Ready or Not

I barely remember the early morning over 13 years ago when J and I untied our little boat and set off into the darkness. We had shoved all the extra gear into whatever cubbies and lockers we could at midnight. We’d stashed the last few cans of tuna under bunks and topped off the 40-gallon water tank at one a.m. Our single side band radio was nestled in blankets under the settee next to a lifeless bubble-wrapped solar panel. The rigging wasn’t quite tuned, the outboard rarely started on the 1^st or 20^th try, we didn’t have charts for our entire trip and we sure didn’t know the waters. We’d only sailed on our boat Gitane a few times before embarking on a six-thousand-mile journey from Ensenada, Mexico to New York City.

We weren’t ready to untie those lines, we had dozens of more projects to complete, San Diego was on fire, family told us not to go. We could have used a plethora of excuses to sensibly wait one more day, but somewhere around 3am we slipped off those lines anyway and sailed off that dock.

As I get ready for a little ole race to Alaska on a boat I’ve only sailed a few times, Being Ready is on my mind. As is knowing deep down that Being Ready is not a Real Thing. It doesn’t matter how many energy bars we have stowed or how many rowing workouts I’ve done or how comfortable I am pulling up the jib on the tiny bow of this trimaran, I won’t be ready. 

And yet I am.

Ready is less a list of to-dos than it is allowance of forward motion. Instead of saying ready, maybe I should say willing. I am open to challenge. I am confident that we can handle what comes our way. And by handle I do not mean fight or defeat or stay alive, I mean that if I am willing (ready) to stay present in the moment (which the sea is extraordinarily wonderful at cultivating, that presence), I can trust that I can be in the flow of whatever happens.

Hoping that flow is not a whirlpool.
Yet that too. 

Not going, as has been suggested by dear caring souls with more arguably more sense than I, will not teach me these lessons of trust. Doing something that is wholly unknown (other than that sailing ocean birds sunset bioluminescence whales un-fucking-believeable beauty part- I know that) is a way to remind myself that every day we throw off the docklines and get out of bed. Or at least most days. We sail into the unknown with every conversation on the street or at the breakfast table and during every acceleration in the car catapulting us into the next moment, the next interaction. Nothing is fully planned and executed exactly. Planning is inherently ephemeral. Our dreams and expectations never quite line up with our reality.

We are penciled self-portraits blurred by the hands that draw them.

The bigger the decisions or the more outlandish the adventure, I’d venture to say that the chasm between expectation and reality widens more significantly, obviously, acutely.

Is that what I fear? Falling into that chasm of the unknown, swooping swallows and flying fish circling and slashing?

I realize that this is commitment. Commitment to getting out of bed in the morning and being in relationship with others and going on a crazy fucking boat trip for no point other than to do it. This is trust and love and life. Living. Untying what holds us back and sailing out of the harbor each and every day into the unknown and feeling every wave and wash of terror and gratitude. It can look like this trip or like marriage and kids and staying in one place for more than a year.

Adventure is relative.
It is trust.

Ready? Sure.
For blurred lines and whales breath and swooping swallows and presence.  
Willing to welcome commitment and contentment.
Open to the challenge of the unknown (so everything). Ready.