Catching Wind

White windmills line the island’s mountain ridge, small in view, gigantic if you walk up to them.  Ripping wind twirls their blades, demanding energy.  The same wind helps scoot our car toward the marina and blue ocean.  Lazy Daze, our sailboat, arrived here last April.  Apparently we thought we would park it in hurricane force winds known for this marina.  Actually, it is this wind force that makes room available for our boat.  Other mariners are wiser.     

We drive eight miles from home to boat, down the beach town’s main drag, past work-uniformed name-badged people waiting on bus stop benches, past surfers, through a green-blotched, dried-out brown marsh, across the edge of morning’s calm.  Peace prevails until we get to the wind funnel of a marina. 

It is true: we drive in circles on Maui.  I have not yet felt claustrophobic from our distinct land limitations, but sometimes I have the opportunity to release any pent up energy by putting the pedal to the metal (sorry youth, “stepping on the accelerator”) from Las Vegas to Salt Lake City just to validate “I’m free!”  Also, to take advantage of Utah’s liberal, yes I said liberal, speed limits, zipping through endless desert and sagebrush to satisfy my need for no boundaries. 

But, you see on Maui, you can only slightly tap the pedal of a Ferrari or Lambourghini to gain fast upon the rear bumpers of most of the island’s lethargic cars.  The indulgent sports cars most assuredly exist on island, but their utility is in image, and to polish and wax and park miles away from grocery store parking lots.

 

There is a simile of sailing with living somewhere new.  And it doesn’t matter where new is.  For us, it’s Maui.  No matter how comfortable you normally may be around new people or being in new places, you tend to cocoon when uprooting.  You walk into retail stores thinking you have “stranger” tattooed on your forehead.   “How do I fit in?” you say to yourself.  And people sense it.  Assimilation is easier of course when you have an ambassador dog (see last blog post).  But no matter how you smile when walking past a stranger, your mind is still in “changing over the utilities” mode, “leaving friends” mode, and “figuring out new light switches” mode. 

You ask, what has this got to do with sailing?  Well, here you go.  Tom and I intimately know our boat.  Tom is captain, and I am admiral, or at least I pretend to be.  

To prepare to sail, Tom unties all but two ropes that had been anchoring us to the dock, as I flip on the radio, detach the depth gage cover, set out the crank, install the cockpit seat cushions, and remove the main sail cover.  Tom starts the outboard motor.  Fighting the wind, Tom motors in reverse and I control the exit of our boat, pivoting it with the two ropes.  I then jump on and remove the protective bumpers.  We leave the shields of slip and harbor break walls onto ocean swells, out far enough to turn around 180 degrees, directly into the wind to set our sails.  Preparation is rigorous and uncomfortable until this point.  But when the sails are up, we now capture the same energy that moments earlier could have created havoc.

 

This is the point when a new home and sailing merge as a simile.  In sailing, you see, once our sails catch wind, we turn off the motor.  Silence, except for the breeze snapping the sails once, except for “Let It Be” on surround sound, embraces us.  And we suddenly feel open and free as our ship’s rudder suddenly and sturdily cuts through ocean, demanding direction… in solitude.  We invite the elements, the tradewinds, the clouds, the sun, the shore, the tourists on the lookout point, the flying fish, and eventually, soon, the whales.  Each and all sense our welcome.  We accept them.  They accept us.

Three months ago I think I finally unequivocally invited the elements of Maui into my life.  I remember it as the point when I suddenly walked more comfortably, ready for what came my way.  I turned off my boat’s motor and removed my protective bumpers.  And just as silence engulfed me, I caught wind, and freed myself from my cocoon. I found the comfort of home, of once-again routine, of stalwartly and comfortably telling a stranger I am kama aina, a local.  I feel local.  I feel a part of this community.   Others react to this favorably.  I can sense it.  No more stranger tattooed on my forehead.