Across (Sence of the City)

My father told me on the phone before I left; "You're a different person when you're on the Atlantic on a boat." It's true, and I knew it would be. But I didn't know how true it really was until after we crossed.

My world broadened. My life strengthened. I have gone through something not many people do. I have learned more in the last month then I have in any class.

I made it across. The trip was an experience but the sailing was not so good. There was no wind and we motored through a lot of it. But the simple fact that I saw more of the world made it worthwhile. Spending all your time on land you start to think that's all there is. But the ocean is so much larger, and in it you become smaller. Out there, the closest land is five miles directly down. It's a humbling and frightening experience at first. After a while it become normal, but that idea always sits in the back of your mind.

My watch, from midnight to three, was lonely and dark. I stood solemnly and stoically waiting for something to come on the horizon. Every so often, a container ship would cross our bow. Their green or red running light shining like Christmas, told me which direction they were moving. It was my job to watch them, notice how fast and in what direction they were moving and to move out of any danger.

But now, that is done. We made it across and we met our family and the solitary lifestyle has been replaced with excitement. Out on the ocean, words are expensive and five or ten words are all that is necessary. After such a long it's always nice to have a change.

Sailing #2 (Sense of the City)

As you are reading this I should still be at sea, however I am still writing from the past. Outside the window is cold and rainy and overcast. The weather is dreary and drab and damp. I don't sleep quite so well as I do when I'm visiting the farm. It's so quite and dark. I love living in Chicago. The hustle and bustle of the city leads to new experiences and an exciting life, but I can't relax like I can on the farm.

It's so important to have new experiences, to see what it's like in different lives. This is what I hope my trip will be all about. I hope to step outside my comfort zone, try new foods, meet new people. I've lived a relatively regulated lifestyle over the last few years: same school, same apartment, same food, same bars. Repeated over and over on different days at different times. It's fun, but perhaps I need something else.

A break from the monotony will help me transition from one point in life to another. It will create a boundary that says, "No more homework past this point." I get a break from everything I have done so much of lately.

I don't work well with change most of the time, but it is important to get out of my comfort level every now and then. I am excited. I'm happy to be able to do something new, even though I don't yet know what that will be.

The calm at the farm washes over me as I sit outside in the long grass as it sets to seed. The wet weather left in the night, now the sky is clear and the sun beats down. Other than the occasional bounding dog, the only movement is the slight wind working through the blades.

Sailing (Sence of the City)

I am not writing this on the boat. I am not turning with the wind and the waves of the sea. I am sitting at the farm with the ocean of green grass and songs of the birds. It's a farewell visit, before my long trip.

As you are reading this, I am fighting the big waves, or I'm tying up a loose sail, or I'm wrestling a big fish on board, or I'm not doing much of anything. I don't know what I'll be doing. This is all new to me. I don't know what to expect or what to prepare for. All I know for sure is that it will exceed my own thoughts.

I have been reluctant to talk about the trip. I've been worried about what people will say. There is a type of person who can sail, rich. And I'm not used to associating myself with the upper class. Rich people don't eat Ramen Noodles for dinner, but the poor rarely get to learn which is the port side.

I'm uncomfortable in this position. I stutter when people ask me what I'm doing for the summer. I look away, turn a bit red and smile; and then I say "Well . . . " After I tell them, they say, "That's amazing." But, in their head, I know they are saying, "Must be nice." Maybe not, maybe it's all in my own head. But I'll still think it and still get embarrassed.

I'm sure, once I get there--on the boat and out in the water--I'll forget all about my discomfort. I'll get engrossed in the weather--the sun or the wind or something. I don't know. Snow maybe?