I never thought I’d see the day when a water childe like me grew sick of the sight of the ocean. Traditionally I love the sea, she cradles me to sleep and I draw the energy from her to wake in the mornings. But she has not been friendly as of late, and as I look out my office window to the miles and miles of endless whitecaps and dull featureless, fog-choked horizon, this Selkie yearns to shed her sealskin and walk once more upon the dry land of home. Her other home, that is, the one that doesn’t move.
It is beautiful of course, there is no denying that it’s beautiful. But it’s tremendously frightening as well. Perhaps frightening isn’t the right word, unnerving may be a better word at this point – fright will come later, if it comes at all. The yaw of the ship is so great right now that as you stare out the window the sea drops away all together leaving nothing but dull grey sky, and then comes crashing back up, leaving nothing but slate-grey sea.
I grew up watching weather like this from the safe confines of my living room. With my nose pressed against the glass I’d watch the waves crash over the barrier that separated the sea from the road. If I was feeling especially brave, I would walk in it, much to the dismay of my parents. But we are talking about a girl who asked if she could go and look at the tracks the day a mountain lion showed up on our beach. The sea never frightened me, nor did anything that could be drawn to her. It still doesn’t, but even I cannot stay at sea forever.
More likely though, it’s just this storm. This storm that claws at us day and night that whips us night and day with chill rains and gale force winds.
In the wee small hours of the morning, the ship makes almost as much noise as a tall ship would. Only it’s not her structure or her hull that talks, it’s the multiple slamming drawers and doors, the crashing of the elevators against their shafts, the rattle of the hangers in your cabin closets, the swish of the Great Wall painted tapestry at it swings on its hook, the creaking of the metal in the walls. In weather like this, all ships have a voice, and they usually use it to complain.
So it is that we claw our way through the storm that is crawling across the face of the Pacific Ocean. For those of you who are concerned about the effect this has on our itinerary, it’s a lot more minor than it could have been. We adjusted our stop at Easter Island by a day, making it the 11th instead of the 10th, lengthened our stop in Tahiti, shortened our stop in Pago Pago, and cancelled New Caledonia out right (not a great loss from all I hear).
Ever on we solider. Ever on we sail.
Bright Blessings,
Shaughnessy