Beeing Lily

I’ve got the bug. You’ve got it too, so you know what i mean.

“Nothing has worked. Four hoarse blasts of a ship’s whistle still raise the hair on my neck and set my feet to tapping. The sound of a jet, an engine warming up, even the clopping of shod hooves on pavement brings on the ancient shudder, the dry mouth and vacant eye, the hot palms and the churn of stomach high up under the rib cage.” Steinbeck

These are my rambles, my rhymes and my roads.

Dreams of Reality

There's only so many motoring catamarans you can take - a poster i made

Yes - i AM actually here - this is not a postcard!

Ramble is getting a makeover!

This is what we call boat-jail... the starboard locker with all the wires...

Cross that off the list! Woo!

Check it out - i made some shoes out of our old stearing wheel cover! Yay for recycled leather!

Part of the Frambly

“Of course, it’s not the same if you smoke out of curiosity and retreat, than belonging to the joint-smoker family, in which case life becomes bit by bit something flat. Investigators say so”.

No I didn’t lose my mind, or my English skills, but I did burst into a fit of giggles after Ava read this out to me from a (very badly!) translated Spanish newspaper somewhere off the coast of the Canary Islands. And that was only the first fit of the day, there would be at least a dozen more.

Ava is the just-turned 21 year old, Texan, or better put Austinite, who has been taking a year off language studies to sail the seas. She is almost always smiles, except when she’s not, in which case she bounds down the companion way, looks in all the cupboards and proclaims “Everything sucks!”. I give her a hug and we both break into a burst of laughter over how ridiculous this sentiment is. She was the optimistic, carefree Frambly member. We sung sea shanties together, gave each other massages almost every day and seriously chuckled a whole lot. I spent more than 50% of my day in hysterics. I can’t remember the last time I had laughed so much. Our friendship blossomed into a beautiful connection, and we both grew because of it.

Brad is the 36 yr old New York lawyer. He took things pretty seriously, and wouldn’t buy into our L.A.R.Ping pursuits but is a great budding philosopher and many an hour was spent together discussing our views and ethics. I can be known to chew the cud, so to speak, as good as the best of them, so it was nice to have someone else to bounce ideas off, argue and tumble over moral issues with. Brad would cook everything in his famous Tae Kwan Do position – legs apart, firmly planted, knees bent in a squatting position and pivoting at the waist from the sink to the stove. It seemed to work better than whatever I had going on, since one fateful evening my spaghetti sauce ended up over and under just about everything.

John is still John. The solid rock, ever inspiring, ever encouraging. He took every opportunity to congratulate, boost and marvel at all of our qualities. During the course of the sail I came to BELIEVE that I could do a great many more things that I had previously thought. I’d have a dream about some goal or other, mention a few pitfalls, and John would be the first to flatten them all, say “GO FOR IT” and convince me he was right. There were also less cheery moments, when we would have our ‘little talks’ and he would quietly mention things that needed improvement or that he was disappointed in. These times were obviously difficult for John, since he doesn’t like confrontation any more than I do, and hard for me to take too, especially since I have so much respect and admiration for him, but we both understood the importance of communication and struggled through them when the need arose.

We were a team. Every three hours, at a quarter to the hour, someone would come off their watch, gently wake the next person, pop on the kettle for coco and disappear up the stairs again while the other res-erected themselves from an often fitful sleep. We read Patrick O’Brian’s navy novels to each other, told jokes and countless stories. We powered on wind, water and love. From Europe to the America’s we consumed not a drop more than 10 litres of diesel. TEN LITRES! Our drinking water lasted, with plenty to spare, and what energy we used came from a line genorator spinning off our stern.  We obeyed Captains orders by clipping in while on deck, wearing safety gear and listening up when “Teddy Bear” was called. But really, in the end, we were just four friends on a fun adventure. We had great down wind cruising which we zoomed with thanks to the ‘Twizzle Rig’, a Genoa out on each side, held up by whisker poles and suspended in mid air. We had some rough seas and a little rain, but no gales or even any major squalls.

And finally, ghosting into the Virgin Islands at two o’clock in the morning, dark shadows of land all around, a summery lightness in the air – my life finally stopped becoming ‘bit by bit something flat’ and I had gained a whole Frambly of friends.

Bracing ourselves for sleep

freshly baked bread!

yes, my hair got a little WILD... it looks like it's about to eat Ava!

We made a log entry after every watch...

clip in, clip in, clip in, don't forget to clip in!

giggling, always giggling

Alive

A pair of turtles floating lazily as we pass, trying to crawl on water. A little lone bird perched on our lifelines, exhausted and thankful for some repose amongst the vast expanse of ocean. A pod of dolphins, more than twenty, all swimming along our bow, crisscrossing over and under each other, their bowed backs breaking the surface sporadically. A flying fish jumping straight into the side of my face then hitting the deck with a thud and splattering about as I try to grab hold of him to throw him back. A pilot whale not 10 meters away… then its dark shadow seen gliding under our hull, resurfacing on the other side with a loud blow. At night in the pitch-blackness, more dolphins, this time trailing bioluminescence, their shape lit up and glowing. A Dorado fish hooked on our line, given a blessing and thanks before transforming into sushi, wrapped in seaweed and nourishing us all. A white, bigger bird with an elegant wingspan and a strange white mousy tail dragging behind. Phosphorescence sparkling on all sides of us, reflecting the starry night. Tunicates, baby jellyfish, floating in every few inches of sea and coming up with our buckets of dishwater. Scores of startled flying fish, springing up and scuttling off in all directions as we pass. No mosquitoes, no ants, no flies or bugs of any kind. An arid liquid desert where only those with intended design can withstand the stark saltiness for any length.

still rollin

volanic canary islands

full sails up… the spinaker my love… and the mizzen staysail, my… well, my arch nemesis

sweeet! a bicycle wheelchair… vertical chain!

YES i do have freakishly long arms – brad and moi in morocco

Moroccan dye baths

filming filming, always filming

que hora son en Gibraltar?? A bike for the spanish workers :)

Stem to Stern

After her three square meals of beans and rice, she got into the whiskey. The scuttlebutt she had heard earlier had let the cat out of the bag. He was having an affair. She had thought she’d been at the helm of that relationship… that they had been sailing along smoothly… so the news took the wind out of her sails. Undecided as to whether she should cut her lover some slack or give him the heave ho, she just set to drinking. And drink she did – almost enough to sink a ship. By the tenth tall glass she was by and large, three sheets to the wind. She knew she wasn’t toeing the line, she knew it wasn’t professional, but hoped – and touched wood – that the captain would giver her some leeway, considering the circumstances. He was a pretty first rate guy, and they were on an even keel, more or less, so she let loose. The bottle was drunk to the bitter end, and she sensed she had gone a little over board. On her way back to the cabin, Robin, another crewmember, had to hit the deck as she passed, stumbling around as she was. “Whatever floats your boat” thought Robin, but gave her a wide berth anyway.

The next morning found her between the devil and the deep blue sea. She felt about ready to keel over, her quarters were far from ship shape, and yet the problem had not been confronted. She decided to take a different tack this time – she would speak to him, and hopefully make some headway. Maybe they could give it a clean sweep. If that didn’t work – well, she would either jump ship, or send HIM by the board.

*this is a fictional story, sailing jargon in the english language compressed!*

A clear night…

A clear night. More shooting stars than time would allow me to wish on, falling flakes dancing in the sky. A million remain though, not a square uncovered, and I wonder how there can be any stars left at all. The phosphorous in the churning ocean almost a reflection of above, sparkling as we slice silently through the sea.  The only other illumination, excepting the compass glow, is an occasional red blinking seen in the distance amid the myriads of constellations. Quite apart from them though – unnaturally jarring and obvious. A moving target with none of the lingering magic of the meteors. An epileptic flashing I recognize well, though it’s been several weeks since the last.

I imagine them up there, eating their plastic meals and tuning into their plastic world. Each confined to their numbered spaces, a chosen cage. Cushioned chairs well accustomed to daily turnover, though showing few signs of wear or tear. They must endure this restriction for less than ten hours and yet have already grown restless. Relativity is only human though and perception will dictate the truth. Though I am bound to this boat – to its few meters – for over three weeks, I share their frustration and it is perhaps equaled in intensity. They drive themselves to distraction through a pixilated screen, I from a pixilated sky.  A blanketed sky of diamonds from which, save for that sporadic scarlet signal, shines a natural world beyond understanding. I am humbled by it, feeling magnificently insignificant and I do not envy them their fuel-indulged independence.

Reunited with Ramble

My first day back on “Ramble”, the old 36ft wooden yawl. Ava, Brad and John – aka ‘the crew’ – came to greet me by the ferry docks, though somewhat sleepy and hungover. It was a quiet chilly morning on a lonely island, Minorca, Spain. I was trying to muster up some energy, to be the enthusiastic, optimistic person I strive to be… only on this day, under these clouds, it wouldn’t come. I had left good friends and great loves in Barcelona, and felt as though this was the beginning of the inevitable fall off the edge of the earth. I would laugh but my heart would shrug, I’d smile but without a shine.

Still, I had the space and time to follow these feelings, and it was therapeutic to allow myself the sadness. I was surrounded by beautiful, melancholic sights too. Huge waves crashing against high cliff-faces, lone trees molded by the fierce wind, somber sunsets over restless seas. This was the beginning and the end, new worlds and uncharted adventures… though my heart was lonely, the excitement bubbled just below the surface.

Once we were under way, things lit up. Crawling into my front berth after my night watch, smiling contentedly as I listened to the ocean blow against our little boat. One leg out, or an arm braced against my lee-board to mellow the constant motion, my grin only grew with every wave.

There were rough nights. Evenings where, periodically, a wall of water would wash over you, freezing your knuckles still gripping the wheel. Where the swells were so great we would surf down them at 9knots and getting your gear (foulie overalls, foulie jacket, harness, radio, lifejacket, gloves, beany, gumboots, soaked socks) off downstairs was a slippery balancing act.

And there were calm days. Mornings where the sun rose late or not at all, the water we were gliding through turned into a silky stillness and fog crept up and all around. A lone branch floating in the glassy sea, probably from an African tree, and birds circling our mast. Where I would will the wind to blow, yelling up to a silent sky “come on Mother, I am TRYING to help you out here, give me some bloody breeze!” and turn the motor on muttering.

We sailed on from Minorca, through a near-gale to Majorca… waited for a weather window… then across and down and across and down and across and down, tacking and tack-tack-tacking our way to Gibraltar (though sometimes we were closer to Algeria)… provisioned, laughed at the oh-so-englishness of it all, then set-out across the channel to Morocco. A few days later and we were bound for the Canary Islands. Finally we were out of the Mediterranean, on our way and in the wide open ocean. There was no turning back now.

really comfy, you just have to work out which way is downhill!

our home

A Spanish Home

I was surprised to hear that my mother had been getting the same familiar questions. “Where is she now, and most importantly, when is she coming home?”

Apparently her response is a shrug of the shoulders and “Well, first of all, I’m not sure this is home anymore, and second of all, I don’t think even Lily knows the answer to that one”.

She’s right on both counts, and yet it was home I was looking for when I stumbled up the 7 flights of stairs to 17 Nou de la Rambla, Barcelona.  I’d been on the road almost 8 months, non-stop, and was in dire need of some familiar surroundings. Continuous travelling builds important connections, but it is also invariably a constant re-hash of stories and events, a re-building of your identity with every new meeting.

My sister had moved into her new flat no less than a day before my arrival, so when her sweaty, cycle-touring hermana scrambled through the door – bike and all – it was with some explanation to the new housemates.

I was welcomed with unwavering hospitality into an amazingly beautiful, though modest, Spanish Apartment. Big bay windows, a colourful paintjob and fairytale wall-poetry filled the rooms. Mosaic tables and floors, archways leading to the bathroom and renaissance style chairs – it was a dreamy delight.

The first week or two I couch-surfed around, trying hard not to overstay my welcome anywhere. I met as many bike fanatics as I could, saw gigs and cabarets, drank copious amounts of tea and went looking for friends.

Pretty soon, I settled down. Not quite the 9-5-husband-and-kids scenario, but I did get myself a phone, go to the same local store everyday for my mandatory baguette and even began paying rent for the first time in 3 years, when a room in my sisters place became available.

I’m not really in love with Barcelona, and I doubt I ever will be… but I grew very fond of her.  She became the meeting point of almost all the dear friends I’d made through my journeys in Europe and there was rarely a night spent alone. The 1 euro Pakistani cervezas, bike lanes along the beach, street festivals and amazing little tea corners made the days pass swiftly. This city would prove to be my last before setting sail across the ocean, and I used my time wisely, taking my own space when I needed it.

It’s true it had been several years since I’d had a room I could stand up in, but it had been almost double that since Ella and I had shared a city. My sister and I have always been close, despite our seemingly vast differences, but neither of us could have imagined how much we would need each other over the next couple of months.

We listened to one-another for long hours, gossiped over red wine, lent a shoulder or two and supported each other into sanity. On weekdays we would lunch together, on weekends, party together.  I remembered our similarities. I remembered her optimism and level-headedness. I remembered how fun she was to dance away the night with and I remembered her humble questioning to seek the truth. She reminded me of my old self and eagerly discovered my new. She taught me forgotten lessons and together we developed unrelenting respect for the bonds of sisterhood.

The sun and the city helped… the friends, old and new, built the foundations… but really, it was Ella who brought me home.

Charlie

Hungary

Slovakia

Austria

Austria

Amsterdam, where it all began

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We first met on a cold rainy night in Amsterdam. I stumbled into casarobino, hair askew, holes in my shorts, soaked from hitching in the wet. He was sitting in a chair in the corner. Robino introduced me by a long series of flattering labels, most of which surprised me as much as anyone else. Charlie was introduced as Charlie.

Later that night, I discovered he was much more than just ‘Charlie’ when I was told he was CYCLING AROUND THE WORLD.  Needless to say, as any newcomer to the bike touring philosophy, I was impressed. The next two months were spent in the same vain, impressing the other when it was your turn. We dumpster dived plenty, we snuck picnics into libraries, we slept in a bike by the beach… we fell in love.

Since then, I’ve heard him recount his ‘worldbiketour’ story over a thousand times and it’s lost a little spark. The impressed feeling has moved and morphed into a deep rooted respect. The lover he is, the friend he is, the man he is - shake me much more now than any mission label. He’ll bake you bread, fix your bike, fold you origami, sew your pants, build you a ladder, cut you a stencil. His talents still make an impression. But it’s more than that too. As any two hearts intertwined, what sooths the soul is the space between. No writing could describe the fluttering, the understanding, the inspiration.

I often wondered if any relationship could really reach equality. I mean where both people feel equally empowered, connected yet independent, simultaneously. I had experienced this, in fluctuation, where first one and then the other feels free… but at the same time? Was that even possible?

After struggles, ups and downs, thousands of kms cycled and a billion different scenarios played and then replayed… I realised it was possible and I was living it. Our roads often seperated, our physical selves countries apart, but somehow our souls stayed bound. We always had fresh stories, new lovers and new frienships to recount over a campfire by the bikes somewhere. Our random roads always crossed again.

Every goodbye (and there have been a lot!) was temperary, both of us blowing in the wind and free to float by again when it seemed fitting. Now though, he is going east and I west. This time there will be a big wide ocean between and no motorised vehicles to turn back the clock, flying into yesterday.

10 months later, Charlie has left. It’s getting cold again and I’ll be caught in the rain soon.

“You can’t jump a jet plane, like you can a freight train, so I’d best be on my way, in the early morning rain”

I have just flown from Barcelona to Amsterdam in 60 000 kilos of steel speeding through the sky. It took three hours. When I boarded, it was 28 degrees, when I arrived at my destination: 13 degrees. My eyes, my skin, my clothes, were all very used to summer sun in Spain. Suddenly, I began to shiver, goose bumps raising the hairs on my body. I needed twice as many layers and my eyes felt scratchy, unused to this dry cold wind. While in transit, I met two people. The check-in guy who said to me “Tickets please” – and the air-hostess offering me beer with a plastered-on smile.

 On such a trip, the community break-downs and unnatural speed means less trust and more health risks. Without even considering the amount of energy unnecessarily consumed.

I have a friend who cycled from Amsterdam to Paris. It took a week. As she peddled through the days, the temperature changed slowly and signs of the seasons showed themselves gradually. When she left it was the start of spring, but the trees were still bear, their spindly branches haunting the canals. By the time she reached Belgium, a few leaves had begun to sprout, and when she arrived in Paris, wildflowers peppered the streets, the trees were blossoming.  She was invited into a stranger’s home for dinner – three times; offered Stroop Waffles by a post woman; helped a man fix a flat bike tyre; and met two Spanish guys who became good friends.

 The only immediate energy used on a journey like this one, is what you eat. You power on potatoes and muesli. The connections shared are real, true and tangible, and they last longer. 

My brother hitchhikes everywhere. He once went from Milan to Budapest in one day. It took him 8 rides. The adventure began in Italian, his driver speaking no English. By midday he was hearing German on the radio, and by nightfall, learning Thank You in Hungarian. He discussed politics and spirituality, helped a woman decide what to do with her life, and had lunch in an Austrian pizza shop owned by one of his drivers. With Eight people, he shared language, stories, culture, and skills, each one teaching him something new. 

The fuel he used was 0.2 Litres of petrol, when a woman took him 5 kilometers out of her way to drop him off in a good spot. The others were all going his road anyway. 

Travelling, moving, nomadism – can be inherently environmentally unsustainable. I can’t grow my own food, I can’t carry a lot and I often don’t know the communities in the area. Finding ways to combine our passion of travelling, whilst living in balance with the planet, can be a challenge, but consuming consciously is the first step.

Of course, the way you travel is the most important thing. Inspiration can be found in those using sustainable transport. Walkers, cyclists, horse riders, sailors and hitchers are roaming their random roads. Their eyes sparkle with stories. Aside from the other benefits though, alternative travel also drinks a lot less diesel. Not like the plane I took, which by the way, used around 19 200 litres of jet fuel.

 

*this is a fictional story*

Buzz.

I couldn’t sleep. It was three am in Madrid, I had to be up at six, but i couldn’t sleep. Had i remembered everything? Was I missing anything? What questions would they ask, what would I answer? Every time I diverted my attention away to more peaceful thoughts, they would creep through and lead me write back to my pending visa application.

Finally, after checking the clock every hour, it was time. A couple of metro’s and a brisk walk later, I saw the American flag whispering in the wind. I was early. Very early. It was still dark. A breeze was blowing, goosebumps raising the hairs on my bare arms.

At a quarter past 8, they let me in. I took my ticket and then a seat. I was number 19. I watched 18 people get up, walk to the booth, speak for 5 minutes, then sit down again. At my call, I did the same, handing over my passport and proof of the 90 euro payment. Another excruciating hour, each number slowly passing by, until number 19 came around again. A different booth this time. They wanted fingerprints. Left, Right, both thumbs – take a seat please.

Still clasping the folder full of letters, statements, certificates… my palms sweating, time ticked on. The room was full by now. Booth number 1 was calling ticket number 50 something. Two windows opened up to the left, a woman in one, a man in the other, with signs that read ‘interviews’. The next turn would be it. Every time they buzzed someone else through, I’d jump three feet, heart in my throat, eyes scanning the electronic screen. 16, 17, 18… I was next. That meant the man. He looked nice, he was smiling often. A good sign I thought, trying to stay calm.

Buzz. Number 23.

Oh. “Numbers will be called out of sequence” read a poster above my head. Ok, so the woman then. Was that better or worse? I couldn’t judge from her demeanor. Finally, another buzz.

Number 19.

That’s me, remember?

On shaky legs I walked up to the desk. In a strong American accent she said “Lily, I’m going to ask you a few questions”. I was trying to swallow the lump in my throat. “You’re the same age as my daughter, and you’re travelling around the world”.

Could she hear my heart beating? It was so loud.

“Thank you for that”, she said with a smile. I’m suddenly in love with this woman. She takes on a motherly air to me, calm, nurturing. She’s making chit-chat, joking as she files through my papers. Then, taking the front form, scribbles notes in the ‘for office use only’ box.

“I’m issuing you the visa. Go and have fun!”

Walking out the Embassy, my feet didn’t touch the ground. I was floating on clouds. I felt like the blind man in the film “Amelie”, the whole world opening up, the sky clearing. Colours were brighter, people more beautiful. A true, honest, ecstatic smile spread form cheek to cheek. I’m sure I looked mad. I felt like doing unexpected acts of kindness to every stranger passing by. I skipped home, singing, dancing, meeting every eye and beaming. A sweet syrup trickled through my blood.

I could enter that ‘promised land’. And now, finally, I can sleep again.

I'm ready!