It is Day 118 and I am alone in the
middle of the Pacific Ocean aboard my vessel Reach, on an attempt to solo row around the
world. Heading
westward from California, I have covered almost five thousand miles so far and the closest
person to me now is probably a thousand miles away.
I am being tossed around in my
small cabin, hunched over my laptop computer. Sweat drips from my forehead onto the
keyboard as I wait for the satellite terminal to download an incoming message from my wife
Stacia, who always shares a few warm home adventures of our three-year-old twin daughters,
Hayden and Kenna. During these thirty seconds of download time, I am usually like a
six-year-old on Christmas morning. But today is different. I am wallowing in self-pity.
As the "RECV DATA MSG"
light continues to blink I begin a mental list of the things I want to lament about: sun
blisters, unfavorable currents and winds, jellyfish stings, saltwater sores, burning wrist
and elbow joints, sleep deprivation and the occasional loneliness. I can chew on any one
of these and feel the strength seep out of my body. I hear it escaping, like a deflating
bicycle tire. It feels good to whine even though I know that the boat will feel twice as
heavy to row and it will be much harder to sleep.
I shake my head back and forth as I
glance up for reassurance at the five words I scribbled above the hatchway with a blue
indelible marker, "You Chose To Be Here". That doesn't help. In fact, it makes
me feel worse. Probably because it's reminding me that I can choose my own attitude right
now and right at this moment, I feel like simmering in my self-pity.
My computer light stops blinking
and finally I can open up the file. It is the expected message from Stacia, but it
contains something extra, an additional message from a couple in Chicago sent to her and
now forwarded onto me. Tossing around in water four miles deep, I read on:
Message from home
Passed on to me through Stacia
September 10, 1998
Day 118
"I saw your story on CBS and
find your spirit incredible. My wife is in the Loyola Cancer Center in Chicago and it has
been a good escape to follow your progress while she is having a bone marrow transplant.
We find inspiration in your journey and we pray for you daily. Best of luck. Dave and
Andrea."
Find MY spirit incredible? Find
inspiration in MY journey? Wishing ME luck? I can't believe it. There is a woman I don't
know across the Pacific Ocean, past the railroad tracks and wheat fields, lying in a
hospital bed on probably the most frightening and threatening journey of her life. Yet she
and her husband are gathering the strength to step out of THEIR world and wish ME luck on
MY journey.
I stare at the computer screen, my
mouth open. I scan their message quickly one more time just to make sure it said what I
thought it had said. It did.
I am embarrassed. Shame swells up
inside me. I'm whining about the wrong direction of the wind while Andrea's got needles
stuck in her body by people she doesn't know and whom she has reluctantly been forced to
trust. I have a couple of blisters and a few aches and pains while Andrea's lying in
darkness and can't move. She's got cancer. I have a jellyfish sting on my foot.
In that moment, those four loving
sentences from Andrea and her husband span across the miles, from her bed to my boat and
directly into my heart. They slap me upside my head with the truest illustration of
absolute courage. I read the message three more times, turn off my computer, step out onto
the deck and gaze out to the northeast, towards Chicago. I know Andrea's out there, going
through more hell than I have ever experienced and she's drawing her inspiration from this
sniveling whiner.
I crawl back inside the cabin, log
out from the satellite and put my computer back into its watertight case. I fix dinner,
sit against my single-side band radio and eat in silence surrounded only by the slapping
waves of the ocean and the courage of a couple in Chicago.
With dinner settling in, I plop
myself down on the sliding rowing seat, grab my two ten-foot spruce oars and begin to
pull. The boat feels lighter. My destination feels a little closer.
Message from Sea
Daily report to website
September 11, 1998
Day 119
It is easy to forget that there are
thousands following this voyage. I pull today with rekindled spirit and strength. Today,
every pull of the oar is for you Andrea. I send blessings and strength to you both, on the
wings of every Sea-God I can muster. Thank you Andrea. Thank you for reaching out and
showing me how to pull. You are the real hero. Aloha, Mick
Copyright @2000 Mick Bird |
