BROKEN ALBATROSS PROMISES

Loving family from a distance

Trying to catch fresh coconut juice near Vava'u, Tonga.

By Roxanne Darrow

A line from Before the Wind by Jim Lynch drew surprise tears from me last week:

“Then I helped him power through the locks so I could hear his diesel, like a doc listening to an old heart, but mostly to spend another hour with my brother.”

At this point in a novel about a sailing family’s drama, one brother helps another brother sail away across the Pacific, away from troubles at home. He didn’t know it at the time, but he wouldn't see his brother again for years. 

In October of 2018, I set sail from San Diego Harbor on a personal quest: To hitchhike sail from my home in California to Japan. In contrast to Lynch’s protagonist, I wasn’t escaping as a fugitive. I was, in part, sailing from heartbreak, economic woes, roads and cars—yes. But also toward empowerment, the unknown, and to meet our Pacific neighbors—human and underwater friends alike.

It is now November 2020. The last time I hugged my little brother was in January 2019. We laughed on the ride to the San Diego International Airport about our insatiable hunt for the best tacos. I dropped him off for his quick flight back to land life in the San Francisco Bay Area—job, girlfriend, commute. 

We hugged once on the curb. Then I went in again for another hug, during this one we both felt eachother’s jittery longing. The unknown only exists once we let go of our second hug. His loving energy moved through my body and my loving energy enveloped him. My arms wrapped tight around his mid-back, his palm tree-esque height still strange to my protective big sister instincts. I have a sense sometimes when I won’t see a dear one for a long while. The last time I double hugged was with my friend Tim, in Washington D.C.

In April 2019, I landed in the Marquesas after 22 days at sea—now a freshly minted shellback with my first equator crossing completed. Intoxicating tropical aromas and colors reinvigorated my senses.  But what I craved more than fresh veggies was wifi. When I logged on for the first time in weeks, 625+ whatsapp messages greeted me on our family thread. 

My sister, mom, dad and brother were carrying on as usual. The normal bumps and lumps, silliness, pictures of homemade meals, cat memes, strings of obscure gifs and references. We set up this family thread a few years ago as a way to communicate across our rival phone platforms. And thank the internets, my brother figured out how we could still share gifs—our favorite way to continue family giggles that began around our dinner table since age zero. 

My family knows boat life. My parents raised us most in San Diego, with weekends and summers on their Catalina 36’ S/V Camelot IV.

My family knows boat life. My parents raised us most in San Diego, with weekends and summers on their Catalina 36’ S/V Camelot IV. Our suburban life in the Inland Empire desert was punctuated with these aquatic stretches. My sister and I remember scoping out cute boys in Cherry Cove and rolling around below deck on a stormy passage to San Miguel Island. Memories of my mom’s singed eyebrows from a camp stove gas explosion still make us laugh. Ah yes, and that time I asked Dad if the end of the stern anchor line should be attached to the boat? 

Now I was hitchhiking alone over the sea. Through French Polynesia and beyond, padding my bare feet on soft red soil, ferns against my sea softened ankles, gazing up at rugged volcanic spires, white tailed tropic birds soaring far above.

My brother called to ask for relationship advice. I watched sharks feeding nearby, boiling the water with their tail thrashes, and gave him my unvarnished guidance. My sister reached out with medical tips when my mysterious high fever raged for days. A month later, her voice carried me again when fever overcame my body—I was weakened from thirst and untreated rainwater. “Get up, eat those canned sardines, you are in charge of keeping yourself alive,” her imaginary voice encouraged me. I needed her more than ever in the sweltering steel boat perched atop an isolated atoll shipyard.

As much as I relish spells without wifi, I want to reconnect with my family whenever I can. It is strange, I have become somewhat of a remote, but omniscient presence. They reach out to me separately about their own sagas, their own details. But at the same time, I think I know nothing.  I haven’t touched my family in ages, I haven’t made eye contact beyond a cell phone screen, I haven’t felt their belly laughs vibrate through my bones. 

That body absence is where the loss lies. It is where my grief lives. In my semi-healed stomach ulcer, that pulses now and again with pain. 

Maybe that pain began when my family dropped me off at university.  All five of us stared at each other outside my downtown Berkeley apartment complex, realizing this was a wild separation. As the eldest, I was the first to go, and was ready to leave home at age 11, my mom reminds me. 

But I didn’t know that this separation turns the family song volume down. Our rhythm becomes fainter even as awareness of my own heart beat grows.

I yelled “Land ho!” outside the Bay of Islands as S/V Zephyr, captain and crew approached Aotearoa New Zealand. My whole body and spirit felt whole, content and relieved that I’d reached a significant milestone after a year hitchhiking at sea. It felt like a shared victory—my family supported me throughout with their love, guidance and humor. 

Then, a few months ago in September, I had a flight booked from New Zealand to California. My little brother texted, “I don’t actually believe you are coming home.” I assured him this was real, and I’d see him soon. 

Covid-19 inserted a plot twist. Based on advice from my parents and US doctor, I decided not to keep my promise to my little brother. 

My lichen-covered 1993 Toyota Scepter protected me with her old wisdom as I heaved into a full body cry. Over the next weeks, I fell to the floor of my small trailer, tucked into a steep New Zealand river gorge, and let tears drip onto my kneecaps. 

Still sometimes my tears surprise me—when I read a line in a sailing novel, when my Kiwi partner hugs me goodbye to visit his daughters and family nearby.

Now, I’ve accepted that I might not ever live in California year-round again. I talk with family on the phone more than once every few months. A new practice for me. My brother, sister and I have our own new chat group, separate from the family thread. Our relationships are growing and we all commit time to answering each others’ messages. My little brother and younger sister are quick to find the best gifs—a giraffe trying to ride a motorcycle is a new favorite.

My quest is incomplete and ongoing, Japan still calls to me. The sophisticated piece of metal, glass and silicon in my pocket is my most prized possession because it allows me to be with my family.

Perhaps the grace in this distance—this longing and separation—is the gratitude. Each morning and each night I thank the universe for keeping my family alive. I do fear losing them before we can hug each other again.  But I have a deep knowing, that we carry each other always, no matter the albatross wingspans between us. 

FROM WOMEN WHO SAIL NEWSLETTER | ISSUE 5. | DECEMBER 2020.

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roxanne darrow

Roxanne is a writer based in Wakefield, Aotearoa New Zealand. She is growing funds to continue hitchhike sailing onwards to Japan in 2022. Follow her ocean crossing sailing adventures at sparklecatadventures.com and on Instagram. She loves to translate your creative dreams into written reality—reach out if you’d like to collaborate with her at roxannedarrow.com.