Second Gen Expat

 

Anyone familiar with Ireland will know of its primordial nature and its passionate, strong, witty, sensitive, unassumingly intellectual and irresistibly charming people.  A people who are also helplessly prone to melancholy deeply rooted its historical struggles of politics and faith. The end result is a keen, resourceful and capable force with unlimited and relatively untapped potential by the world’s standards, definitively both insular and diasporic in its culture.  It is for all these things that I find kinship, am drawn and held there, two generations later.  Now a Florida and Irish resident, and a career in real estate investment and development mostly behind me, I split my time between there an a renovated field house in County Clare.  

Past generations:

As a child my grandfather spent his summers with his brothers swimming and fishing along the banks of the river Slaney in Brownswood, just outside Enniscorthy.  He then lived at 46 Manor Place, Stoneybatter, D7, and worked at the Guinness and Powers factories, as so many did, before going off to fight for the Guards in England when Dublin became untenable.  Amazingly he survived fighting in Egypt, England, Norway, North Africa, and Italy between the years of 1934-1946.  He spent a couple of years after the war working as a park groundskeeper in Croydon when an Army buddy of his talked him into moving his young family to Montreal to work cleaning Air Canada planes, which he did for the rest of his career.  I remember him, his strong accent, genuine laughter and innate sense of humour, the whiskey, the reluctance to get serious about things, his kind demeanour, his tolerance for bad cooking.  He and his brothers who remained back in Ireland all lived well into their 90’s.  My father’s connection to family in Ireland remains constant to this day.  It is an easily heartfelt one for a first generation migrant to America.

Montreal

My remigration started when I was 6 months old and we visited my Grandfather’s family in Dublin from Canada.  I don’t remember it at all.  As a child I spent several years on my maternal grandmother’s farm outside Montreal.  She was a first-generation Italian immigrant who grew up farming in Italy.  So thanks to the two of them I could speak three languages by the age of 5 and I had a solid old-school Catholic-agrarian foundation.  Italy was a frequent destination throughout my younger years, but Ireland wasn’t as easy until middle age when the options for travel didn’t revolve as much around work, children or politics.  

Ireland 

In 2013 I returned to Ireland on my own to explore and discover a more developed Ireland and the relatives that were mostly only known to me through my father and Facebook, of course.  It was a cool misty week in February 2013 when I rented my car and travelled around the Isle in a typical clockwise tour; Dun Leoghaire, Wicklow, Enniscorthy, Cork, Killarney, Recess, Dublin.  I only almost crashed once, somewhere on one of the millions of narrow country roads in the West, coming off an even narrower bridge into a sharp left turn where a van was headed straight against me.  It was a very near miss, but all in all not too bad for an ‘American' woman with a manual transmission driving on the other side of the road.  Were it not for the Tom Tom, I never would have been able to find my way out of the airport, let alone to the more remote destinations I had charted for myself.  

That trip was a confidence builder and confirmation that I never had enough time in any of the places I visited, nor enough time to soak in everything I would have wanted to in each.  Every bit was splendid and all the more engaging because so much was closed for the season and I didn’t have to wade through the tourists or the attractions. It was a time to assess Ireland on its own raw merits, all unicorns, leprechauns and Dingling aside, for the most part.  I’ve always appreciated complexity, and Ireland has it in spades; in its language, in its people, its music, in its landscape and in its soul.  It was easy to want to stay, which I never feel anywhere I travel, but this was different, I wasn’t just passing through.  

Spain

Fast forward 3 years.  The trip to Ireland stuck with me, it identified a part of myself that was unique and clarified so many of my quirks;  my alacrity towards the Waspy secondary school I attended in the 80’s, the friends I mentioned came more to light, Lonergan, Pickering, Murphy, O’Brien, O’Connor, Casey, McLoughlin, and I wonder if they too might not experience what I had felt going back, the music that fed my should through my teens: U2 (to both Pauls, the denial of something that is inherent in you seems like an exercise in futility, so best to try to embrace it), Enya the antidepressant, The Pogues, The Cranberries, Clannad, Boomtown Rats, The Irish Rovers and my grandad’s marching and victory songs that no one else seemed to know in America.  This all sinking and settling its way during and after, steeping its way to appreciation and awareness, waiting and wanting for more.

In 2016 both my boys were leaving me, gone to college, and they had been my every priority.  While it meant a lot of sacrifice, my bucket list grew every time I felt an inkling of unrest.  I was healthy and able to work remotely, so I wanted to offset the transition with something big, something that had been planted in my head a long time ago when I was studying philosophy and had read about the pilgrimage.

So I spent September 2016 walking 500 miles from the Pyrenees in the South of France to the West coast of Spain.  It was a journey of forgiveness, redemption and peace.  I walked it on my own, without planning or expectation and met so many people along the way.  Those people are called your Camino family, they come from all over the world and you keep in touch with them forever because of the extraordinary shared experience that you want to keep alive.  Being in Spain, I never thought to see such an international blend.  The ones I gravitated to, the ones spent laughing and in long conversation with, were the Irish and the Scandinavians.  Now I don’t know if there were more of them than any others on the trail, but it certainly felt like it.  

About halfway through at the monastery in San Juan de Ortega, I met a bunch of Irish who had gathered together before mass, one of which was a big man named Paul.  I ran into him again in the derelict hospital in San Anton a couple of days later and we ended up finishing the walk a day apart in Santiago.  Since then it is a relationship that's been threaded with all sorts of adventurous vignettes, life events and adaptations.

Dublin

I spent another 4 month in 2017 taking graduate classes at TCD for the Michaelmas semester.   I soaked every bit of it in, the academics, the environment.  I wasn’t expecting Dublin to be so cosmopolitain.  I was tucked away in a small apartment by the Docks on Windmill Lane.  My weekends were spent exploring the countryside, spurred by stories from Frank Delaney’s Ireland, visiting family members and enjoying long walks and adventures with Paul.  

Leixlip

The time flew by and afterwards we decided on an apartment together in Leixlip and we were able to work our schedules between Ireland and America so that we were never apart too long.  

In 2018 I decided to apply for citizenship through my grandfather.  My father had gotten his and I was thankful he still had all the original documents that were required.  I also decided to purchase Paul’s mother’s car, a 2016 Diesel Fiat Panda 4x4 she had purchased for her life in the countryside. 

And so began the task that lingers and sits on the periphery to this day.  Almost longer than any other.  My boys completed school, Paul’s transfer came through, both our mothers have passed away, seasons have come and gone, as has a pandemic, several marriages, babies, I have even gotten fairly good at 45, you get the picture…  Anyone who knows me knows I am not one to procrastinate. If anything, I amoverly proactive in getting fussy details out of the way. But I’ve come to learn that the fussiest, most inordinately bothersome and seemingly frivolous things have something to teach us and maybe even help accompany us in our life’s journey and personal growth.  And so I’ve come to befriend the process of getting newly insured as a resident and citizen in Ireland.

Bureaucracy in Ireland is a thing of its own, it’s almost endearing in its quirkiness.  There are hundreds of blogs on this very topic.  Over the years people pulling out their hair trying to work with the system to no avail, and then in usual form, finding a way around it that doesn’t do anyone any good.  

I can drive a rental car with a US driver’s license in Ireland, I can drive a friend’s car with a US driver’s license in Ireland, but I cannot drive my own car.  I ask if I can get insurance with a US driver’s license.  No.  Can I get insurance with a learner’s permit, yes, but it will cost you three times as much until you learn to drive.  Learn to drive?  I’ve been driving 40 years and have nothing on my record.  That doesn’t matter, you are a new driver in Ireland, you need at least an Irish learner’s permit to get insured at three times the regular rate.  

Now the minimum required insurance in Ireland at the time of this writing is third party liability.  So maybe I can drive with my American worldwide insurance liability coverage which is underwritten by the same major insurance company that underwrites insurance in Ireland.  I enter the policy number on the online application form and he-hey! insurance disk issued and we are good to go until I can get the learner’s permit and more expensive Irish learner’s insurance.  

I study, I take the written exam at City West along with a thousand other immigrants.  I pass, learner’s permit issued at the NDLS in Naas.  Onto the 12 practical lessons.

Shannon

Paul was getting a transfer to Limerick for work.  We bought a 100 year old field house outside of Sixmilebridge that was converted to a wannabe English cottage that had been neglected for several years.  It was perfect.  I can’t tell you how enthusiastic Paul was about it’s potential and I spent a lot of time in 2019 coming and going between Dublin and Shannon getting the place fixed up and ready for us to move.  It’s an easy, lovely drive with the motorway now, and my heart just settles when I'm driving up the gravelly avenue between the fields to our tiny, old, wood stove heated house.  It suited us both better than I think we could have anticipated and Shannon in good times is an easy hop over from JFK or BOS.

Shannon may have the most roundabouts per capita in the nation. I think that's an actual statistic.  If I ever had any worry about whether or not I should signal before the 12 o’clock mark of a 5-road intersection, well I’ve been thoroughly coached in the best training grounds possible, with every possible permutation and combination.  I don’t think any testing instructor could ever trip me up there, but I can’t help but feel a little discriminated against.  Americans are notorious for coming to Ireland not knowing how to use a stick shift or understanding the rules of the road and doing damage to rentals and maybe, so just maybe the testing instructors hear that accent and think CAUTION!  

But I was trained by the best.  Marino, my grandmother’s driver, started teaching me at 10 years old in Canada.  Canada, with ice and snow and hills.  I drove in the country, I drove in the city.  I drove myself to school when I could barely see over the steering wheel and I would stop and pick up my friends and they would look at me like I was crazy.  I’ve driven to Canada and back to Florida no less than 20 times.  I learned to drive on a manual transmission.  I've driven on the other side of the road in South Africa, Ireland and Bermuda for over 30 years.  I’m still alive and my premiums are pretty good.  

The Irish who new me were helpful in suggesting I circumnavigate the system.  You’re Canadian, just get your Canadian license and you can trade that in for an Irish one.  They are right, there should be absolutely no difference between a Canadian and US driver’s license given that the rules are pretty much the same and you can trade your Canadian license in for a US one and vice versa.  But, I wanted to be fair, respect and adhere to the Irish process the way everyone in the country does.  

I called a local driving teacher.   He was charming, experienced, helpful, and willing to do everything he could to help me pass the oral/practical test in Shannon.  I did everything correctly - according to him.

Test #1 - Male tester, mid 40’s.  Oral - pass.  Practical - completely unimpressed with how much I downshifted before breaking at a light or a stop - FAIL 

Test #2 - Female tester, mid 40’s.  Oral - pass.  Practical - said I did not look in the left mirror enough.  Otherwise perfect.  -  FAIL

Test #3 - Male tester, mid 40’s.  Oral - Pass. Practical - I don’t even know, but it was clearly inconsistent with the other two and I was pissed  - FAIL

I asked every one of them, did you ever feel unsafe?  No.  The first told me, “Cleary you know how to drive.”  And the third said, “This test does not take experience into account.”

Mercy.  So I listen to talk shows about people with the same problem.  People who have had their learner’s permits for over 10 years.  It’s a bit ridiculous, but I do what I have to and my crazy premiums should go down this next year.

The Bridge

COVID hit and the differences between America and Ireland were so different.  I was able to keep going back and forth.  Paul was not, which was very hard on us.  In Ireland I would go into lockdown, barely allowed out of the house, no cards, no restaurants, no family for a while, and in Florida life was as usual.   But life in the country affords outlets that make quarantine manageable, and Leo was so comforting compared to Trump.  The horses and sheep and cows around us never changed their routines.  The garden grew and flowered and needed tending.  The seasons changed, the vegetables grew.  We could walk and like so many, tend to the things that never got tended to when normal life got in the way.  In America I felt the need to self-quarantine in my apartment, and that felt almost more restrictive.  

America and Ireland are integrated parts of me.  If I had to pick one in terms of values, I would pick the Irish.  If I had to pick one for productivity, I’d pick the US.  They can be completely opposite or completely complimentary, depending on how you look at it.  For those of us living away from our homes in one way or another, I find it best to try to embrace the good wherever you are, and if you can’t, find an Irish pub!

Joey Ramone

Grief brings strange things to mind.  In the gym in my mother’s apartment building, trying to sweat the stress of the underlying specter that was swiftly approaching.  Mom is weak, stage 4 of a long battle of what had claimed both her parents.  I won’t speak its name or give it space here.  It is not her.  Sudden wafts of thought, completely different than what I thought I would feel.  Objective yet personal.  Soulful Paul resonating in my ears, the words, the truth, the past, the present.  What of the future...

The Miracle (Of Joey Ramone)

I was chasing down the days of fear
Chasing down a dream before it disappeared
I was aching to be somewhere new
Your voice was all I heard
I was shaking from a storm in me
Haunted by the spectors that we had to see
Yeah, I wanted to be the melody
Above the noise, above the herd

I was young, not dumb
Just wishing to be blinded
By you, brand new
And we were pilgrims on our way

I woke up at the moment when the miracle occurred
Heard a song that made some sense out of the world
Everything I ever lost now has been returned
The most beautiful sound I ever heard

We've got language so we can communicate
Religion so I can love and hate
Music so I can exaggerate my pain
And give it a name
I was young, not dumb
Just wishing to be blinded
By you, brand new
And we were pilgrims on our way

I woke up at the moment when the miracle occurred
Heard a song that made some sense out of the world
Everything I ever lost now has been returned
The most beautiful sound I ever heard

I was 11 when I moved to my grandmother’s house in the country.  Blueberry Farm, a sprawling 400 acre piece of Canadian landscape on the American border with a tudor mansion started by my engineer grandfather, and completed and maintained after his early death in 1968 by my grandmother who was raised in rural Italy, the daughter of an industrialist.  I went to Franklin Center Elementary School and remember three teachers there, Mrs. Fryer and Mrs. Baker who were my homeroom teachers, and Mr. Coffin who taught geography.  I remember my first crush on a boy named Clay Allen, and my two best friends Julie and Judy Brooks, who were the daughters of the farmer who lived on my grandmother’s property.  I remember running, running in the grass behind the big house, in the fields behind the school.  I was confused as to what was happening with my parents, nothing was spoken, I loved the country but missed the city because that was where they were.  So I ran, often, hard, my heart beating out of my chest, with the wind and into the wind, and it made me feel alive and free.  When I rand I felt I heard a voice from above, a benevolent force around me, it kept me company no matter where I went or who I was with.
I was different, I spoke three languages and spent a lot of time on the continent with my grandmother and family.  I’d lived in Italy and the City, and had been all over Europe with my parents from a young age.  Wanderlust ran thick through both their veins, something that had and continues to endure through the generations.

DNA

The thread begins.  A subconsciousness sifting down through the ages.   Consciousness develops as the threads of the story weave in and out of each other, not always wrapping up in a nice tight denouement.  Life rarely presents itself in such clear continuity, nor are we always able to grasp it when it does, particularly at a young age or where we have become so distracted from engaging with the inherent deeper meaning of events, interactions and functions we are a part of.

Threads that take generations to work themselves out, information that rarely gets passed on in enough detail to really give an individual a clear idea of how he might fit into the bigger picture.  Maybe that’s what the holidays are for, connecting the threads, even if sometimes painful.  It doesn’t all fit into the redemptive narrative the way we might like it to.

I think about the threads of our families’ histories like I do the DNA threads that unite us from generation to generation in a longer and more meaningful history, filled with inspiration, encouragement and resolve about our place in history.  Even if somehow displaced, or without bearing, it is vital to discover and claim as part of our own and future journeys.

Born to two first-generation immigrants, Italian and Irish, with relatives in multiple countries, I was immediately exposed to an inordinate number of iconic relatives, all unique in their talents and exploits, and all who have resonated in some form in my own vocation and personality:  my maternal grandfather the engineer, my uncle the priest, my father the entrepreneur, my mother and aunts the adventurers, my maternal grandmother the writer, farmer and cook, my paternal grandfather the soldier, my other uncle the farmer, all faithful and brave.  I feel a part of the continuum as it recreates itself in me and through my very different, modern surroundings.  

I am now in my 50’s, my children in their 20’s and I see the thread passed on in them, even if they only see a glimpse of it as they seek to fulfill their inherent passions with indigenous spirit, affect and focus.  We seem to stumble into our fates more gracefully with age and with some indirect yet foundational expectation.

CATALYST

In two days I leave for the Camino.  I tell people what I am doing and the most frequent question asked is how long have you been planning this?  It's been on my bucket list for 20 years, but real logistical consideration was only addressed last year to my doctor before my hip replacement.  I wanted to be able to do this and the sooner the better.  I didn't actually buy my ticket until a week ago.  Preparation included working towards and watching my schedule, commitments, children, and my own head making room for this.  It seemed impossible at first that I could take so much time away with such limited resources.

Brierley's guide book has a wonderful quote in it. "Within the crucible that is pilgrimage a remarkable alchemical reaction takes place that burns away the dross we have collected in our lives - so that over time only the purest gold will remain."

It is a good metaphor for life, and death even.  In preparing, and not by any conscious design, there was such a palpable sense of letting go.  From what was important to others (details, planning) to making sure my pack was not filled with superfluous encumbrances, to my head and heart being freed from worldly cares that were ultimately insignificant compared to the value I placed on the journey.  There was prayer and support from friends and professionals, there was never a sense that I would be irresponsible to anything in my going, in fact, quite the opposite, I felt accountable to the higher calling that would ultimately serve me, my faith, and others as to what we sacrifice in life and to what end.

As most journeys, whether physical, professional or relational, they have served as a catalyst for better things, for myself and other people along the way.   I feel a sense of privilege and gratitude in being part of the growth and change that ensues in pursuing the 'gold'.

I know it will be challenging at times and I may even be cursing my participation at points where my feet are worn and my body aches, but it is no different than any other valuable task.  It involves joy and inspiration and communion with others, but also suffering, sacrifice and individual perseverance where our faith inevitably surfaces in new ways and with a new vision on the world, ourselves and others.

"The Way" is an individual journey.  I look at others without ownership or desire to direct their path.   Seeking mutual appreciation without expectation or obligation.  Cognizant of where we intersect and how each life is utterly unique and extraordinary in its own light.  The companionship we offer one another at certain times helps us with our direction and strength while we are trying to find our way, so as not to let the entrapments of the world compromise our souls.

POSITIVE RETURNS

Many people in my demographic speak of less tolerance for things that that we once had more patience for.  Pre-retirement seems to be a time when opinions and activities get more defined and less pliable.

Part of finding “happiness” or contentment, within ourselves, particularly as we age and concede to our limitations, is to figure out what in life continues to offer us positive returns.  We attempt to hang onto a remnant of what once did it for us, when it is clear that we can no longer find peace or joy there.  People have come to know us in relation to those things, that they have a hard time seeing us elsewhere, or want to help us find the new passion that drives the day.

Tools and advice are ample.  Spend time with friends, take up a new hobby: painting, golf, rock climbing…  All worth a go, but what if none of that will stick?  What if the thing that works for you is completely unconventional and contrary to most everyone else’s thoughts and expectations?  What if you find your solace in nature, don’t absolutely require the same finer comforts that your peers do, and your bucket list is filled with things that might get you dirty and left at the whims of fancy far away from the nearest touch screen and one-click shopping?

So here I am, a bit of a broken soul ever since inception and I have always sought the countercultural for the space and freedom it affords.  I like to work when no one is working, I like to travel when and where no one is traveling.   I have a hard time falling in line with the masses as they are led by something other than what provides positive returns for everyone.  Positive returns seem to come most when I am offshore in my canoe, hiking a mountain, getting lost in music and dance, riding my bike in the middle of nowhere, just me and God’s awesome creation filling the air around me, and with the occasional like-minded souls that I meet along the way.  They also come in places I have talent but reluctance in.  Work, drive, vision, perseverance, creativity, strategy and ability to make just about anything happen without limitation or compromise.  Those are really cool things to be able to apply, but for the most part they are dry and without continuity.

I am fortunate to still find ways to positive returns, even though it is difficult at times to dig and discover them with the world streamlining us in a certain direction.  With more navel gazing than most would be inclined to, and with some additional reservations in play with age, the world out there is still to be acted upon, just as it always has been.  Crossing oceans, pursuing goals unlike many others, it has always been a part of me.  I see the concern, and I feel the anxiety of stepping into the unknown, but I also know to overcome those in trust that the reward is there, as it always has been, more than I ever could expect or imagine.  Thus I go to the adventures that await a little gentler on myself for the wear.

AMERICANITIS

Hale called it Americanitis: how American society provides adequate fuel for stigmas of minorities, low self-esteem, deification of illusions and suppression of progressive change.

So I go back, back before there were stigmas, before I realized how messed up life is, but rather how unique, before the hurt, the fear, the loss.  I go to when I dreamed of flying, I go to running in the fields with the dogs, running against a stone wind and jumping so that I might feel a lift.  I go walking in the woods, damp and green with moss and chipmunks.  I go to secret blueberry caches, to a garden full of hidden treasures.  I go to distant lands and see the cultures, learn the languages and that is all the good, all there should be.    

That is where I am, who I am. In light of that, let’s evaluate goals:

Family & home: establish a primary relationship
enjoy others when you can
support boys emotionally

Financial & Career: prepare for retirement
maintain adequate standard of living
produce for next 5 years

Spiritual & Ethical: continue to serve
love others
do no intentional harm

Physical & Health: keep working out (stretch, strength and cardio)
manage bad habits (eating and drinking)

Social & Cultural: go out 2x/wk
travel as much as you can

Mental & Educational: read 5 books a year
write

1987 TRANSATLANTIC

Leaving Montreal’s inconvenient and expensive Mirabel airport in the 80’s in a new pod.  Funny how people can make absurd decisions that affects the entire globe and redirect millions of dollars to a useless purpose and get away with it, but when I told people I was crossing the Atlantic in a 42’ sailboat with two other people, they thought I was insane…  :)

This is not a tempestuous mariner’s tale or a story of survival against the lady with the green eyes.  It is one person’s journey out of the chaos of her life, sailing merely being the ‘vessel’ to facilitate it.

It started at the Montreal Boat Show in February of 1987.  Like many Canadians, I am sure, I embraced a dream of getting a sailboat, a womb, to deliver me to a habitable tropical island somewhere in the South Pacific.  There was a booth there for an outfit called “Voile Aventure” who offered charters to isolated places.   I inquired about prices and was dissuaded.  I then asked if it was possible to work on any of the ships.  No, they weren’t hiring, but, there was a boat in the Grenadines that would need crew to take her back to France come the summer.  How much would that 6-week trip cost?  $800CAD.

Done!  My girlfriends were coming, of course.  Who could turn down the white sands of the Bahamas, the pink sands of Bermuda, the black sands of the Azores and the grey rocks of Marseilles?   I ended up on the plane alone.  In a way relieved that I didn’t have to be responsible for the higher maintenance needs of some of the girls.

Starting out, there was only the French Captain, Olivier Tommelleri, and Denis Goulet, a French Canadian with fresh water sailing experience.  Olivier had been with his girlfriend Brigitte for a year crewing on the boat and she flew back to Marseilles to be with her son earlier.    Denis was married, but decided to do the Bermuda-Azores leg of the trip with a third party.  I was on sabbatical from men and fresh out of college with a degree in Philosophy that proved difficult to market.  Tired of majoring in bartending and minoring in limited real estate sales as a vocation, I needed a break.  All in all, we were well-suited to one another in terms of our individual and mutually exclusive boundaries.

Our first dinner together was unimpressive.  Olivier did not seem particularly enthusiastic about our trip.  He was certainly unhappy without his girlfriend and hardly spoke a word.  Denis was all smiles and I spent half the dinner explaining to him that the lime that came with his fish was not a green lemon, but an actual lime.  I don’t think he’d ever seen one before.  No wonder the whole world thinks Canadians live in igloos and drive canoes to work.

As the late arrival, I was left with the forward cabin.  Denis and Olivier took the two aft.  That first night I realized the boat was infested with roaches. After a few more nights of disgust, I finally got used to them.  After all, they were the only other creatures around for hundreds of miles at times, and they often made better company than the rest of the crew.

I was given the 2am-6am and 2pm-6pm watches.  Not sure what kind of deal that was, but I slept soundly and vividly around those watches nonetheless.

Our second day out we caught a good wind out of the east that rendered the toilet inoperable.  Funny how easily things can impact comfort or even survival at sea.  My efforts at discretion were not reciprocated in the slightest.   When one of these men needed to relieve himself, or shower, I would go below and keep myself busy.  When it was my turn, I tried to plan in their absence, but Olivier and Denis inevitably found their way on deck to check things out, be it an ice cold bucket shower on the poop deck, or my morning constitutional.  Oh, wouldn’t the girls love this.

This trip was meant to remove me from my environment and give me a clearer, more objective view of my future path.  So far, I had progressed only as far as an acclimating to my new environment.  I was enjoying the change, however temporary it was.  We were entertained by the usual dinoflagellate glow of the water at night, and got over-excited by the limited SSB squawkings, whale and dolphin sightings.

On our entire approach to Bermuda we had a hard time staying dry from all the spray.  We surfed the following seas and could get an extra 3 knots out of a good wave.  We were scheduled to reach Bermuda at night and I had every confidence that our Captain 1. knew the way in, 2. knew the protocol for arrival and 3. had the tools and ability to enter safely into the harbor.

My first inclination that things were amiss was his request for the copy of “The Atlantic Crossing Guide” I had picked up from an Armchair Sailor store to familiarize myself with the general voyage.  As the title suggests, it is merely a guide.  An out-dated one at that, with crude over-simplified maps to various points of interest.

I could tell he was’t completely confident with which channel to follow, given the minimal navigational information available and so he asked me to get on the radio to the Harbormaster since he did not speak English.    The extent of my experience at the time with a VHF on the water was limited to engaging drunken Bridgetenders.   The conversation went something like this:

Me (M):  This is the French sailing vessel  “l’Arbre du Voyageur” (an old idiom for the word ‘mast' in French) calling St. George’s Harbormaster.
Olivier (O): (in French)  Ask them which is the cut to get in
M:  The Captain would like to know which passage is the entrance to the harbor?
Radio Tower (RT): (with proper British accent) What is your position?
M:  We just passed light #…
RT:  Well, the (so & so) light is not functioning and if you are not familiar with these waters, we strongly advise you not attempt the passage
M translates to O
O: Describe to him the passage in front of us and ask him if that is it
M: Yes, Radio Tower, um… We are near some rocks and there seems to be a narrow cut that looks like it might take us in, but there are no markers
RT: (after a long pause) Where is your Captain?
M:  He’s here, but he does not speak English
RT:  What is the make and size of your vessels?
M: It is a 42’ GibSea
RT: Port of Registry?
M: Marseilles, France
RT:  What kind of survival equipment do you have on board?
M asks O
M: A life raft, some life jackets, flares
O gets annoyed with all the questions and tells me to end the communication
RT: We need names of all the passengers on board
M responds
RT: You cannot come into the harbor without checking into Customs and Immigration first, nor can you anchor here without doing so first.  You will have to stay where you are for the night.
O gets angry and asks me to sign off

Thoroughly embarrassed and frustrated  I sign off I head up top.  Olivier then tells me I had to help him find our way in because he is blind in one eye and has no depth perception, but damn the English, we are going in anyway!

The waves were still 15-20’ high with winds at 25-30 knots.  There was spray everywhere and as we closed in on land Olivier and I turned to see a large light in the sky accompanied by a very loud whining noise.  Out of the clouds, an airplane was coming in for a landing on a steep decent to a strip on the shore that must have been directly in line with our boat but not visible from our position.  Olivier dove into the cabin for the spreader lights, the spotlight and the planes right wing dipped to accommodate out mast.  In spite of the strong wind, we still felt the draft from the aircraft a smelled the fuel.

Somehow, we made it in and anchored for the night.

After a good scolding from Customs and a reprovisioning, I climbed the hill to the radio tower to thank the man I had spoken to.  He was not there.  I could only leave a note thanking him for his assistance and apologize for polluting the airways with my lack of protocol.

We picked up Denis’ girlfriend and we were off to the Azores.

Bermuda to the Azores took 17 days.  I rained the entire time and we were followed by 40-60’ rollers the whole way.  When I opened my eyes the second morning, the hatch above me was submerged.  A huge cash and vibrations made me think we had hit something very large.  I made my way up top only to find Denis standing completely naked at the wheel wearing nothing but a blue safari hat and a cigar protruding from under his mustache.   The image might have bothered me more if I hadn’t been distracted by the great wall of water behind him that looked like it was about to engulf the entire boat.  Another crash!  I looked to the bow and it was submerged again, and losing its grip on the wave passing in front of it.

I moved my sleeping bag into the main salon where I could minimize the effects of levitation between crests.  Unfortunately that location also came under attack when a pot of left over mac and cheese came flying out of the sink and onto my head.  I donned my long johns, baseball cap, fowl weather suit, walkman, boots and safety harness.  My hands were soaked on the wheel and easily lost their grip as the motion of the waves lifted me up off the deck.  Force 7 winds and Olivier was delighted with the time we were making to get him back to Brigitte.  Ah love…

My spirits were waning with every passing day and I considered going home after the Azores.  My tooth ached, I was cold and wet, the food was dwindling and the boat was getting less functional the further we went.

I turned 24 about half way to Horta.  I had a few thoughts of moving to Toronto and finding a decent job, but then I got to feeling cold and wet again and wrote a poem:

Ode to the Transat (it rhymes in French)

I am sick of being at the wheel
All wet and wanting to vomit
I don’t want to be on the sea
Without sun or sleep
Take me back to my bed
I beg of you

To the point, no?

We were on a starboard tack for about 4 days which got annoying.  I thought the French Canadian couple would surely get ill from all the rancid hame they were eating.  I contemplated insanity for a few hours.

Finally, two days out of Horta the weather started breaking.  We saw the good omen of dolphins and even talked to some sorely missed ships on the horizon after 15 days without another soul.  That night I started thinking about Marine Biology.

We landed in Horta, reprovisioned, said goodbye to Denis & Co. and greeted our new French companion, Andre.  He had the demeanor of Chauncy Gardener and a very dim view of women, especially on a boat.  I never thought I could embrace a lack of romance as I did on this trip.  Andre did not bathe until we were pulling into Marseilles harbor 11 days later, which Olivier fortunately had some familiarity with.  Andre’s wardrobe... well, at least he had one.

As the trip was coming to an end, I started to feel nostalgic.  I felt this should only be the beginning of an epic adventure I did not want to come to a close.  I wrote in my journal by a full and bright moon in waters where historical battles had been fought and many lives had been lost.  Each day of the last week at sea I removed a bracelet from my wrist and cast it into the sea.  They were ragged old things given to me by people in my past life.  We passed through the highly-trafficked narrows of Gibraltar with a few close calls and headed for the Gulf of Lions.

Fresh fruit was my first objective when we landed in Marseilles.  I  found a beautiful box of cherries and was walking them back to the boat to share with the rest of the crew when WHAM!   I got hit by a motorcycle while crossing the street to the marina.  Cherries went flying, my hip was bruised and I was limping, but not concerned enough to heed the suggestions of other and make me want to go to the hospital.  I was leaving and could see a doctor back home.  I was two days early for my return flight home and did not even care to stay in Paris.  My desire to remove myself from the world had been met.  In 7 hours I flew what took me 42 days to sail.

The voyage changed me.  I wasn’t sure of the change’s permanence or effect at the time.  Over the years it felt more like an introduction to a side of me that many could not appreciate, a side that wouldn’t always want to be lived out to such an extent, but would need to be given life once in a while.  I felt less concerned about other people’s opinions of me.  I felt an initial loathing for the hustle and bustle of civilization that waned after a while.   

I returned to Montreal and enrolled at Chapman School of Seamanship in the fall.  There I found familiar souls, romantics of a different sort by nature.  Fresh out of there, I headed for a Trans-Pacific out of San Diego, now knowing how to communicate ‘professionally’ over a VHF.  But that is a whole different adventure!