Virgin Voyager, Part I

Lying in a rope net just above the water, watching the sun sink toward the horizon and dipping my fingers into the cold Pacific, I indulged in a moment of peace and contentment.

I was aboard a waka hourua (or vaka, depending on where you are), a traditional Polynesian ocean-going sailing vessel. A dear friend of mine had been working on a documentary in the South Pacific involving six of these ships and managed to set up my travel companions and me with a day on the waka in Auckland learning to sail. 

We joined a group of Maori teens who had been brought on board as part of a program to revive cultural traditions among the Maori population in New Zealand. We were taught the names of the sails, terms like “port”, “starboard”, “aft” and “fore”, how to raise and lower the sails properly, how to maneuver the hoe, and the basics of wind propulsion. The teens seemed to be soaking up this information, passing pop quizzes with ease and enthusiasm, while I drifted in and out of listening. I was too busy soaking up the sun and the sea, and chatting with the skipper. 

Hooki at the hoe

We spent the day tacking lazily back and forth across the Rangitoto Channel and anchored near a beach for a bit of lunch and a swim. My friends and I joined the kids in gleeful leaps off the front of the boat, struggling afterward to pull ourselves aboard in the midst of hearty laughter.

 

As we deboarded the waka that evening the teens and their leaders lined up for the traditional Maori greeting, the hongi. My friends and I moved down the receiving line pressing our noses and foreheads against those of our sailing companions. I had no clue what I was supposed to do and actually blew my nose onto the first face I encountered. He politely ignored it and I continued down the line.

Hongi

I left the waka feeling so lucky to have had this unique experience with such a unique group of people. Little did I know that I should have been paying attention to the instructors as I would need those sailing skills in just a few short days.

To be continued…

My New Norm

Driving to work this morning, I pulled up to a junction in the road as a huge tractor toting an equally huge trailer whizzed by. It didn’t even faze me, the fact of which suddenly occurred to me as strange. When did this become my norm? 

I’ve been here almost two years and it’s no big thing now to drive the narrowest roads I’ve ever been down, see a badger waddle across the pavement in front of me, or have to reverse to a wider bit of road in order to pass a car coming the opposite direction. It is completely normal for me to walk down the middle of a lane enjoying the seasonal scents wafting from the walls of hedgerows, eating my weight in wild blackberries as I wander. It is entirely normal for me to experience the fairy tale qualities of the back roads here in Cornwall – seeing the colorful wildflowers reaching out from the hedges, and watching butterflies and bees float and hum around me – as if some sort of wood nymph is going to leap from the hedges and say hello in a chummy Cornish accent.

I see the sea every day. I watch the waves lap over the rocky beach and crash against the cliffs. I see cows grazing the bright green fields of the rolling hills and watch newborn lambs jump and leap in sheer joy of life. 

In just two short years, this back road, country life – hours away from the sights and sounds of the bustling and buzzing city – has become my norm.