“I had the worst seasickness I’ve ever had!" Jen says over a glass of wine. We all shake our heads in commiseration. “Pete was trying hard not to laugh, though.”

“Oh, god no! What happened?” I ask, sitting forward on the edge of my seat, clutching the soothing stem of a wine glass containing my Landfall Rum Ration.

“I wasn’t laughing! But, it was one of those situations where if she weren't so miserable, you couldn't help but laugh.”

“He was laughing.” Jen reiterates.

“I was patting her back, saying ‘there there, there there,’ but...can I laugh now?”

Jen was laughing, so Pete laughed, too. I was laughing because they were laughing, and I couldn't wait to hear the story, despite it being tale of my pal’s misery.

“It was the second day...” Jen starts.

“Ooooggghhhhh!” we all groaned. I tell you, we all know the second day at passage is the worst.

“It was the second day, and I was so seasick. The auto pilot was giving us trouble; I was sitting next to the steering pulpit with my eyes closed, reaching in to turn the screws blind because every time I would open my eyes, I’d just feel more ill. Every so often, I’d have to say ‘wait a minute, Pete.’ and I’d abandon my post to go toss my lunch over the side, then return, because we had no choice but to fix our autopilot...”

Pause here to acknowledge Sapphire Jen’s true bad-assery, please.

…

…

…

“... and then one of those times, I stick my head out of the cockpit surrounds and just as I open my mouth to hork....A WAVE BOARDS OVER THE SIDE AND HITS ME SQUARE IN THE FACE!” At this point, Jen can no longer continue the story she is laughing so hard. Pete takes over.

“I felt so bad for her! She looked pathetic, all dripping wet....”

“...lunch was on its way up, salt water was on its way down...I was sputtering and coughing and horking and crying...”

Oh, you would cry, too, don't tell me you wouldn’t.

“Oh my god. Oh, that is awful.” The Oddgodfrey team rings in a chorus of sympathies, empathies, and horror. That's all there is to it. I doubt if I could recover from such an affront if it happened to me.

This is the Sailors’ Passage Debrief. After we weigh anchor, complete immigration and customs formalities, and take a nap, we each find our preferred “passage recovery position” and reconnoiter with new friends or old to commiserate, laugh, express awe, and generally get it all off our chests until the pieces of terror and misery rejigger themselves into a more balanced collage, a “joy forward" art piece of memory. It's a twisted form of therapy. I can't explain it, but it is a part of the instinctual strategy many long-term cruisers seem to use to process a blue water passage and tuck the challenges away in a place safe from derailing their dreams.

“I didn't realize you guys had such a rough go on the way South from Addu to Chagos," Pete says, having just read my Dark and Soggy Passage posts.

“Yeah,” I say. “I just hate rain at sea. I was sailing along cussing you out.”

They laugh, “Why? What did we do?”

“I just knew you were sailing those miles smug and dry under that hard top dodger!"

We all laugh. The install process on the Steel Sapphire’s hard top dodger was one worthy of it’s own round of Post Passage Therapy, but in the end, I think it’s probably the investment that adds the most comfort at sea after the original purchase of a strong boat that sails well.

“Did you see the article Starry Horizons posted on their blog today? It's all about cruiser attrition, and how very few sailors enjoy this dream on a long term.” Pete says.

Andrew had seen it, and read a small excerpt to me earlier in the day:

 ”I feel like our experience was front-loaded with so much shit (see here, here, and definitely here, and then here, here, and especially here, and I didn’t write much about our time in the boat yard because I was so depressed, but we hauled out for a week and ended up out of the water for two months and you can see the astronomical cost of that bottom job here). And after all that misery, our reward was a single month in the Bahamas before we had to hightail it north for hurricane season.”

Earlier this afternoon I had laughed, but in the context of our greater conversation I wanted to hear the whole thing. Pete reads aloud while I putter around in Sonrisa’s galley prepping up dinner.

I can’t disagree with a single thing that man said.

And yet, in three days time if you ask me if I want to quit sailing, I will tell you “definitely not!” Sometimes I can’t believe it myself, but every time I think about the possibility of never going on passage again, I feel sad. I would miss it.

As Pete finishes the reading, I contemplate. “Listen, if you are expecting comfort and enjoyment out of the sailing life, you will be disappointed. Sure, there is some of that, sometimes, but I don't think that is what it’s about for me. I can't think of any worthwhile goal in life that is limited to comfort, ease, and enjoyment.”

We all nod in agreement.

So, what is it?

If you can fly anywhere in the world now-a-days (pre-Covid, obviously) in exponentially less time it takes to sail there, more safely (theoretically, at least until you take a cab from the airport), and in greater comfort - why would we do this? Why would we stay away from family, friends, and country for so long? Why would we endure sea sickness, waves, breaking boat parts, expensive repairs, delays, uncertainty, fear of death, etc. etc. etc. for a few days on some nice sandy beaches?

I still don’t know the answer to this question.

I take a poll:

Andrew says: “It’s the only way you can get a taste of an unconquered frontier.”

Pete says: “Its the snail-shell effect: I see the world from the comfort of my own home."

Jen says: “The reward is more sweet when I know I've earned it.”

Leslie says: “In words of a sailing mentor: Things that suck build character.”

As we settle into dinner, conversation flows into our plans for spending time in the Seychelles: what bits are we most excited to explore, boat work we need to accomplish, the “if this, then that" game of Covid limited forward navigation. It's all pure speculation, and none of us need to make a decision now. We’ve just arrived at shore and it’s time to enjoy the sweet reward of our passage miles.

The next morning, I wake to singing birds and a softly pink sky. Andrew is in the cockpit enjoying “coffee with Kitty” and he hears me stirring:

“It's beautiful, you should come see it."

“It's beautiful?"

I hoist myself out of my bunk and peek my head into the cockpit. Salt Cedar trees stand one hundred feet tall over the anchorage. They wave feather-light branches in the breeze like ballerinas with chiffon scarves trailing through their hands. Behind the trees, green cliffs with black granite faces rise straight out of the ocean, pink and grey clouds rolling like mist along crevices and peaks. The anchorage is calm, flat, and quiet. The sunrise is a real treat.

Get used to this view, Godfrey. I tell myself. At least as of the day we arrived here, Madagascar was closed to incoming sailors, South Africa was closed, Mozambique is struggling with ISIS fighters taking over islands in the Northern half of the country. The weather is not acceptable to sail toward Europe until at least March, and Thailand and Malaysia are still closed. All the limiting factors that kept us waiting in the Maldives remain limiting factors. The only difference is that, here, there are plenty of boat yards and marinas to keep Sonrisa functional and safe.

“I haven’t felt this level of security in a while,” Andrew says, and I squeeze in for a hug. I'm glad my Captain feels good about the situation, for now. It's a small win, and I'll take it. I pour myself a cup of coffee and nestle myself into the bean bag next to Andrew and Katherine Hepburn.

I don't feel the calm he feels. An undercurrent of nerves cause my hands and feet to tingle any time my mind veers toward our short term plans. I know our goal still sits at completing a circumnavigation of the globe, by sail, while enjoying and exploring the places we stop along the way. By count of time, we are in year 4.5 of a 5 year plan; by distance, we are only half way around. We are anchored up in a country that wasn't actually on our sailing plan for this year (our intended route took us through Mauritius and Reunion instead) and our onward destinations are still closed. Even if they opened (and they might) will the be safe and reliable to enter, explore, and stay a while?

“I lean toward staying here the year," Andrew says, acknowledging that the only thing that is going to measurably change the stability of world travel will be the development and distribution of either a vaccine or a treatment that renders Covid less damaging. “Maybe by then things will be different.”

I am a big believer that you can only make decisions with the information you have at the time. When you start making plans based on what you wish to be/hope will happen later, you run a greater risk of those plans failing to come to fruition. Sure, we can adjust our sails again, but in this situation adjusting our sails means sailing past some of the most interesting countries in the world that we have sailed so very far to see. Should we do that?

What I do know is world travel is nothing like it was a scant six months ago; a sailor's welcome in new ports is chilly, some places still turn us away all together; many of the usual tourism related opportunities are shut down or significantly curtailed; the passages ahead to “skip home are long given border closures (very long), pose challenging weather issues, and the places we can stop are infected with Covid. Where we are now (currently) has zero Covid cases, sufficient boat repair facilities, and seemingly, a legal route to have our visas and boat importation exemptions extended up to a year without forcing us to pay import taxes or fly around willy-nilly for visa extensions.

But what of our schedule?

What of the life at home that longs for our return? My parents want me home. They are teary and frustrated when I call home. Our niece asked her mother a few days ago when she will see us again. Will we be at her birthday party next month?

I think it's easier for everyone to stomach our absence while we are still making mileage toward return. Even if stopping and waiting is the safest decision, it is the most difficult to accept. Andrew says he feels secure here, but I give him about three weeks before his itchy feet start holding him ransom.

Is there Passage Therapy available for sailors whose passage-making has come to a screeching halt?