The stern lines groan in agony, stretching and releasing in the evening tide, the boat being corralled back to the dock by their faithful guidance. It is a hot and muggy night but I have spent all day inside cooking and have become unappreciative of the air conditioning and the hotel-like comfort of the yachts' interior. I need a little discomfort, a little reality. My crew mates are in the crew mess watching "Sin City" which is oddly gorier than I remember. It is not my preferred cup of wine for tonight and we have been so close this last trip that I need my space. I grab my laptop and walk my tired legs slowly to the aft deck table to enjoy the sounds of the marina and write alone beneath the privacy of the yacht security cameras. I debate going for an evening walk but decide better. We are at the very end of a horseshoe shaped marina, our walk to the end of the dock a trek of about 15 minutes in scorching heat that makes you question the importance of what you needed at the end of it. I didn't need anything worth leaving for.
These last couple weeks have been hard. I know it is the beginning of a long chain of a lot of hard. I liken it to the beginning of the Spartan Race when I thought after the first 10 minutes, How will I make it? I am already exhausted!. But I made it to the end and I was better for it. I hope I can say the same of this. I must decide that I will and let it be so. 120 hours on your feet in one week can be a bit much bringing with it a small varicose vein each time and hardening the balls of ones' feet to shallaq. My emotions are high and my body fragile after these last two weeks still unable to sleep through the night without my legs twitching and knowing that in another two weeks I dive back into another month of it. I know that this is one of those times I will look back on and be proud of myself for having achieved. My job is one people dream to have. One
I have dreamed to have. There is so much to be grateful for from the amazing itinerary, crew that I genuinely get along with and laugh with, and a great leader who pulls us through it. To be able to live this close to people, closer than any family member spends time together, through grueling hours and impossible demands….and to still love each other and care for each other. It truly helps and has grown me towards love in a new way. I feel like a jerk to complain. This is the beauty of the therapy of writing. Even as I am writing this my ungrateful and defeatist attitude is starting to lose the war. I know I will be alright I just got to muster through. I think in these moments when my soul needs to say something…What is it? What will be solved in saying or writing this? What are you looking for Sarah? Understanding? To be heard and know you are not alone? All of the above and also peace in these writings. I long for answers. I long to vent and to whine. I want to know I am doing this for some reason and that there is some sort of carrot in front of this horse edging her to the ends of this world for something greater. I think about what I do and why I should be grateful and it helps a lot but something is missing. Our journey on this boat takes us from Latin America upward north to the U.S. and then to the far east of the South Pacific. At this time next year, we will be in Antarctica and I will truly be standing on the edge of civilization. And what will I say then? What will my gratitude or gripe be then? I am between myself, if that is even a way to describe it. I can't filter today. I just can't.
The weeks before my boss comes onboard are a lesson in preparation and humility that I consider priceless and nuts, even to my years of experience in this industry. It is a hustler-type finagling of prices with local vendors. A sweaty walk down a dirt road to an amazing Carniceria where the butcher offers his own cuts and cured meats that only the locals know about. It is a visit to the local spice farms to buy monstrous and fragrant vanilla beans at a price worth killing over. A moment of being humbled by the loyalty of a hard working old farmer who drives 2 hours out of town so we can get bananas on a stalk that my boss has demanded. I sweat, I exercise for my work, I rest when I am in the galley washing off the hundreds of bugs from my farm fresh produce. But what I do is nothing compared to what those who provide for me do. I appreciate the work that goes into what I make because I know that so much more work came before me. I have never worked on a yacht that required and also allowed this life of me. My efforts from beginning to end come down to one dish that is a blink to the hand that raises it to the mouth. They gulp down wine, they have a conversation, and all that happened before is a vapor that has passed. It can crush or raise your spirit to climb up a mountain to this one moment of accomplishment to have it loved or unloved. I get through it in remembering what I have gained in the journey that bringing food to the table brings. It is that journey that makes me feel like a chef and not the luxury of the cooking afterward. I know what each piece means to each person who brought it there and it is as priceless as gold to me at times.
I sound like a sad puppeteer to myself when I re-read that last paragraph yet I am proud. I have been nothing but me and my work for this time in such a way that I almost feel lost in it. Like it is all I am anymore. This life on the boat, this fulfillment of experience is rare and is unique. I miss home so much though. I want to be selfish and go home. The plethora of photos of me in places that I can only dream to be cannot replace the beauty of the embrace of a dear friend or watching a movie with my dad on the couch with my dog sitting in between. I question myself all the time in why this worked out how it did. It was timely, it was a prayer answered, and now I wonder if the answered prayer was one that I never made...to be taught that I had it all in my hands already and was just too damn blind and ungrateful to see it.
