Meeting the salty Ocean

by Leïla Laloupe (France)

A leap into the unknown St Helena

Being on the sea was supposed to be a joy for me. I thought being on the ocean would the same. But it wasn't, as the Atlantic taught me. A tempestuous wind from the Skeleton Coast was filling Winnie's sails. She heeled over in an uncomfortable angle. I was more seasick than I had ever been. I couldn't eat, drink or take a pill. All my buttons were pushed by the untamed waters of the Atlantic. Aghast, i was repeating: "What was I doing on this galley ? Why the hardship?" Twice a day, the Atlantic was sending giant tidal waves, shaking all his disdain, rolling with irritation. My body was aching and sore of his mood swings. Atlantic was pouring all over Winnie's deck. Anytime I went there, I was welcomed with damp humidity, salty splashes and cold temperature. Covered by many layers of clothes under a big red sailing vest, I felt foolish and disconnected from him: we had bad blood. Three days in, I had enough of being tossed to and fro. I had accepted the forced diet. I had agreed to be in-between swells, in the middle of infinite wild waters. A dim sun lured me out of the cabin. All I could see was flying fishes jumping to their death on Winnie's deck and the littlest jellyfishes pullulating the waters. Where were the big fishes? Alas, the big mammals had already migrated to the Cape of Good hope. It was bitter to uncover Atlantic's growing emptiness. On the seventh day, I was slowly making acquaintance with the salty ocean. How could I have dictated my own terms to that mighty element? Only the immensity of the sky could rival with him. And I was able to sense their natural connection: wavy, rainy, cloudy, misty ; water in all its forms was the invisible link. The grace of it muted me in reverence. Hearing Atlantic's deep cleaning sound, I gave in to contemplation. On the fifth of August, I got juiced up as the rocky shape of St Helena, last residency of Emperor Napoleon, emerged from grey clouds, draped of brights rays of sunlight. I began to resurface from the ocean dive, totally revitalized. But the last miles are always the longest to sail. So I took the time to remember. How it started on a damp winter day, the twenty-sixth of July, in the industrial harbor of Walvis bay. How I embarked on a bold adventure, leaving with excitement, while two Namibian dockworkers were trying to make sense of crossing the Atlantic for leisure, on a tiny vessel, off-season, with a crew of a captain and two female sailors. A couple of seagulls and a few seals had accompanied us, saying farewell in their own manners. I remembered, as I took Winnie's rudder to navigate through the red and green buoys, how I set my eyes on a 5000 nautical miles away price, in the blue hot lazy Caribbean Sea. I had a air-traveler mindset and, relinquishing in a grand daydream of a never-ending summer feel, I had launched myself in the Atlantic with an utter ignorance of this salty ocean. I had to let go of that hurry-go-go spirit and focus on the way. This leap into the unknown had taught me a valuable lesson: Ocean is the ruler! Now, the journey felt like a slow burn, coming to an end in a sudden blaze. At 15° 56′ south and 5° 45′west, we reached the very remote St Helena. We arrived in Jamestown's bay by the night, paddling through a twinkling fairway, seemingly climbing a steep barren cliff. We weighted the anchor and we decided to spend one more night on Winnie, so close to civilization, yet so far in our bubble. "Welcome to the secret island of the Atlantic!" shouted a Saint, a broad smile on his bearded face. As I stumble on the pontoon of the picturesque island, he grabbed my hand and added "Get rid of your ocean legs or you will be land-sick!". I smiled and I looked the horizon towards Trinidad and Tobago. The smacking of the Atlantic was conveying me a dare: "Double or nothing?" Forever off-course, I doubled.