by Erik Orton
Over the radio we heard, “Fezywig, Fezywig, this is . . .” Then static. “Fezywig, Fezywig, this is . . .” Again static. Then we heard, “Marriot.” Who? No one had hailed us over the radio in months.
“Merry Yacht?” I guessed.
Erik clicked in. “Merry Yacht, this is Fezywig. It’s nice to hear from you!” They switched down to a lower channel and picked up the conversation.
“How you guys holding up out there?” Jay asked.
“Oh, you know, it’s gotten kind of nasty, but we’re still making headway,” Erik said.
“The weather wasn’t getting any better, so we decided to head out ourselves,” Jay said. “We’re right behind you.”
“Really? How far?”
“Oh, a couple of miles. I saw a blip on the radar and thought that was you.”
“Yup, here we are,” Erik said, relieved to be in contact with someone during this squall that showed no end. Bertha was headed out to sea, which we were grateful for, but she spun off some lousy weather. “We lost our starboard engine,” Erik said. “I think it’s a clogged fuel line. I’ve dealt with it before. We should be fine, but I wanted you to know about it in case things get worse.”
“We’ve got your back if something happens,” Jay responded.
“I appreciate that.”
“We’ll probably get to Cat Cay before you, but look for us when you pull in.”
“Will do. Thanks for touching base. Fezywig out.”
Erik and I traded relieved smiles. Someone knew about us and knew what we were dealing with. That made all the difference. We were still in a miserable storm, but we weren’t alone.
A few hours later the rain finally broke. We raised the sails and made good time, anchoring as the sun sank over the horizon.
Cat Cay, Bahamas
ERIK
We found Mary and Jay the next day. The Merry Yacht kids took the Fezywig kids out spearfishing and inner tubing. With the kids gone, I opened the engine compartment. It was exactly the clogged fuel line issue I’d suspected. All the jostling from the storm had loosened debris in the tank, which had stuck in the line. I cleared it and reprimed the pump and the engine started up. I felt like I had graduated from the Boat Mechanics’ School of Hard Knocks.
I thought back to the first time the engine had conked out on us sailing from the lagoon to Oyster Pond; the despair, the anxiety, the fear. Then it had conked out again, right after the engine had been replaced. I thought back to the first crossing from Saint Martin to the Virgin Islands; how terrified I was. Now we were sailing in hurricane spinoffs, getting hit by three squalls a day and losing an engine in the middle of it all, and I knew we could handle it.
Something was happening to me, something important. It wasn’t over yet, but it was happening, to all of us. Now we could pull into a town or anchorage and within an hour we knew the lay of the land. We still welcomed the help of others, but we were self-sufficient. We had become street-smart. You don’t see it coming, but one day you look in the mirror and you realize it’s the way it is.
The next day we would cross the Gulf Stream. We would leave the water and borders of foreign islands and return to our own country. We would enter another chapter. We were excited to be back. We wanted something familiar. But we knew we would miss this new home. There would be no more remote islands, no more crossings, no more clearing in. It’s a beautiful thing to come home. But it also made us sad.
Chapter 18
Strangers in a Familiar Land
Atlantic Ocean, East of Florida, USA
5 Months, 29 Days aboard Fezywig
ERIK
We motored across the Gulf Stream. All the squalls were behind us. We pulled into Port Everglade, Fort Lauderdale that evening, but we were otherwise lost.
Everything was big. This was the main seaport for tanker ships and cruise ships coming in and out of South Florida. Less than a mile inland from the beach ran the Intracoastal Waterway. The ICW would become a big part of our lives over the coming weeks, but for now we were trying to get past the first drawbridge.
After an hour wait, the bridge rose up like two giant pincers in the sky and opened a path for all the tall-masted ships to pass through and head north up the ICW. I did my best to take in the barrage of sounds I had forgotten existed: police sirens, beeping buses, ambulances.
We motored through the canal neighborhoods. They felt like the love child of a McMansion suburb and Venice. There were hundreds of huge, newly constructed homes butted right up against the waterways, most with a speedboat tied up at the private backyard dock. We made our way back into a little pond grandly named Lake Sylvia and dropped anchor. Lake Sylvia was more of a watery cul-de-sac amidst this surreal neighborhood. Compared to the massively open spaces we’d become accustomed to, Lake Sylvia felt like a fish bowl. We opted to not hang out our laundry. We ate dinner in the cockpit as usual, but exchanged awkward glances with the people on shore sitting around their backyard firepits.
Eventually we made our way to a municipal marina about a mile north of Lake Sylvia, tucking ourselves into the corner slip. There were no other boats on that section of the dock. It was safe, secure, and private; just what we needed as we tried to acclimate to a world that didn’t feel as much like home anymore.
We rented a car. We were no longer in a place where people came and went by dinghy. We located a chandlery and grocery store and were off. The chandlery was sensory overload, pure and simple. I bought the small items I needed and stumbled out.
When we stepped foot in the grocery store, we got reverent. We walked in as a family, kind of how a gang of gunslingers saunters into a saloon, quiet but ready to shoot the place up. Emily and I checked prices on a few select items and turned to each other and then to the kids. I told them, “Let’s get fat!” We split up into three teams, each with our own grocery cart, and blew that place to smithereens. Before we’d even left the parking lot, we’d cleaned out two entire boxes of Fudgsicles and were just getting started. We were adjusting fast.
Emily called Stacey, our neighbor in New York City. She was excited to hear from us, and it made the “home stretch”-ness of our journey a reality. The girls would need to get into our apartment to get their sleeping bags and other stuff for camp. Stacey wanted to know when we would be home so she could organize a welcome-home party. We couldn’t ask for better friends and neighbors. We also learned the marina that was supposed to be built in our neighborhood was, in fact, done. La Marina at 200th and the Hudson River was a reality.
We slept for a few hours, woke at 2:30 a.m., and got the girls to the airport for their 5:00 a.m. flight. With white hair and red faces, our little family of tomatoes walked into the Fort Lauderdale-Hollywood International Airport. Our girls’ faded clothes and salted backpacks paled next to the crisp roller luggage of the others checking in for their flights.
I’ve never seen siblings hug each other so tightly. Our little boy and girls gathered up into a circle hug and cried their eyes out as they said goodbye. I knew we’d meet up with them somewhere farther up the coast. I didn’t know exactly when, where, or how, but I knew that would emerge. They went through security, waved, and were gone.
EMILY
It was surprisingly easy to operate Fezywig with a reduced crew. Usually there was a kid or two lounging in the cockpit. We’d either have to rouse them to help or jump over them. Now, Erik and I sat at the helm. The cockpit was empty. Eli and Lily preferred the salon, where they didn’t have to wear life vests. So, while the girls had been a great help and we missed them, four people were simpler than seven.
A few days later we had to pass through Canaveral Lock to get into the ICW.1 We’d never been through a lock, and I wasn’t sure how Erik and I would manage alone. I’m still not sure what happened. First of all, the lock was gigantic. After space shuttle launches, the rocket boosters return to NASA through that lock. I
don’t remember if I cleated the ropes wrong or if Erik pulled too far forward or not enough. I know the lock keeper stomped out of his control hut to shake his fists at us and yell as we floated away. I tried to apologize and indicate it was our first lock. He kept yelling. Then Lily appeared. She walked along the deck in her life vest, waving and blowing kisses. The lock keeper shrugged, waved back, and went back inside the control hut to close the lock behind us.
“I don’t know what he was saying, but Lily took care of it,” I said, taking my place at the helm next to Erik.
“She’s a keeper,” he said. Once in the ICW, we tucked into an inlet to stop for the night. Erik asked me to get the windlass and lower the anchor. The two of us had a smooth system.
Things were smoothing out between us as well. Three fewer kids onboard gave us a lot of time for private conversations. My confidence in our relationship had taken a hit. I knew I couldn’t make Erik think, feel, or act a certain way any more than I could control my children or my neighbor. We all do what we want and live with the consequences, but I knew the grass is greenest where you water it. We watered it. And we started saying “I love you” again.
In the evening, Eli and I made macaroni and cheese from scratch. He sliced and boiled carrot coins while I steamed broccoli. We had a pretty smooth system, too. Erik and Eli knocked back a couple of root beers. Cold soda was still a novel perk thanks to the fridge Erik had installed.
Just past bedtime we noticed some bioluminescence flicker in the water. I spit in the water. It glowed. We all started spitting in the water.
“This really makes me want to pee in the water,” Eli said. I told him to go for it. He lit it up—better than sparklers. I pulled out a boat hook to swish the water. Then I dropped the swim ladder. It was an explosion of light and color. Erik turned on one of the engines and ran the propeller. A bright column of rainbow light shot out from under the boat. We killed the engine and Eli and Lily went skinny-dipping. We strictly forbade night swimming on Fezywig, but we made an exception. They both wore life jackets and we tied a line to each of them. They jumped in and splashed around.
“I love sparkly!” Lily said.
Eli said, “What if I farted underwater?” Magical. This rave could have gone on all night. Finally, Eli climbed out. Erik had to pull Lily out. I showered both kids with freshwater. Back to back and slippery in our tiny “shower” they did a “lunar landing” dance—featuring their naked rumps. They laughed their heads off. Who needed NASA? With their three older sisters away, Eli and Lily had a chance to shine, and they totally owned it.
The next day was a traveling day, and that night we tied off in Discovery’s backyard. John and Michelle owned a home on the ICW in New Smyrna, Florida. They had invited us to use it. We tied off the boat, climbed up and over the rail, and walked down the dock.
“Can you believe we’re here?” Erik asked. We hadn’t even known these people when we started our journey, and now we were docking at their house.
“It’s surreal,” I said. The house was locked, but there was a small pool in the backyard and some patio furniture. I loved imagining the Alonsos there—all their kids playing, swimming, and dancing and John grilling. What a happy home. Erik swam with Eli and I waded around with Lily on my hip. We wrapped up in our towels and sat at the table until the lights in the other houses started to turn on. We didn’t see anyone we knew, but being at the home of someone who knew us and understood us felt a little like home—like we’d closed a loop and come full circle.
We whooped and hollered when we sailed past Jacksonville. We were officially out of the hurricane box. It was August 15, the last day of our insurance provision. That night, anchored in St. Augustine, Eli helped me fry up some juicy hamburgers. We smothered them in ketchup, deli mustard, and cheese.
“Let’s take a picture to show my sisters,” Eli said. “They’re going to be sorry they missed this.” Erik took a picture.
“This whole idea of a hurricane box is ridiculous,” Erik said.
“You mean because we get hurricanes in New York in the fall?” I asked. He was getting ready to preach to the choir.
“They rarely happen before August 15, but I’ll sleep better knowing we have insurance,” he said, still working on his burger. “This is delicious. Those girls are going to be jealous.”
“I miss them,” I said.
“I do too,” Erik said. “When they get home we can go on the outside and start doing overnights again.” Outside meant the open ocean. It wasn’t as calm as inside on the ICW, but it would be less tedious and faster.
Camp ended and Karina, Alison, and SJ started working their way south with a stopover at Grandpa and Grandma’s. I wondered if they would be content on Fezywig after enjoying land luxuries with their friends. Boat life could be cramped, confining, and uncomfortable. Our tentative plan was to meet up somewhere in North Carolina. Whenever, wherever that happened, I hoped the girls would be glad to rejoin our crew.
Before Karina had left, we’d had a conversation that I’d been replaying in my mind. “How have you changed on Fezywig?” I had asked.
“I don’t think I’ve changed,” she said. “I’ve become even more myself. I’ve gone further down the path that I was already on.” Astute and articulate, she’d captured a truth I hadn’t even considered. When people said something was life-changing, what did they mean? Did they become a completely different person? Maybe, but that wasn’t my experience. Like Karina, I was myself, only more so. I had gambled on guiding principles. I hoped experiences were more important than things. I hoped making memories would unite us. I hoped struggling together would galvanize our relationships. I hoped trial and error would work. Putting my beliefs on the line led me to deeper self-trust. Through experience, hope compounded into confidence.
As we sailed north toward the girls, I distilled my thoughts in a conversation with Erik. “I think we’re cultivating three kinds of confidence. First, confidence that we’ll do what we say we’ll do. Second, the confidence that comes from learning new skills. Third, and I think most important, the confidence that it will emerge.”
“I agree,” he said. “Why do you think the last one is most important?”
“Because it lets us get started. We don’t have to know everything. We don’t have to control everything. It lets us be patient while we’re figuring it out.”
“Credibility. Competence. Calm. I like it.”
ERIK
We motored up to the Savannah River, which marks the border between Georgia and South Carolina, turned east, and headed back out to sea. I was doing my best to stay out of the way of cargo tankers and military battleships coming and going. It was tight quarters. Fortunately, the river widened and we had more breathing room. I went below for a second to make sure the water maker was running. That was when I felt the boat jolt to a stop. “What the . . . ?!” I yelled from below deck.
I came up and looked around. All the channel markers were in the right spot. Then I looked at the charts. I’d gotten the beacons switched around in my head. We were going down the wrong side of the marker and we were in the shallows. I threw the boat in reverse and tried to back off, but it wasn’t happening. I tried rocking us forward and backward. I even had Emily and Eli running around moving jerry cans of fuel and water to shift the weight so we could get free. In the end, I checked the tide tables. The tide was going out. We were stuck and getting more stuck with each minute. But we were close to low tide. As much as I wanted to fight and keep revving the engines, I knew I had to wait.
I sat at the helm waiting, watching the clock. As the tide shifted I turned on the engines. After half an hour I started to feel some shifting. We waited, and the water continued to rise. I engaged the prop and gave it some throttle. We budged. I waited another minute and then juiced it a little more. The hull vibrated and we budged some more. Then I gave it full throttle. The boat shook and vibrated again and br
oke free. Now that we were buoyant, I didn’t want to get pushed further onto the shoal. I gunned it out into the middle of the river. We were back into depth and on our way. For some things, we have to wait.
EMILY
We anchored in a basin off the Ashley River near downtown Charleston. We hoped to meet the girls in North Carolina, where they were visiting cousins, but a tropical depression in the Caribbean had turned into Hurricane Cristobal. Cristobal was in the Bahamas moving north, with the possibility of hitting North Carolina’s Outer Banks, our next destination. We’d been moving to meet deadlines for weeks. The best thing to do was to stay put until Cristobal passed. But that meant it would be at least another week before we saw Karina, Alison, and Sarah Jane again. Erik’s parents came to the rescue and agreed to drive them all the way to my sister’s home near Charleston.
My blessed in-laws arrived with our smiling daughters, greeted my sister’s family, and then drove back to Virginia the same day. What would we do without them? When the girls left Fort Lauderdale we weren’t precisely certain when or how we’d see each other again. Thanks to Erik’s parents, it felt seamless. We simply needed to be patient and trust the answers would emerge as we got closer.
“We had the best food while you were gone,” Eli said, and he started detailing our menu.
“I am jealous,” Alison said. Apparently, they’d had no kitchen, no bathrooms except for a portable toilet, and no running water at camp.
“Some big water pipe broke,” SJ said.
“But nobody really complained. They rolled with it,” Karina said. “It was probably my best year. Everyone was cheerful and got along.”
“Not me,” Jane said. “My group was obnoxious and told scary stories, which I heard even though I had my ears plugged. And our tent flooded.” Whether they loved it or hated it, they did it together, and that’s why we’d gone to all the trouble of getting them there. They got plenty of hot showers and goodies at Grandma’s house to more than make up for it.
