I bake in a stew of my own sweat while the equatorial sun beats its rays onto Sonrisa’s deck. It isn’t noon, yet, but the wind has abandoned us completely and I am so hot. I take the one reprieve left to me. Pull the rubber boot of my fins over my ankle, my goggles over my forehead. I slip between the line of air and water, my ripples the only interruption to a continuously glassy surface. I do nothing to stop my downward movement, and for a moment I hover in the layer of cooler water below the sun warmed surface. Heat leaches out of my pores, and the salt water draws away my anxiety sweat.
Today is day thirteen anchored here in Uligan, Maldives. It has been thirteen days of continuous “watch” to identify changing conditions and manage our strategy aboard Sonrisa. We started with the usual mode of freedom, but on an hour by hour basis, that all started to change. The evening of day two, we were told we could not go ashore at any inhabited island without the escort of officials and only for necessary purposes like a visit to the ATM and a run to purchase food. They clarified we were told we could visit each other within the anchorage, swim, and take our dinghies over to the nearby uninhabited island to snorkel. Then, the decision of when/whether cruising permits would be issued was placed on hold while the government tried to sort out just how bad this crisis would be.
A few days later, all that changed again. Just like for the locals, restrictions tightened up, and we are no longer allowed to use our dinghies at all, we are not allowed to socialize with each other at the anchorage, we can swim, but only within a reasonable distance to our own boats. Throughout all these changing conditions, our entry agent scrambled, working hard to try to keep up with every new edict and keep sailors informed. Like all of us, he is doing his best. And, like the whole world over, there is a gamut of reactions from cruising yachts. Some of us willingly comply, others do not.
This day, without words, I fin over to where the anchorage drops from 16 feet deep off a shelf 40 feet deep. I rest, face down in the water, breathing through my snorkel in calm breaths while I relax each of my muscles in a series: toes, feet, ankles, calves, legs, back, stomach, shoulders, chest, face muscles, neck muscles. Once I am relaxed as I can be, I slowly bring air into my body - opening my diaphragm to let my stomach expand, my rib cage, and last in the series: my chest. I take my snorkel out of my mouth, bend at my waist and pull myself through the surface. I kick to get below positive buoyancy, and then I relax and let gravity pull me deeper. The water is more cold, the sun changes from white to blue above me, and I wait until I reach the bottom. There, I change course and fin a horizontal line. I roll onto my back and look up at the surface so far away. I hold my breath.
I’ve been holding my breath, even aboard Sonrisa for the last week. This situation has asked me to trust my fellow sailor more than any other situation I’ve encountered, yet. And, this is a difficult thing for me to do. In general, I’m a “trust, but verify” sort of person - withholding absolute trust in people until they have provided enough evidence over the course of time that they can be trusted: to care well for themselves, their ships, and for others, to make smart decisions that will keep us alive at sea. This scenario is forcing me to speed up that analysis, because the bottom line is, the behavior of my social group here will determine whether or not the Maldivians will allow me to stay. I can follow every rule they give me, but if as a group, sailors are creating problems for them I may be cast out, too.
Designed to assess and control risk, my mind swirls with all the potential problems that can crop up, trying to identify, prioritize, and then solve with low hanging fruit any of those likely to impact Sonrisa + crew. I see risk earlier than others, and I become the annoying pal in the anchorage who seems she is not handling her anxiety well. But, tightening regulations, the new presence of a Coast Guard gunship in our anchorage, and a number of comments from various officials and leadership here in the Maldives proves my concern to be founded. Two days ago, the Seychelles made this very decision and evicted all sailors in their country. An extreme measure beyond simply the closing of borders to new sailors, it cast people out with each of them having no where else to go. As of today the tally of countries with borders closed to new entries within 2000 miles of our location include: Malaysia, Indonesia, Thailand, Australia, Sri Lanka, India, Tanzania, Madagascar, Seychelles, Maldives (where we are), Djbouti, Egypt, and more are closing every day. There aren’t that many more left to be closed. We have no where else to go.
And, so I hold my breath.
I look up from the bottom of the sea and watch an eagle ray flying along the coral shelf, weaving between the glitter of bright blue, yellow, and silver reef fish. I gently fin, following his path, but he is faster than me and leaves me behind.
What happens when the supply ships are stopped?“ I ask.
That will never happen, that would be ridiculous.”
Our cooking gas is okay for now, but relatively low. We should figure out how to cook with electricity or solar. Andrew builds a solar oven to figure out alternative ways to cook if the cooking gas that usually gets refilled in the Capital City of Male runs out.
I take stock of our food stores, and know we have a decent amount of beans we can sprout, some basil seeds if I can convince them to grow, and I dig around head first in the fridge to find all the aging vegetables that might allow me to regrow them from their roots: leeks, beets, some lemongrass in a sorry state of death/dormancy, and ginger roots.~
News comes out that supply ships and inter-island ferries are halted.
I hold my breath.
News comes out of sailors who left our anchorage without the cruising permit and then went ashore in an inhabited village to purchase provisions. They posted their “outing” on Facebook and terrified locals already worried sailors will bring Covid19 to their tiny island with no hospital.
I hold my breath.
News comes out of a sailor somewhere in the archipelago who allowed locals to come on board their sailboat.
I hold my breath.
Sailors are chatting with our agent to solve the problem of garbage accumulating on our boats with nowhere to put it, and one sailor suggests we dump it on shore and ask forgiveness later. Someone chimes in quickly to state that is an ill advised suggestion, and I am relieved.
But still, I hold my breath.
I can appreciate information about this situation has been confusing all over the world. The analysis of whether it is serious or not serious has been a raging debate for months, now. I don’t blame anyone for the strategic decisions they’ve made along the way, so long as those strategic decisions were at least made with thought about the events going on around them. Today, though, the fact is for all sailors borders are closing and we are anchored in the waters of our host countries only at the mercy of these countries’ hospitality. And they have so many more important concerns to attend to (like the health of their own citizens) beyond the comfort, convenience, and entertainment of sailors.
Recently (while we were still able to socialize with our friends), fellow sailors noted that the Oddgodfreys use the word “terrifying” in conversation at a rate of 6:1 higher than their average friend group. Duly noted. Some of the things going on around us right now are terrifying.
But, I can only hold my breath for so long.
Just as the contractions in my diaphragm start to become a tad uncomfortable, I turn and look up toward the surface. I reach my arms above my head and give a pull skyward. I glide, and as my momentum slows, I give a kick. I glide, reach my arms above my head again and pull. The water flowing past my face feels good, and while I am not panicking to breathe, yet, I know that once my face breaks through the surface, I will be glad to put my face into the sun.
I also know:
I am currently healthy.
Andrew is currently healthy.
Kitty is currently healthy.
We love each other and enjoy each other’s company.
We have enough food on board for now.
We have music, movies, books, and playing cards.
I have time to write.
I have just enough space to do yoga.
Our anchorage water is clean enough to make fresh water with our water maker and swim to get a little exercise.
The Maldives are not prone to cyclones.
And, as of yet, the Maldivians are remaining vigilant, hospitable hosts, and smart about trying to enact measures to keep everyone here safe.
In other words, I know exactly what my situation is:
it’s lucky.