sailing

Once again, we have set out to sea in a ferry.

This never quite seems like a good idea to me, despite the fact that we're sailing on the smoothest seas I've ever seen. Honestly, there are lots of times in the past two months alone that we've been moving more in port than we are right now. The thing is, there's no way for me to know how it's going to go for me over the next five days or so. This is my fourth sail, and on the first one I was so sick that the HoJ (who was, at the time, just the Boyfriend of Joy, but showed real promise with what I'm about to tell you) would make me Ramen noodles just so I had something soft to throw up. I think they could totally use that in an ad campaign. Ramen: Something Soft to Spew When You Sail. The second time was like a dream. Smooth seas, perfect weather, and wildlife every day. Seriously, at one point the officer on the bridge came over the intercom to announce, Dolphins, basically ... everywhere. The third sail was a mixed bag. I threw up for the first half and felt mildy human for the second, so statistically speaking, this could go either way.

I'm not quite steady enough to call myself a good sailor, especially when just the thought of pulling away from the dock makes me breathe deep and eat one last big meal rather than jump for joy. But if I make it through this one in style, I might start to feel a little more confident about my sea legs.

There's one thing that I know will work for me no matter what, and as soon as they made the announcement that the bow was open I grabbed a chair and headed outside. Out there, with the whole ocean spread out in front of me and the breeze cool in my face, I never feel sick. One by one people make their way down to Deck Three, all the way forward, and then back up to the salty air and together we watch the sun set and the moon rise. If we're lucky (like tonight) we see dolphins and flying fish and nearly-transparent jellyfish billowing alongside us. Someone brings a guitar and we worship together and there's this sense of community that's somehow different from the rest of the year.

For some reason, we are closer when we sail. This morning before we departed Jenn put words to the feeling. It's like we're one big family getting ready to go on a trip together. For as long as we're on the water, this feeling of family is so much stronger than other times, somehow. We greet each other with sincere questions about our friends' health and we make pilgrimages around the ship to deliver food and ginger biscuits to those who can't get out of bed. We sit together out on the bow, and for the only time in the year it's just us. Just crew, no visitors or day volunteers or tour groups or food delivery men. The ship is ours, and we revel in it for these few, sacred days.

I'm sitting cozy in my bed right now. The moon is high outside my window (although porthole, I suppose, would be the more nautical term), and the water rushing past is shot through with silver. At least for tonight, I love sailing.

Yesterday was the first time I sailed into Africa. I've flown in to meet up with the ship for the past two years, going through the rigamarole of airport security and baggage claim, the sticky drive to the port to finally walk up the gangway. Yesterday was different.

As we sailed in to the port, I heard the sound of trumpets, too faint to make out a tune. We passed the familiar canoes, at least one fisherman in each invariably bailing out the water while another stood to wave to the Yovos lined up at the railing. The water was aqua under an overcast sky and the Togolese flag flew proudly from the tugboats.

As we drew closer to the dock, the indistinct sounds from the band took on shape until I could pick out trumpets and trombones and maybe even a tuba. They were waiting for us on the end of the dock, playing African worship songs and drumming until I thought they would break their sticks. The women waved handkerchiefs wildly in the air and everyone was dancing the unashamed dances of the truly joyful.

As we pulled alongside our berth, they walked with us up the dock, shouting and waving and welcoming us to our new home. They joined up with another, much larger group, one with twice the drums and even more dance moves. My shoulders were warm in the sun and I was sweating through my shirt and I couldn't stop dancing with them, my cheeks hurting from the smile I couldn't stop.

Later, much later, when the sun was almost down, the dock was deserted. The drummers had long ago piled into their buses and the marching band had marched off to rest their tired lips. I was waiting in line for dinner when a friend caught my eye. There's a baby on the dock. Needing no further encouragement, I ran out into the sticky air to find Francois.

He's very small, our Francois; he'll be two months old on the nineteenth, and he weighs a little over five pounds. Huddled around him was a much smaller welcoming committee than the one before. No drums, no fancy clothes, no dancing. Just a mama, a grandma and a little baby, all skin and bones, his lip and palate split wide, his future hanging in the balance. With them was a nurse, who I later learned works at the orphanage where Francois' mama was planning to leave him. She didn't want a broken baby, but the someone had heard that the ship was coming, convinced her that there was another way.

I took him in my arms, his little scrawny legs hanging out the bottom of the damp piece of cloth he was wrapped in. I buried my nose in the cloud of his hair, black and curly and softer than anything I've felt before, and I breathed deep before handing him over to our feeding program nurse who was going to be overseeing his care.

I wanted the drums, then. I wanted the handkerchiefs waving in the air and the ladies dancing in their finest African clothes. I wanted the whole world to know that here on our dock, a mama was choosing life for her baby. But they just climbed into a Land Rover in the gathering dusk, heading to the off-ship house where he'll stay until the wards are open.

And like that, it has begun. Welcome to Togo.

Others went out on the sea in ships; they were merchants on the mighty waters.
They saw the works of the Lord, his wonderful deeds in the deep.
For he spoke and stirred up a tempest that lifted high the waves.
They mounted up to the heavens and went down to the depths; in their peril their courage melted away.
They reeled and staggered like drunken men; they were at their wits' end.
Then they cried out to the Lord in their trouble, and he brought them out of their distress.
He stilled the storm to a whisper; the waves of the sea were hushed.
They were glad when it grew calm, and he guided them to their desired haven.
(Psalm 107:28-30)

It seems that there was at least one crew of Biblical sailors who set out in a flat-bottomed ferry, or I'm not sure they would have been able to describe our experience over the last few days quite so accurately.

Take a protractor (if you're nerd enough to have one of those on you) and measure out twenty-five degrees off the vertical. Now imagine your house, the room you're in right now, tilting that far to one side. Then snapping back upright. And doing the same in the other direction, all in the space of not-so-many seconds. Think your room would survive that with any kind of grace? Not much on the ship did. We were sleepless and rattled, the galley a mass of spilled milk that no one, thankfully, was crying over. (They're tough like that.) As for myself, I spent the time sleeping and revisiting any meals I had been foolish enough to chance.

But today? Oh, today is a different story. Yesterday evening the swells had died down enough that waves weren't crashing over the bow, and we were finally allowed out there to revel in the sunset, a performance we happily repeated today. And now I'm going to bed, where I intend to stay for the whole night. Tonight, there will be no crashings of dishes not properly padded in cupboards. There will be no mad dashes out of bed to see what went bump in the night, dashes that end up turning into full-out sprints (and possibly collisions with the far wall) when the ship pitches forward at just the right time.

No, tonight is for sleep. And tomorrow is for eating the peach cobbler that my now-non-queasy stomach allowed me to make a little while ago. And that, my friends, is good enough reason to be glad.

Never have I fought so hard for so little sleep.

It's two in the morning, and all I want to do is rest. Instead, I'm being tossed around my cabin, woken up at frequent intervals by creakings and crashings all over the ship, my body pulled back and forth by the incessant pitch and roll of my floating world. This, my friends, is not what I signed up for.

It started last night when the ship started to encounter something the captain is referring to as Big Swell. To my less-seaworthy self, that's code for Dear God, Please Let This Be Over Soon, or Why Ferries Should Not Sail on the Open Sea.

I took these photos yesterday at sunrise, standing on the far side of Deck Eight, when all the rocking and rolling was still mildly entertaining. There's maybe a three second gap between the two, illustrating quite profoundly (if I do say so myself) why flat-bottomed train ferries should most likely not be sailing around on the big blue ocean, however smooth that ocean may look to the untrained eye.

Yesterday was funny, in a sort of I didn't get any sleep, but I'm going to enjoy this anyway kind of way. People staggered through the halls, leaning at crazy angles to offset the rolling, and with each big heave, something, somewhere would hit the ground. Small children, who didn't have any sense of how to compensate, wove back and forth across the floors, their steps directed for them. Plates slid back and forth on the tables, and with each lurch I felt a little less like I wanted to be a part of all of this.

Tonight, I'm just tired. HoJ and I are attempting to sleep sideways across our bed, hoping that a side-to-side roll will be more successful than the head-to-toe one that left us sorely sleep-deprived last night. Thus far, I've got nothing to report, other than the obvious; it's two in the morning, and I'm blogging. Because the ship has plans for me, and I'm pretty sure they don't include peaceful slumber.

Are we there yet?

During this sail, with the weather being as perfect as it has been, the nurses have started a tradition of having morning devotions out on the bow. Today, I headed out a little early to spend some time alone before everyone arrived. I came armed with my camera, just in case I saw some flying fish or something.

Or something turned out to be more that I expected.

I stood at the railing, staring down at the churning water, and all of a sudden it was alive with twisting forms. A whole pod of dolphins were racing the ship, playing the the spray kicked up by the hull, jumping with every splash the ship made. Within minutes all the nurses had joined me, and we stood there, mesmerized. Their sleek forms looked for all the world like they would be overtaken, but at the last minute, they would roll free, jumping out of the way.


I'd never seen anything like it, and I never expected to be treated to a repeat performance, but that's exactly what happened. Neatly marking my day like bookends, just before dinner another family came to play. I call this one a family, because there were mamas and babies, the little ones learning to jump and play, too. There were even more this time, and while we watched, others joined them, swimming right at the ship and turning at the very last minute to leap out of the spray.

And now, here I am. Blogging about dolphins when I should be well asleep, a feat that's proving near impossible tonight since the ship is rocking more than it has this entire voyage. I can hear our dishes sliding around in their cupboards, and it's taking much more effort than usual to not fall out of bed.

Oh the wild joys of sailing.

Last year, when I was silent all during the sail, it was because I was flat in my bed, trying vainly to keep the contents of my stomach where they rightfully belonged. This year, I'm silent because I'm having the time of my life.

The sail has been wonderful so far. The seas have been calm, the weather near perfect. I spend long hours on the bow, listening to the waves smash against the hull of the ship, the sun beating down on my head. The jobs I should be doing on the computer have been printed out and clipped into a binder, because I can't bear to work inside.

We've turned the corner now, heading north past Liberia and Sierra Leone, and the air is starting to carry the faintest hint of chill. The wind is stronger, the waves a little higher, and still I am not sick. I wake up each morning so thankful for another day, and all I keep thinking is, This is amazing. I never have to dread sailing again!

Last night was the best part of all of this.

I carried a sleeping bag and a mattress from the hospital up the five flights of stairs to deck eight, where I staked out a corner next to some dear friends. We snuggled into our hoodies and blankets while the ship rocked us gently and overhead the moonless sky was strewn with a million stars. The Milky Way was a pale band arching over the ship, and Sirius shone out, brighter than all the others. Through the binoculars, we saw galaxies and nebulae and stars stars stars. And over and over, one would break rank, streaking towards us in a blaze of light.

I've seen meteor showers before, but this was something new. This was God, wanton in His creation, forming stars by the billion and throwing them across the sky for my pleasure. This was Heaven, bending over me, spinning and whirling with the movement of the waves. This was everything that is Right about God, everything that is More.

Earlier in the evening, I had been at church where we lit the third Advent candle. Week by week, we are getting closer to the Light. Day by day, His coming is closer, and then I went outside and He was all around me, dancing among the falling stars and whispering from the darkness.

This is for you. I did this all for you; I knew you would love this. My deepest desire is for you to know my Joy, and so I did this for you.

I'm brought to my knees when I think that He left all that for me. That He gave up walking among the stars and came to be laid in a feeding trough. The Consolation of Israel, crying out for his mama in the night. The Light of the World, shutting his little eyes against the morning sun. Immanuel. God with us, nestled in a young woman's arms.

Early this morning I woke to see the sky painted with the colours of sunrise, the stars hidden behind the light of a new day. As I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, one last star fell, streaking past the fingernail moon hanging low over the waters. One last reminder, one last proof.

Stars fall and He is so near.

We are at sea. For now, everything is calm, the water like blue rippled glass and I'm going to enjoy it for as long as I possibly can. I know that within the next few days, when we head north and start cutting across the current, I'm most likely going to be in the same boat I was at this time last year. Until that happens, I'm going to enjoy the sail for as long as possible.

I'm going to head out to the bow and watch the sun set as we sail towards it. I'm going to stand at the stern and stare at the wake, churning and aqua, the only thing to break to monotony of open ocean as I look behind us. I'm going to lie on Deck Eight with a million stars spinning above me.



And somewhere in the midst of all of that, I'm going to realize that I've left Africa again. It took me by surprise this time. One minute I was on the dock, throwing out my trash in the blinding heat, and the next we were pulling away from our berth, crew lining the rails and waving their goodbyes. I feel vaguely unsettled, like I should feel more. Leaving Liberia was like ripping a piece of my heart out, but this farewell to Benin has been much less drastic, and I'm not sure why.

But I've got the next nine days or so to ponder while we sail up to Tenerife, so I'll make the most of my time. (If I'm not seasick, that is.)


(The photo of Phil and I was taken by Murray, and it's a re-creation of one we took last year on the first day of sailing. I was headed home, getting ready to introduce Phil to my family, and he was waiting to get my Dad's blessing before proposing to me. Today is our seven month wedding anniversary. What a difference a year makes...)

I was just sitting on the sea wall for the better part of an hour. I'd been there for quite a while, lost in thought, looking out at the ocean, before I realized that it was probably the last time I'll ever sit on that wall. Sooner than my queasy-in-anticipation stomach would like, we're going to be sailing, and I don't know when I'll be back in Benin. True, Togo is right next door, but with Ghana on the other side, we're more likely to be exploring new places rather than revisiting old ones.

So I sat there, savouring the heat for one more night, my bare feet tucked onto the ledge that some thoughtful builder had thought to incorporate into his construction. Little wavelets ran up the wall, rushing towards shore and making small smacking sounds on the concrete. The water was slate blue and grey, reflecting a thousand colours from a pastel sky, and the horizon was dotted with ships waiting to come into port.

Way up on the mast, the HoJ was silhouetted against that sunset sky where he was working on the last fixes that need to happen before we can head out. All around me were the now-familiar sights and sounds and smells of a port I'd never seen before June. And just like that, I'll say my goodbyes to Africa for the next couple months. It always happens sooner than I'm ready, and I'm growing accustomed to the idea that my life might just end up being one long series of goodbyes as HoJ and I wend our way around the globe, following the Call that's brought us this far.

It's no use looking that far into the future, though. For now, I'm content with tying down my cabin, tipping my beloved linen closet down to rest on the floor so it doesn't fall over when we hit open water and securing my Tupperware tightly in its closet.

It's time to say goodbye again. I'll see you on the other side.

(Unless, of course, a miracle occurs and I'm not violently ill for the entire trip. In which case, you'll hear all about what a great sailor I am and how all those people who get sick really just need to man up and tough it out.)

(Don't count on that being the case.)

I was awake before six this morning, lying in my bed and feeling the barely-perceptible rock of the ship begin to summon the day’s familiar nausea. The tone of the overhead announcement sounded and I tensed, not quite able to shed the past year’s duties as an EMT even though I’m off the team until I come back for Benin. For those on deck, please no flash photography. It came back with a rush, then. The captain’s announcement at last night’s meeting that the pilot would be coming on board promptly at 0600 to guide us to a berth. Going to sleep feeling for all the world like I was five again and it was the night before my family started the five hundred mile drive to Toronto before the sun had risen.

I shrugged into my clothes and stepped out into the cool, damp air to be greeted not by the familiar wind and darkness, but by a fairyland of lights. I blinked, but they stayed lit, shining through the night to guide us into port. The ship began its slow crawl towards the dock, the lights beginning to distinguish themselves as houses and Christmas trees and street lamps. I saw a man standing on the end of the dock, illuminated by the headlights of his car. He stood straight-backed, a trumpet in his hands, and as we threw out the mooring lines the simple, clear notes of Away in a Manger floated back across the water to where we stood at the rail.

I had to swallow hard just then and make some offhand comment about how insane it was to actually be able to see my breath or else the whole ship would have seen me break down right there on deck seven. Because it finally hit me; I just realized that we actually left Liberia.

It seems insane, after a week of sailing away from West Africa, that I can only just now comprehend the fact that we left. I kept staring at those lights, brighter than all of Liberia, and all I wanted was to see the dim outline of the Ducor on top of the hill. And now that day has come and the mountains are draped in shadows and sun and all around me civilization grinds unceasingly on, all I want is our wide-open port, dotted with canoes and sunken ships.

It’s dinner-time, and I have yet to step foot outside the ship. Granted, that’s partly because I’m on duty and carrying the pager limits me to a pretty small radius, but the truth is that I’m scared. I’m scared that stepping onto Spanish soil will finally mean that I’m not in Africa anymore, that I’ve left Liberia forever, and I’m just not ready to do that.

I’m hiding behind the steel hull of my ship, because the longer I stay here, the longer I can pretend that I’ll look out the portholes and see my beloved third world.

Why is this so hard?

To be awakened by this and a friend bringing a fresh croissant to your door? Almost enough to make up for what is starting to feel like a lifetime of seasickness.

Almost.

Because, despite how calm those waters are looking (not just looking; they are), I still can't stand on my own two feet without my world turning upside down.

If the Spanish Navy doesn't get the heck out of our berth immediately, there is going to be a piper to be paid. Someone else is going to have to take care of that for me, though.

I can't get out of bed.

I woke up this morning just after five. No matter how I snuggled back into my duvet or fluffed my pillow, I was completely and utterly awake; it turns out it's hard to sleep when your body is being lifted up and slammed back into your mattress over and over. I gave up the fight close to six, and struggled against the increasing rolling of my cabin into what's become my uniform during this sail: sweatpants, Messiah Ultimate hoodie, knee socks and crocs. Because maybe I forgot to mention it, but HOLY COW IT'S COLD.

I have no idea what the real temperature is, but I think maybe I've been living too long in the blissfully constant thirty-Celsius Liberian sun. When I step outside, I'm blasted immediately by a wind that I can only call Arctic. My nose turns red, and my gimpy toe starts to protest almost right away. (Poor little gimpy toe. It's the product of an unfortunate accident involving some hot coals, a nail and stupidity; it hasn't been the same since.) I'm in for a rude awakening when I arrive back to real winter, which is happening in less than a week. I don't dare think about it, though, in case I fall off my chair with sheer excitement; I'm having a hard enough time staying on this sucker as it is.

At any rate, it was six in the morning, I was bundled against the cold and starting to feel sick inside the ship, so I braved the piercing wind and climbed to deck eight. Which is where I met God.

The sky was still inky black, all strewn with stars and that insanely bright moon. I sat with my back to a ventilation shaft, tucked whatever I could find around my body to shield me from the wind and tied my hood securely around my face.

Sitting there in the middle of the deck, the ship didn't feel like it was threatening to throw me into the ocean anymore. I leaned back to watch the stars dip and turn and swirl above my head. A satellite made its lazy way across the sky and then I was left again with just my stars and the moon and God.

The sky had just started to brighten and everything was turning to pearl when a song by Tenth Ave poured into my ears.

Before the sun has touched the sky
Colors bursting from Your eyes
Before the flood of the morning light
Before the earth has felt Your heat
Before I stand up to my feet
Before I begin to feel this weak

Satisfy me Lord
Satisfy me Lord
I'm begging You to help me see;
You're all I want, You're all I need
Oh, satisfy me Lord

You're beautiful, You're beautiful;
You're more than all this world can give.
You're beautiful, You're beautiful;
Your love is all I need to live.
You're beautiful, You're beautiful;
You're more than all this world can give.
You're beautiful, more beautiful;
Your love is all I need to live.

I watched the stars retreat as the sky grew lighter, the white tips on the waves taking on dim reflections of color until the water finally changed from coal to grey to cobalt, brushed all over with the gold of a morning sun.

And it was all so incredibly satisfying.

I must retract my former statement. I do not, in fact, love sailing. I have come to believe that sailing is nothing more than a poorly disguised ploy to make me hate my life.

You know how it feels when you're in an airplane and the turbulence hits? How your body gets unbearably light and then heavy all at the same time, over and over? Well, imagine that, multiplied by the fact that my bed is almost as far forward as it's possible to be, right where the waves are crashing against the bow with a sound like small thunder. And compound all that with the feeling of utter despair when I realize that, no, this plane isn't going to land anytime soon. That, in fact, there is no land anywhere and won't be for several days.

The only way I'm able to be on the computer right now is because I spent the last four hours sitting outside, wind whipping my hair and face, gathering up un-sick feelings in enough bulk to allow me to read for a few minutes.

Maybe I'm being a little over-dramatic. It's possible. I don't have time to sit and discuss it though; I've got to get back out to deck seven before I lose this fragile truce I've managed to call with my body.

Things I Have Learned in the Past Twenty-Four Hours:

- Being a stowaway is fun. Even more fun is hearing the nurse who discovers you debating quietly with herself whether or not she should pull on the blanket covering you as you hide behind a linen cart.
- Searching for stowaways is also fun, albeit a little nerve-wracking. I would probably have lost my mind (and control of my bladder) if I had actually found someone in one of the thousand or so A/C rooms we had to hunt through.
- Okay, maybe it was more like eight A/C rooms; it just felt like a lot.
- Being assigned to search the mast and funnel had to have been the best deal. I felt like I was finally getting to have an adventure after lying prostrate in my bed for the past month or so.
- It wouldn't be Mercy Ships if the crane had worked to load the gangway the first time. It felt much more like our way of doing things when the assembled well-wishers had to push the sucker down the dock the length of the ship so the aft crane could do the job.
- Pulling away from a dock that has been my home for ten months feels surreal.
- It makes my heart catch in my throat to be handed a cell phone just before we pass the breakwater and hear the voice of a former patient, Andrew. Alice! I am on the beach! I am waving goodbye to you. Goodbye to Mercy Ship. Thank you. Thank you. God bless you. I am waving to you!
- I thought I would smell the salt breeze when the wind picked up. I forgot that I've been living in the harbor for almost a year; I think I might be used to it by now.
- The water off the stern churns and splashes and is a far more vivid aqua than I've ever seen before.
- There seem to be no stars in this part of the ocean. Just a moon so bright that the water looks like polished silver, like it's daytime just over there, close to the horizon.
- When a cloud covers the moon, the impossibly bright moon, the edges look like a dim rainbow in the night.
- Standing outside on the bridge, with the water rushing underneath my feet and my eyes closed to the wind in my face, it feels like I'm the only person in the world.
- This ship rolls a lot more than I thought it would.
- Sitting upright in a chair while sailing takes effort.
- So does walking.
- So, in fact, does staying in bed, which didn't actually hinder me from having the best sleep of my life, rocked quietly all night long.
- Walking up the stairs to see no docks or shipwrecks or Ducor Hotel, only water water water out the portholes is a vaguely unsettling feeling.
- I think God has cured me of my motion sickness.
- I do believe I love sailing.

If all goes according to plan (which nothing on Mercy Ships ever does, just to be totally honest) we should be sailing out of here this afternoon.

I can't wait to see my family and I don't want to leave Liberia and I'm scared I'll be seasick and I'm so ready to get out on the open water and just see the stars that have been hidden by the lights of the port for ten months now. I feel like there's not enough room in me for all this. Like I'm held together just barely and any slight bump is going to be enough to tear my seams and send me spinning like a firework through the sky.

Par for the course, really.