembling his boat to go cruising. In neither case I had the option to freely roam the coves and anchorages and to explore historical and naturalistic points of interest, as I was alway “on duty”. It seems that this desire has to wait a little longer.

But why this is not possible next summer? Well something happened while we were wintering in Brunswick, waiting for the green light of the Green Card. And that something was me. I started to take apart Tranquility even more than I did during the previous months. One piece leads to another, and nearly every single component of the deck has been removed. The boom lays down on the deck, the electric motor and batteries hauled out, part of navigation station ripped off. Kate and I observed this process happening with fear and awe, as spectators of an ineluctable fate.

Removing rotten teak on the bow stem
Removing rotten teak on the bow stem

There no such a thing like a small or partial refit. Tranquility was in shape enough to sail the waters of the Atlantic Ocean, and she did a good job in protecting us from the severe winter but yet she is not as we imagine her. There is a real Tranquility and a dream one, and the reason why we are investing more time and money is because this two Tranquilities are still too far apart from each other. To bridge that gap the extent of the refit must be enlarged.

Refurbishing the galley
Refurbishing the galley

It is extremely difficult for someone doing their first refit to accurately assess the time, expenses and details of preparing a boat for a voyage. I did other refits on different boats, and no matter the budget and the expertise involved it seems that project management and boat refits cannot go hand in hand. The process is pretty much the same: I start with a little improvement, like re-grouping the batteries in a more rational position and then I have to modify the existing navigation station to host the batteries, remove the existing electrical system, build new floor, and so on… For some reason this path lead to the replacement of the existing ladder and the creation of new and bigger counter space. Little by little every out of date part of the boat is going to be replaced or repaired or refurbished.

A little more destruction
A little more destruction

We have to say that Brunswick is definetely a good place for refitting your boat all year around. Almost too good as departure keep being postponed.

Brunswick, where the hell is that?

This is where we live
This is where we live

We initially moved to Brunswick when James Baldwin offered me an apprentship after visiting us on Tranquility. We were transiting in Jekyll Island, getting ready to land in Florida and find us a good spot to make some money and improve the boat. We never make it further than St.Mary’s on the State Border. We decided instead to give James and Brunswick a chance. After one year we are still here and this must mean that Brunswick is not a bad place at all.

Even if sometimes I feel like we ran aground in the marshes of Glynn, it’s remarkable how many good things happened to us here. We had been introduced to the South, with its culinary specialties (see Oyster Roast and Low Country Boil) and the proverbial courtesy warm hospitality of the population. Soon enough we friended some special people, keen souls who are rooted here or following a similar pat, ran aground. Kate is already a notable person in the community and I personally learned a lot working side by side with James Baldwin, having helped him in many of his sailboat refits.

Tranquility is not ready also because my standards have risen and seeing what James did on other boats changed the idea of what is possible and impossible in terms of boat customization. While we were summering and wintering here few important things had happened. Kate and I got married in very hot day in Woodbine, GA. Subsequently I applied for a Green Card which was approved just recently. The Green Card process itself was very demanding and time consuming, kind of a part time job. No wonder it was a very busy time here in Georgia!

Anyway, we can’t afford to live in a perpetual dream of boat perfection. Wether Tranquility will be closer to perfection or not, winter is coming, this time with some tropical weather and crystal clear waters waiting for us. The time of the distruction must end… just let me deal with a couple little more things that I don’t like…

How to write 100 blog posts in a very long time

How to write 100 blog posts in a very long time

cartellonenumero

This is the 100th post of La possibilità di un’isola, and I feel somehow it needs to be celebrated. The name of this blog comes from title of a novel by Michel Houllebecq, the first book of the french novelist I read, a book that I loved. I chose it because it is the perfect explanation of what was happening in my life: in 2009 I was leaving my country and my profession as an organisational psychologist to go live aboard Velero Bicho in the archipelago of Los Roques. The islands were real, this life change was a new possibility for me and this blog a way to keep track of it.

Amongs all the changes during my life time, writing has always been a constant. A variable constant to be fair, as the process is definetely influenced by life events, including periods of drought followed by more prolific ones. I have always loved to write, and I have always being scribbling something, on the pages of notebooks of different size and colors, sometimes on a computer, trying to compose something “serious”.

I think my first real attempt was a short story I wrote for the class journal when I was 12. A short sci-fi novel imagining a scientific expedition to Mars. It’s funny to read it now, but it is also impressive, for the scientific details I was able to introduce at that age. Then I won a the first prize in High School for creative writing, with a short story about the dilemmas of culture and counterculture, seen with the eyes of a high school student. The prize was 100.000 lires (roughly 50 euros, a bit more considering inflation) and a copy of Moby Dick. Who could tell that a dozen years later I bought and refit a sailboat in New Bedford, the whaling capital of the world and the city where Ishmael, the protagonist of Melville’s novel, wakes up in an inn at the beginning of the book.

The university time was a moment in my life when I clearly decided that writing wasn’t going to give me a job and so I hoped that Psychology would. Writing was serving academic purposes, with occasional side projects like articles for self-published magazine with a group of friends, co-writing in a theatrical play, research articles about adult learning with Ariele. When I moved to Torino for work I took a class of creative writing with Marzi at Verba Volant. That’s the only time I invested money in writing, but then I left for the other side of the Atlantic, and things became busy.

This wasn’t the first blog I opened. The first one was a travel blog about a holiday trip to India, a perfect alternative to email to send information to friends an family. Then I took part to a collective blog. With fellows gathered from Ariele’s outskirts we started Leaderlessorg, an intellectual exercise to figure out how the web 2.0 was a revolution in the way people relate to each other, with a focus on the work organisations. None of these blogs were successful or gave me money, they were a new form of communication I was discovering.

Writing takes time and effort, and sometimes I have to sacrifice it from work and other duties. And it’s not always a pleasure. It can be rewarding and excitng when everything flows, but for the most part it’s made of unsatisfying attempts of moving forward, like placing heavy blocks of concrete in order to make a building. The decorative part comes later, once the graceless but solid structure is in place.

This is my 100th post in more than 5 years, not a great average. I write when I can, and when I have something to say, or a content to share. In these last years I moved through different countries and switched the language of my posts from Italian to English, because my public became more and more international, and also because it is a good practice for a non native speaker. I rarely write in italian anymore, a language that I am starting to miss.

Blogging makes writing more and more immediate, fast pace. According to experts, you are required to give fresh content every 2 or 3 days to have a decent traffic, but I have never been able to achieve it. After all nobody is paying me, nor telling me how my life should be lived, but it’s clear how today the competition to get the attention of internet users is very hard. The contents are shortening, videos become the favorite media, everything is compressed to the minimum, up to the 140 characters limit of Twitter and other Social Media, modern haikus for distilled thought. “Reading requires time. No one cares about anything anymore, we have all become frivolous and superficial” a friend of mine told me few days ago, when I asked him why my blog had so few readers.

Over time, I tried to focus on certain topics and genres, but it’s not really how this blog works. When I left for Venezuela, my main interest was to underline the cultural shocks I was living in first person, lustful shocks to be honest. When we left on Tranquility and started cruising, the blog became a logbookwith new blog posts to track our progress. In that situation a lot was happening and I had trouble to keep track of it. Sometimes nothing happens and it’s hard to think about something to write, and I somehow freeze.

Sailing and traveling are a big part of my life, but this blog is not about sailing, or about traveling. It is more like my mind, it constantly wanders through different terrains. I recently figured out that it is a perfect way to capture and deal with daydreaming. Instead of starting the project of building a boat using natural fibers, I write about it. It may or may not happen in real life, but writing about it will make something out of simple speculation. Hopefully pointless speculations can be of some interest for readers.

 The 100th post is not an important goal per se. It gave me the opportunity to retrace my steps so far, and to notice how this virtual notebook mutated through time and space, a slow and laborious path which continues after many years and, thanks to the support of you readers, it has never been so alive.

Eternal apprenticeship

Eternal apprenticeship

Gran Roque - Venezuela
Gran Roque – Venezuela

“Are dreams just a refuge? An escape from reality? It is possible. I can’t do otherwise but dream, and I also don’t know what else to do.”

 

I wrote this sentence in a notepad about five years ago. Soon it’s going to be five years since I left Italy. Soon my niece is going to turn five as well.

The moment I told my mom I decided to leave is still so clear in my memory.

It happened in the waiting room of the hospital, my sister was in labor delivering Melissa, and I cried a little because I felt inside of me the decision was taken. Just a month later I moved to Venezuela. I was 27 and I was leaving my career of psychologist.

That was the moment I let the dreams rule.

It was a jump in the unknown, an hazardous move. I also tried to sabotage my departure telling my father to drive me to Malpensa airport while instead I was leaving from Linate. Both airports serve the city of Milan but they are quite distant from each other. That morning I forced my dad to a race through highways and traffic, and possibly fines, and l took that first plane for a matter of minutes.

Not even my unconscious could sabotage it.

Along these 5 years I continued to be a moving target, crossing boundaries of different countries. All this happened without a specific strategy. Kate would say this movement is “Planktonic”. Similarly there is not a particular reason why now I am in  Coastal Georgia.

Currents push towards unpredictable destinations, the fil rouge  of this drifting seems to be the condition of apprenticeship.

When I left for Venezuela my mission was to manage the operation of a charter yacht. I never did such a thing before. For my biased mind sailing was an activity for snob and rich people, and I carefully avoided it, and so when it was time to approach approached this job I was completely unexperienced.  I had to learn everything on the field, find help and learn how to be helped which is not exactly something foregone, expecially when you don’t speak the language.

I felt like an idiot most of the times.

It is hard to linger in this state of constant awareness of your own deficiency. Sometimes you don’t have a clue and at the same time you have to endure the fatigue of being far from your own comfort zone. It also true that any success it’s worth the double and it’s easy to get enthusiastic.

During my first self-taught apprenticeship across the ocean I seeked the help of a professionl coach in understanding how my role was changing and that was a great support.

After being an apprentice charter manager I had to be an apprentice sailor, then an apprentice captain and now I am an apprentice restorer of old fiberglass boats. Even if it seems the trajectory of this growth belongs to the marine world, specifically the discipline of sailing, the changes in the scenarios and tasks to perform  keep me grasping for some prior knowledge to sustain my efforts, and it’s hard to predict what is coming next. I moved so much in the last 5 years but it seems I didn’t get anywhere in terms of seniority.

How long will this condition last? Will I ever master anything?

Sometimes I wish I had arrived. If you ask where, I probably won’t be able to give an adequate answer, but the feeling remains.

The narratives of reinvention usually portray people in their second-half of life who distance an established position because it no longer satisfy their needs. It is the broken dream of a corporate life, where too much stability and benefits, and maybe a too narrow task build up into a state of boredom and lack of sense. In this case the reinvention pass through a reintegration of a solid knowledge, one own’s skills and knowledge, into something more meaningful, more authentic.

I wonder how it is possible to reintegrate the constant conflict between the discovery of something new (and being unprepared) and just do what you know and be firmly attached to something valuable. Maybe it has something to do with becoming middle-aged and this eternal apprenticeship is a social trend that affects my generation.

But there is also some active research for new objects that propels the movement. The attraction for novelty.

This dilemma was well described in n his “Theory of Object Relations” by Michael Balint, a psychoanalist who defined two personality types, the “Philobat” and the “Ocnophil”.

In simple terms the Philobat enjoys thrills, adventure and the unknown, avoiding to get trapped by a specific object. The Ocnophil has to get a firm grip on something, or a situation to avoid possible danger and the fear of getting lost in the void.

It seems that I qualify as a Philobat and I keep looking for something new to learn and experience, even though there is a certain grade of Ocnophilia that protests against this chaotic wandering. In life there is not such thing as pure Ocnophil and Philobat, they will be chained in some asylum.

 A long apprenticeship brings together the ghosts of never growing up, the persistence of a state of deficiency and the difficulty of accepting the gap between what you are and what you are going to be.

It surely has a positive side, especially because it allows to be receptive to new ideas and knowledge and to discover things I like and I do not like, which usually come after trials and errors.

I feel that the challenge now is to balance and weave together experience and new knowledge and to  find continuity in change, which translated in a simple language sounds like “sit down, relax and enjoy the journey”

Let go

Let go

800px-Henri_Rousseau_010

A white explorer in Africa, anxious to press ahead with his journey, paid his porters for a series of forced marches. But they, almost within reach of their destination, set down their bundles and refused to budge. No amount of extra payment would convince them otherwise. They said they had to wait for their souls to catch up.

Bruce Chatwin, The Songlines

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