A Love Song to La Gitana, Our Larger Self

My Sea Saga Comes to a Close (For Now)

I started this Sea Saga series by writing about how I fell in love with a man and a dream of sailing around the world, followed it with how we brought our children aboard and shared our dream with them, and will end it here (for the time being) with this love song to the vessel that carried us safely around the world. La Gitana was so much more than a boat or a home. In so many ways she encapsulated the spirit of the adventure we were about to embark on, and became a sort larger self that embodied us on our travels.

Even after returning to our land lives, even after so many ears have passed, she continues to symbolize that fearless, joyful sense self, at one with and in love with the world me, and bent on endless explorations of what it means to be human in a more-than-human world. In some ways, the spirit of La Gitana is what inspires me to continue Writing From the Edge of the Wild, as I call this newsletter. World travel is wonderful but not necessary at this point in my life. Inner travel to the vast landscapes within the mind and imagination, as I explore art and music, poetry and literature, science and spirituality, are just as adventurous and inspiring.

And so I write this love song, with gratitude, to La Gitana, my forever muse who embodies my larger self.

La Gitana, Our Larger Self

We named her La Gitana, Spanish for the gypsy, partly in tribute to our family’s Spanish heritage, partly because sea gypsies are what we would be once we moved aboard her and sailed away, and partly for my long fascination with everything pertaining to Gypsies.

I loved the Roma culture—the music and dancing, the colorful caravans, clothing, and jewelry. I loved what they stood for, the capriciousness of their existence living on the edge of society, their adventuresome spirit, their playfulness and spontaneity, their wildness—all the things we grew up thinking of as gypsy-like. La Gitana symbolized that for us. We feminized the masculine gitano and added the signifier la for alliteration, and to show her singular importance: the, not a.

Of course she had to be feminine—all ships traditionally are. They are vessels that carry us in her belly, under her wings, that harbor us in the storm, and send us flying into the wind. Her sails are softly rounded breasts bravely and proudly pulling us onward. Her hull buoys us up and whispers to us in our sleep. And she was alive! With a personality and purpose all her own—a creature, not a thing.

She seemed almost as alive to us as the other creatures that she cavorted with, the dolphins that played at her side, the whales that swam beneath and circled her, the flying fish that landed on her decks. Her spirit was all her own. But her breath, her pulse, her beating heart, her life blood, was us, the people who inhabited and cared for her, plotted her course, walked her decks, stroked her beams, and dreamed her dreams.

It was a symbiotic relationship. We trusted her and sank everything we had into her. And she depended upon us to steer her away from the harbor and allow her to run with the wind, to lead her to a safe haven and hunker her down when the hurricane blew.

Originally she was called “Swagman,” which is what peddlers and tinkers are called Down Under. We bought her from an Aussie living in San Diego who had commissioned her to be built in Taiwan—a Formosa 46, a 46-foot Peterson designed cutter rigged sloop with a center-cockpit. Cousin to the better known and more costly Peterson 44. It was love at first sight when we saw her.

We invested so much more than money in her—our hopes and dreams, our safety and security, our hearth and home, our larger selves. She is what separated us from the sea on those long ocean voyages and moved us through the air by harnessing the wind. Deep in her belly she rocked and sung us to sleep. When the storms rose she sheltered us from the rain. When huge rogue waves came crashing down she lifted us up. When the wind died away and left us floundering in the middle of nowhere, she was the still center in a circle of blue.

I cannot tell you the pleasure and affection I felt when we were ashore and looked out at her waiting patiently for our return. What it felt like to bring our dinghy aside her and hoist our provisions aboard. The thrill of weighing anchor and heading out to sea, raising her sails, watching them fill.

Hunkered beneath her dodger during night watches, I listened to the rush of waves and sails in the black, black night, and watched her mast stirring stars. Sleeping below deck as she rocked with the waves, her rigging humming overhead, the soft gurgle of the ocean whispering through the hull, was sweetness like no other.

I loved sunning my chilled skin on her warm teak decks after a long morning hunting and diving for scallops. Falling asleep in the cockpit on balmy days in port, watching the stars gently rock overhead as she rolled with the soft swells.

How I miss her! But we carry her in our hearts and in our memories, in the words on these pages, and the novels I am writing. I like to think another family has taken over where we left off, hugging her close, and steering her on new adventures.

Epiphanies Aboard La Gitana

For additional peeks into our sailing adventures, you might want to check out the following links featuring the poetry I wrote during our travels. Each sets the scene, where we were, what we were doing, what inspired me to write.

Sailing Among the Stars - This features a poem I wrote one night while crossing of the Sea of Cortez from Baja to mainland Mexico. The poem was later set to music by composer Troy Armstrong. You can hear it on his website.

Excerpt: We sail across the universe on the back of a tiny planet at the edge of a galaxy that swirls around us. Too often we forget that–-how embedded we really are in the universe. I became acutely aware of this one night when we were crossing the Sea of Cortez from Baja to mainland Mexico. There was no wind, no moon. The sea was perfectly still like the surface of a dark mirror, marred only by our trailing wake. Above us the bare mast stirred a billion stars, which were reflected in the sea’s surface below. I felt like we were on a starship sailing through the cosmos.

Walking Among Flowers, A Fierce Slaying - This poem was inspired by our arrival in Nuka Hiva after 30 days at sea, our first long crossing and tropical landfall. As we approached, the towering emerald peaks dripping with waterfalls that emerged rose from the sea took my breath away. As did walking through the villages, its gardens a riot of color and scent.

Excerpt: Walking through the village, down narrow, winding roads, past pastel-colored houses surrounded by gardens overflowing with flowers and dense tropical foliage, melting in the heat and humidity and the perfumed air . . . . I felt physically and mentally assaulted, overcome by the intensity of the colors and the abundance of the beauty that surrounded me, shattering the senses. Sight, smell, and sound washed together, streaming through me, carrying me away.

Night Howl, Deep in My Bones - This poem was written about primal urges while on anchor watch in Pago Pago, Samoa, during a hurricane.

Excerpt: I stood at the bow of La Gitana, hanging onto the staysail as the deck lurched beneath my feet like a wild stallion while the surging waves rose and fell and the chain from the anchor rooted deep in the mud below grew slack or tight.

Overhead a torrent of clouds crashed against a full moon, sometimes swallowing it whole, then washing away streaming moonlight. All around me the night raged while the anchor held tight, and I held tight, the terror and exhilaration pumping through my blood and brain. The wild urge to let go and be carried away by the night was fierce.

A Scattering of Rocks, Zen in the Garden of Eden - This too was written in Pago Pago, where we lived for six months.

Excerpt - My husband and I were working to supplement our cruising kitty, he as a welder in a local boatyard, while I tutored Korean children who lived in small communities scattered among the foothills.  Every afternoon I would row ashore and walk back through the lush green mountain valleys along dirt roads to the children’s homes.

I loved those walks.  Often I practiced what I called “no-thought,” emptying the mind and just letting sights and sounds and smells wash over me wordlessly.  But more often I was overcome by the spectacular beauty I saw all around me and my relative insignificance, humble in the midst of such awesome power.

Wheeling Away on the Isle of Pines - Here I was inspired by our visit to the Isle of Pines in Vanuatu.

Excerpt: - The island is well-known for its beauty—glassy, turquoise waves spilling onto sand as white as sugar and fine as flour. Walking ashore was like wading through drifts of powdery snow—each step leaving deep footprints. The island is covered with tall, narrow native pines. Walking through them I became mesmerized by the sound of wind blowing through the branches, the sun slanting through the leaves, the fragrance of the pine-scented air, the greenness that enveloped me . . . it all flowed together and seemed to take me to a place beyond myself.

More Sea Sagas in the Works

There are many more stories I could tell about our adventures aboard La Gitana. Some of those adventures will be included in the series of novels I’m writing for middle graders about a fictional family like ours that travels around the world, told through the perspective of the children.

And I envision another memoir-like work with chapters entitled: Whales We Have Known, Foraging in the Sea, Lightening Strikes and Sea Tornados, Close Encounters with Ships at Sea, Training our Cats to Use the Head . . . .

Until then, I hope you’ve enjoyed my sea sagas. If you are new here, please sign up for my free newsletters. If you already have a free subscription, thank you. Upgrading to a paid subscription (even for a few months!) would mean the world to me. Not only would it help support me in my work, but, more importantly, encourage and inspire me to continue writing.