I’ve been reviewing my finances this morning- I printed off my bank statements before the boat trip – and it’s an ugly and disappointing picture. I’ve spent 3x what I planned to spend and made back a fraction of what I expected to make from working in New Zealand.
In cold hard numbers that means I’ve spent $3,124.27 in eight months, and I expected to spend a third of that over the course of twelve months. (I won’t need to spend any money until June 1 when I leave Kevin’s boat for Bali, Indonesia. For now I have no expenses.)
My book-keeping skills are terrible because I avoid doing things I don’t want to do, like my finances. I’m much better at spending money and leading a life of instant gratification than I am at saving money and sticking to a budget that limits my “fun”.
Because I haven’t kept a close eye on my pocketbook I’ve let many little expenditures go unnoticed…they add up.
My only saving grace has come from the deposits made by my family and the government. Thank you for the birthday and Christmas money and the tax returns! Because of their generosity my total loss is $2,253.12, which is a better, but not ideal, sum.
I’m not exposing my financial situation in hopes of handouts, but to explain the reality of my situation and one of my biggest stresses: money. It controls my every move and is always heavy on my mind. Everything costs more than I expect it to. I make mistakes that are costly and I indulge myself too often.
My biggest problem is I have a hard time facing reality and making changes. Even right now as I write this I’m struggling with myself. I don’t want to be doing this because if I see the problem then I’m responsible for finding and executing a solution, which inevitable means making changes.
My head is beginning to hurt and my eyes are growing heaving. “Take a rest, lay down, and come back to this later,” a voice inside is encouraging. But I know that “later” is the only time that never arrives. This is the same voice that convinces me that I deserve every indulgence I make with no consideration for moderation.
I have an incredible intolerance for doing things I don’t want to do, especially the things that will benefit (usually in the long run) like spending frugally/ sticking to a budget, exercising (even when it’s hot or cold) and eating healthy and in moderation (no matter how much I love chocolate).
Ironically I have an incredibly high tolerance for doing things that other people want me to do or putting up with what others inflict on me such as listening to unwanted noise or traveling by means or to a location not of my choosing. Sure I will ride an uncomfortable bus for 30 hours while the girl next to me tells me her whole life and I will smile through the whole excruciating process, but not buying the sarong I want or not eating the extra sticky rice and mango I crave is unbearable.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Third post
The imperfect rug that was to be my future source of income was pulled out from under me.
The French Teaching Assistantship program emailed me my rejection letter on April 6. (I found out about it on April 25, an extra month of unnecessary worry since I applied in November.)
I was disappointed and a bit surprised that I didn’t get the job, which would have been a 20 hour, 750 euro, a week teaching position in a French elementary, intermediate, or high school assisting the English and cultural studies.
Disappointed because I want to live in France to experience the culture, learn the language and use it as a base to travel other European countries; surprised because I applied for a position a year ago and was accepted into an academy in Toulouse, France, but I rejected the placement in favor of my year of traveling with Katie.
Had I gotten the job I wouldn’t be much better off because I’m not qualified, nor interested, in teaching. Being a teacher was a means to do all the traveling and generate some income in France, a country I’ve been interested in my entire life with one of two languages I studied in school (Spanish being the second).
So although it had little to potential of being perfect, at least it was a plan. Now the future is completely unknown and I’m afraid, albeit a bit excited, about the possibilities. However, other than working as an Au pair, the options are limited. I’m not fluent in anything but English and I really have no qualifications for a career. I managed to make it 22 years skill less, with little going for me than a friendly disposition and a optimistic attitude. As of right now I wouldn’t even be qualified to be a waitress or a barista in France (or any country unwilling to train me).
This bleak realization terrifies and depresses me. What am I going to do? What can I do?
Ultimately I’d like to find something I want to do that can earn me money, but discovering desirable work has been a source of constant worry for my entire life (maybe not when I was five, but as soon as I come to realize everyone has to earn money to live.)
I’ve pursued many job path, although I’ve never given 100 percent of my effort because I’ve yet to find a pursuit I was very passionate about or at least not wrought with doubts, so mostly I’m treading water without committing to a direction. Landing, or sticking, in a job I hate terrifies me, and allowing misunderstood dreams and talents to evaporate (I believe everyone has a purpose and special talents.) seems breaking beyond recovery. Around every corner could be the clue to revealing a career that would bring me the greatest joy and satisfaction. So, I’m stalling, and most of the time just avoiding, commitment. Maybe the French could feel my insincerity.
It’s not that I don’t understand the necessity of work, and I like to think I’ve done my fair share of unwanted occupations.
I’ve toiled through every menial job that high school and struggling college student endure, but I’ve also applied to more “adult” or “long-term” positions with the Peace Corps, Americorps, French Teaching Assistantship Program, Ohio University Communication and Marketing department.
About one year ago I was pursuing all these opportunities, as well as exploring the possibility of traveling around the world for a year with Katie, and wondering if I should do something with my hard-earned journalism degree.
While these ideas were percolating, my deadlines were passing by unattended. Some I worked on for two years before running away from the opportunity because they wanted me to have six months of community development experience or better language skills and I felt unfit for the challenge (or rather the commitment).
Whether I find work I adore or not the bottom line is I have to start generating an income.
Upon reassessing the situation (my resume if you will) here is where I stand: I’m a 22-year-old female with no skills. I have a degree in magazine journalism that is basically worth less than the ink on my diploma because I don’t have the desire or talent to make it in the industry. Acquiring my degree has put me $20,000 in dept (and rising thanks to the interest) – extra salt in the wound. I enjoy traveling, dancing, horseback riding, food (cooking and eating), reading, films, yoga, learning (my interests are short lived and my attention span even shorter), and any adventure and outdoor activity man has created. I see little potential in finding a career that encompasses one of the above mentioned interests, nor do I feel I could devote myself to developing one into a career path.
I wish I were someone who could accept the past and move on, but when I look at my present circumstances it’s hard not to have regrets.
I wish I had worked harder in school and actually learned something instead of working for a grade. I wish I had started thinking earlier about what I want to do and not what others wanted me to do, and I wish I’d discovered how to love myself and honor my personal happiness without external praise and approval.
This sounds depressing, and I should mention that I’m writing this after just hearing the rejection, but this is a sad situation I’ve been thinking about since I walked across a stage wearing a tasseled cap and white gown almost one year ago.
Regardless of how bleak things look, I willingly admit that I have (past and present) a great and very very blessed life. I have a wonderful family who loves me despite not understanding me, and my friends are an invaluable support system that has helped carry me through obstacles I couldn’t have managed alone.
So no matter what happens I have plenty of people to fall back on – and places to live – until I can get my act, somewhat, together.
A working world awaits me…good thing I’m in the middle of the ocean and can’t actually act until I get off the boat
The French Teaching Assistantship program emailed me my rejection letter on April 6. (I found out about it on April 25, an extra month of unnecessary worry since I applied in November.)
I was disappointed and a bit surprised that I didn’t get the job, which would have been a 20 hour, 750 euro, a week teaching position in a French elementary, intermediate, or high school assisting the English and cultural studies.
Disappointed because I want to live in France to experience the culture, learn the language and use it as a base to travel other European countries; surprised because I applied for a position a year ago and was accepted into an academy in Toulouse, France, but I rejected the placement in favor of my year of traveling with Katie.
Had I gotten the job I wouldn’t be much better off because I’m not qualified, nor interested, in teaching. Being a teacher was a means to do all the traveling and generate some income in France, a country I’ve been interested in my entire life with one of two languages I studied in school (Spanish being the second).
So although it had little to potential of being perfect, at least it was a plan. Now the future is completely unknown and I’m afraid, albeit a bit excited, about the possibilities. However, other than working as an Au pair, the options are limited. I’m not fluent in anything but English and I really have no qualifications for a career. I managed to make it 22 years skill less, with little going for me than a friendly disposition and a optimistic attitude. As of right now I wouldn’t even be qualified to be a waitress or a barista in France (or any country unwilling to train me).
This bleak realization terrifies and depresses me. What am I going to do? What can I do?
Ultimately I’d like to find something I want to do that can earn me money, but discovering desirable work has been a source of constant worry for my entire life (maybe not when I was five, but as soon as I come to realize everyone has to earn money to live.)
I’ve pursued many job path, although I’ve never given 100 percent of my effort because I’ve yet to find a pursuit I was very passionate about or at least not wrought with doubts, so mostly I’m treading water without committing to a direction. Landing, or sticking, in a job I hate terrifies me, and allowing misunderstood dreams and talents to evaporate (I believe everyone has a purpose and special talents.) seems breaking beyond recovery. Around every corner could be the clue to revealing a career that would bring me the greatest joy and satisfaction. So, I’m stalling, and most of the time just avoiding, commitment. Maybe the French could feel my insincerity.
It’s not that I don’t understand the necessity of work, and I like to think I’ve done my fair share of unwanted occupations.
I’ve toiled through every menial job that high school and struggling college student endure, but I’ve also applied to more “adult” or “long-term” positions with the Peace Corps, Americorps, French Teaching Assistantship Program, Ohio University Communication and Marketing department.
About one year ago I was pursuing all these opportunities, as well as exploring the possibility of traveling around the world for a year with Katie, and wondering if I should do something with my hard-earned journalism degree.
While these ideas were percolating, my deadlines were passing by unattended. Some I worked on for two years before running away from the opportunity because they wanted me to have six months of community development experience or better language skills and I felt unfit for the challenge (or rather the commitment).
Whether I find work I adore or not the bottom line is I have to start generating an income.
Upon reassessing the situation (my resume if you will) here is where I stand: I’m a 22-year-old female with no skills. I have a degree in magazine journalism that is basically worth less than the ink on my diploma because I don’t have the desire or talent to make it in the industry. Acquiring my degree has put me $20,000 in dept (and rising thanks to the interest) – extra salt in the wound. I enjoy traveling, dancing, horseback riding, food (cooking and eating), reading, films, yoga, learning (my interests are short lived and my attention span even shorter), and any adventure and outdoor activity man has created. I see little potential in finding a career that encompasses one of the above mentioned interests, nor do I feel I could devote myself to developing one into a career path.
I wish I were someone who could accept the past and move on, but when I look at my present circumstances it’s hard not to have regrets.
I wish I had worked harder in school and actually learned something instead of working for a grade. I wish I had started thinking earlier about what I want to do and not what others wanted me to do, and I wish I’d discovered how to love myself and honor my personal happiness without external praise and approval.
This sounds depressing, and I should mention that I’m writing this after just hearing the rejection, but this is a sad situation I’ve been thinking about since I walked across a stage wearing a tasseled cap and white gown almost one year ago.
Regardless of how bleak things look, I willingly admit that I have (past and present) a great and very very blessed life. I have a wonderful family who loves me despite not understanding me, and my friends are an invaluable support system that has helped carry me through obstacles I couldn’t have managed alone.
So no matter what happens I have plenty of people to fall back on – and places to live – until I can get my act, somewhat, together.
A working world awaits me…good thing I’m in the middle of the ocean and can’t actually act until I get off the boat
Second post
I hate writing because I’m afraid I’m incompetent and I have nothing to say of any value.
I hate writing, for my blog, in response to emails and in my journal, because it is difficult. It’s hard to think of what to say, how I want to say it and what do people want to hear. Reading, my writing, received emails and books, is much more enjoyable, passive and therefore effortless, and it’s a preferred way to spend my time. Putting forth effort when I’m unsure of the outcome is disagreeable to me.
It’s ironic that I spent thousands of dollars at a university “learning” how to write (fyi I’m no better for the time and money spent) and I’ve managed to convince many acquaintances that this is a passion and pursuit of mine.
When I feel obligated to write, which occurs multiple times a day because I feel obligated to update my blog, correspond to family and friends, and document my experiences and feelings, I wrestle with the idea, realize I don’t know what to write, and then turn to an easier option such as reading a book or watching a movie, usually accompanied by a consolation snack. “It’s ok, maybe you will think of something to say later. Perhaps this book will inspire great ideas and reveal personal insight. Indulge in the easier pastime and forget worrying about what you’re not doing because that won’t help the situation, says my internal rational”
I love reading and watching because I recognize others’ competence and insight and entertainment value.
In this manner I’ve plowed through eight books and almost two dozen movies in less than three weeks. On average I finish a book every other day and Kevin and I watch a new movie every night, plus I have watched a few during rainy afternoons. Because I’m constantly engrossed in characters’ lives my emotions and feelings are raw and confused. (Hence I never know what to write about because I can’t extract mine from my entertainers’. Fantasy and reality are overly intertwined in my mind and my spirit is suffocating on the confusion.)
When I read a story about a young girl who moves to Switzerland in pursuit of her dreams I feel I am lost in search of dreams that I can’t identify. “I want to move and act in chase of my dreams! But first, what are my dreams? And where do I need to move to discover them? ” My internal voice is a real worrier and she tends to stress…
Then later in the day I watch a movie about a couple brought together by destiny, separated by the world only to conquer all obstacles and finish their lives together in eternal love and happiness. “I need to find my true love that will produce endless joy in my life!” But then the next movie or book is about an independent artist who walks through the world to her own beat and discovers that only she can bring about contentment and meaning to her life. “Forget needing others. I’m an independent, competent person who doesn’t need to rely on anyone. Oh and I should get into art again.”
I hope I’m only this fickle below the surface.
The internal mayhem prevents me from personal understanding and therefore inhibits my ability to communicate (through my writing). How in the hell am I supposed to convey in worlds in some intelligible order the things I can’t sort out within myself. How can I communicate intimately without when I can’t figure out what’s going on within?
Good grief…thanks for hanging in there with me and enduring my personal struggles. Certain friends and family will find this bipolar and manic behavior familiar. And all can rest assured that this is only the workings of a moment. Now that I’ve hurled a few words onto paper (or screen) the wheels are greased for more. I usually have to throw a tantrum before I can settle into peaceful acceptance. The struggle of what to say remains but the freak-out of not knowing if what I say is good or if anyone will care is tapered off a bit.
I think I have to care way too much (and cry) before I can care an appropriate amount and move past my mania.
I hate writing, for my blog, in response to emails and in my journal, because it is difficult. It’s hard to think of what to say, how I want to say it and what do people want to hear. Reading, my writing, received emails and books, is much more enjoyable, passive and therefore effortless, and it’s a preferred way to spend my time. Putting forth effort when I’m unsure of the outcome is disagreeable to me.
It’s ironic that I spent thousands of dollars at a university “learning” how to write (fyi I’m no better for the time and money spent) and I’ve managed to convince many acquaintances that this is a passion and pursuit of mine.
When I feel obligated to write, which occurs multiple times a day because I feel obligated to update my blog, correspond to family and friends, and document my experiences and feelings, I wrestle with the idea, realize I don’t know what to write, and then turn to an easier option such as reading a book or watching a movie, usually accompanied by a consolation snack. “It’s ok, maybe you will think of something to say later. Perhaps this book will inspire great ideas and reveal personal insight. Indulge in the easier pastime and forget worrying about what you’re not doing because that won’t help the situation, says my internal rational”
I love reading and watching because I recognize others’ competence and insight and entertainment value.
In this manner I’ve plowed through eight books and almost two dozen movies in less than three weeks. On average I finish a book every other day and Kevin and I watch a new movie every night, plus I have watched a few during rainy afternoons. Because I’m constantly engrossed in characters’ lives my emotions and feelings are raw and confused. (Hence I never know what to write about because I can’t extract mine from my entertainers’. Fantasy and reality are overly intertwined in my mind and my spirit is suffocating on the confusion.)
When I read a story about a young girl who moves to Switzerland in pursuit of her dreams I feel I am lost in search of dreams that I can’t identify. “I want to move and act in chase of my dreams! But first, what are my dreams? And where do I need to move to discover them? ” My internal voice is a real worrier and she tends to stress…
Then later in the day I watch a movie about a couple brought together by destiny, separated by the world only to conquer all obstacles and finish their lives together in eternal love and happiness. “I need to find my true love that will produce endless joy in my life!” But then the next movie or book is about an independent artist who walks through the world to her own beat and discovers that only she can bring about contentment and meaning to her life. “Forget needing others. I’m an independent, competent person who doesn’t need to rely on anyone. Oh and I should get into art again.”
I hope I’m only this fickle below the surface.
The internal mayhem prevents me from personal understanding and therefore inhibits my ability to communicate (through my writing). How in the hell am I supposed to convey in worlds in some intelligible order the things I can’t sort out within myself. How can I communicate intimately without when I can’t figure out what’s going on within?
Good grief…thanks for hanging in there with me and enduring my personal struggles. Certain friends and family will find this bipolar and manic behavior familiar. And all can rest assured that this is only the workings of a moment. Now that I’ve hurled a few words onto paper (or screen) the wheels are greased for more. I usually have to throw a tantrum before I can settle into peaceful acceptance. The struggle of what to say remains but the freak-out of not knowing if what I say is good or if anyone will care is tapered off a bit.
I think I have to care way too much (and cry) before I can care an appropriate amount and move past my mania.
THE START OF A SERIES (or personal rant...)- first post
When Kevin offered to take me on his two-month boat trip I envisioned hours of reading, writing, walking, swimming and lot’s of meditation and personal reflection.
It was this latter pursuit that most attracted me because I felt that I’m in a pivotal point in my life that deserves some contemplation.
After about eight months on the road I haven’t become the person I want to be or materialized a life I’m satisfied with, and running away from the familiar hasn’t absolved me of issues and opened me to self discovery that I’d hoped the trying and personally revealing circumstances on the road would cure.
I haven’t discovered my dreams and passions that could be converted into a career; I’ve met people and seen places but I haven’t found romantic love or contentment; and I haven’t found an enjoyable way to improve my negative bank account or something that inspires an enduring passion. (Traveling has allowed me to see as many wonderful places and people and uncover attractive possibilities but there are deeper and longer lasting benefits and resolutions I want to secure.)
Reality is such that I have to make some decisions about the next chapter of my life, regardless of the personal growth and discovery yet to be achieved, and that is why a time of reflection was appealing.
The next set of blog posts are going to address the worries and personal struggles that sit heavy on my shoulders and occupy a large part of my thoughts and brain power. I want to expose my soul a bit and address the things I think about no matter if I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Ohio, meditating atop a mountain in New Zealand or sailing around sandy beaches in Thailand. My hopes, fears, and struggles go with me.
It was this latter pursuit that most attracted me because I felt that I’m in a pivotal point in my life that deserves some contemplation.
After about eight months on the road I haven’t become the person I want to be or materialized a life I’m satisfied with, and running away from the familiar hasn’t absolved me of issues and opened me to self discovery that I’d hoped the trying and personally revealing circumstances on the road would cure.
I haven’t discovered my dreams and passions that could be converted into a career; I’ve met people and seen places but I haven’t found romantic love or contentment; and I haven’t found an enjoyable way to improve my negative bank account or something that inspires an enduring passion. (Traveling has allowed me to see as many wonderful places and people and uncover attractive possibilities but there are deeper and longer lasting benefits and resolutions I want to secure.)
Reality is such that I have to make some decisions about the next chapter of my life, regardless of the personal growth and discovery yet to be achieved, and that is why a time of reflection was appealing.
The next set of blog posts are going to address the worries and personal struggles that sit heavy on my shoulders and occupy a large part of my thoughts and brain power. I want to expose my soul a bit and address the things I think about no matter if I’m sitting in a coffee shop in Ohio, meditating atop a mountain in New Zealand or sailing around sandy beaches in Thailand. My hopes, fears, and struggles go with me.
Thursday April 15, 2010 (Day 9)
Its 3 p.m., the sun is out, the wind is calm and we are in a protected anchorage in the north end of Nias, so the boat isn’t rocking. I could almost forget that I’m on a boat except that I can’t leave.
When I woke this morning at 6:30 a.m. it was raining and a strong southwesterly wind was blowing, which is only a problem if you need to travel southwest. Now the weather is improved, but leaving is no longer an option because the next stop is 11 hours away and traveling and anchoring at night isn’t a favorable option.
(The distance of other boats is difficult to judge at night, and Indonesia is plagued with floating logs from the densely wooded islands that are impossible to see in the dark.)
To pass the time I have watched two movies, snacked, read, wrote and listened to an hour of news by the BBC. There are 7 hours left in my day.
Kevin and I are isolated on 32 feet of boat because going ashore isn’t an option for two reasons. The first and main reason is we aren’t legally permitted to be in Indonesian waters until May 1 and going ashore will likely provoke interest among the locals and potentially cause us problems if any officials, known for their corruption, curiosity and want of bribery, ask for paperwork. Second, the dingy, which is the small inflatable and motorized boat used to get to and from the sail boat, is stowed on deck and even if it was in the water where would I go?
It’s a lazy day, one that doesn’t leave me feeling completely guilty for indulging in hours of mindless entertainment, because my options are limited. I’ve managed to get a bit of writing done, so my day doesn’t feel like a complete waste of time, but I can’t help but feel like sloth about once an hour – or at least between movies.
When I woke this morning at 6:30 a.m. it was raining and a strong southwesterly wind was blowing, which is only a problem if you need to travel southwest. Now the weather is improved, but leaving is no longer an option because the next stop is 11 hours away and traveling and anchoring at night isn’t a favorable option.
(The distance of other boats is difficult to judge at night, and Indonesia is plagued with floating logs from the densely wooded islands that are impossible to see in the dark.)
To pass the time I have watched two movies, snacked, read, wrote and listened to an hour of news by the BBC. There are 7 hours left in my day.
Kevin and I are isolated on 32 feet of boat because going ashore isn’t an option for two reasons. The first and main reason is we aren’t legally permitted to be in Indonesian waters until May 1 and going ashore will likely provoke interest among the locals and potentially cause us problems if any officials, known for their corruption, curiosity and want of bribery, ask for paperwork. Second, the dingy, which is the small inflatable and motorized boat used to get to and from the sail boat, is stowed on deck and even if it was in the water where would I go?
It’s a lazy day, one that doesn’t leave me feeling completely guilty for indulging in hours of mindless entertainment, because my options are limited. I’ve managed to get a bit of writing done, so my day doesn’t feel like a complete waste of time, but I can’t help but feel like sloth about once an hour – or at least between movies.
Tuesday April 6, 2010 (Day 1)
The anchor was pulled, the main sail was left down (no wind) and the diesel engine was started. By 7 a.m. we were pulling out of Chalong harbor in Phuket, Thialand and heading toward Sumatra, Indonesia.
It had been my second night and third day spent on Helena, Kevin’s sailboat, and my home on water for the next seven weeks.
Yesterday we checked out with the harbor master, immigration and customs and today we set sail (or rather motor).
We maneuvered through dozens of boats, passed rocky islands and a few hours later there was no land in sight. The sun was high and a familiar motion sickness feeling was keeping me quieter than usual, but Kevin maintained his end of conversation.
So far, between all my boating experiences, which includes the trip with Gary from Malaysia to Thailand and the countless ferries I’ve ridden, I’ve yet to experience full-on sea-sickness. I have not been incapacitated by ceaseless vomiting, pounding headaches or incessant sweating. Unfortunately, I do often in the middle of the afternoon, feel slightly nauseous, fatigued, severely aware of the heat, throbbing between my temples and a very strong desire to lie down in silence.
I’ve managed to will myself out of succumbing to the ill feelings, but I don’t feel like singing and dancing.
Tonight will be my first night watch because we are running for 48 hours nonstop and Kevin and I will rotate being awake through the next two nights. While on watch it’s important to make sure we are running on course and not getting hit or hitting other boats.
I’m not nervous about staying awake (my night shift is from 8 p.m. to 3 a.m.) but I am worried I will do something wrong like misread the GPS (thank goodness most sailors have upgraded to modern technology and rarely use paper charts and maps anymore!) or misjudge the distance of another boat? This is Kevin’s home, without insurance, and for seven hours I will be responsible for her wellbeing.
It had been my second night and third day spent on Helena, Kevin’s sailboat, and my home on water for the next seven weeks.
Yesterday we checked out with the harbor master, immigration and customs and today we set sail (or rather motor).
We maneuvered through dozens of boats, passed rocky islands and a few hours later there was no land in sight. The sun was high and a familiar motion sickness feeling was keeping me quieter than usual, but Kevin maintained his end of conversation.
So far, between all my boating experiences, which includes the trip with Gary from Malaysia to Thailand and the countless ferries I’ve ridden, I’ve yet to experience full-on sea-sickness. I have not been incapacitated by ceaseless vomiting, pounding headaches or incessant sweating. Unfortunately, I do often in the middle of the afternoon, feel slightly nauseous, fatigued, severely aware of the heat, throbbing between my temples and a very strong desire to lie down in silence.
I’ve managed to will myself out of succumbing to the ill feelings, but I don’t feel like singing and dancing.
Tonight will be my first night watch because we are running for 48 hours nonstop and Kevin and I will rotate being awake through the next two nights. While on watch it’s important to make sure we are running on course and not getting hit or hitting other boats.
I’m not nervous about staying awake (my night shift is from 8 p.m. to 3 a.m.) but I am worried I will do something wrong like misread the GPS (thank goodness most sailors have upgraded to modern technology and rarely use paper charts and maps anymore!) or misjudge the distance of another boat? This is Kevin’s home, without insurance, and for seven hours I will be responsible for her wellbeing.
Waste
Trash. We (man in general) create too much of it (I include myself in this generalization), and then we have to figure out what to do with it. I saw truck loads of trash littering the streets, parks, temples and rolling hills of Malaysia, Thailand and Cambodia (I don’t expect Indonesia to be much different), and now I’m living with my trash on a boat – no dump boats out here. Funny I don’t hesitate to create trash (or criticize others for creating and mismanaging theirs), but I sure don’t like to see it…I guess this is way civilized countries bury it in the ground, sink it in the sea or propose to shoot it into space (All great ideas in theory I’m sure. Too bad we can’t see the pollution and poison created by our waste.).
In addition to not being accustomed to living with my accumulated trash, I’m not used to handling it. At home I have a garbage collector who conveniently takes it away for me.
Here on the boat though most (not all!) trash is thrown into the ocean. (This was a difficult concept for me at first because I despise improper waste handling.) But in fact things like food scraps, paper, even aluminum can safely be tossed into the water without risk of polluting. Plastic, however, is put into garbage bags and tied to the deck, near the mast (the tall pole in the middle of the sailing boat), and carried on the boat until we reach a port where we can throw it away in a trash can (probably to turn up later on a beach or tossed into the jungle).
I’m doing my best to first reduce my waste, then recycle what I can and finally as a last resort I throw it in a plastic bag to be with us for the next month. I’m shocked how much trash two people can create!
Of course we create trash in ways I don’t normally at home.
Before living on the boat I didn’t consider toilet paper to be trash. It was flushed and dissolved down the toilet. Easy, efficient and thoughtless. The boat’s toilet can’t handle toilet paper, so it becomes trash – something that needs handled.
There are two ways of handling used toilet paper. First, my preferred technique, it can be tossed out the bathroom immediately after usage. Second, it must be thrown in a waste basket and dealt with later. The latter technique is used when we are moving, because if you try to throw toilet paper out a window of a moving boat it will fly back and potentially hit the captain in the face, which is exactly what I did.
One morning we were sailing along, and after doing my business I tossed my toilet paper out the window. Unfortunately it didn’t make it down to the water. It was caught in the wind and was caught flying from some mast lines (the lines coming down to the sides of the boat from the giant pole in the middle). The white flags were flapping in the breeze a few feet in front of Kevin when I, unknowingly, came above deck a few minutes later. Thank goodness they caught on the rope!
I’ve become much more aware and careful about handling my trash.
In addition to not being accustomed to living with my accumulated trash, I’m not used to handling it. At home I have a garbage collector who conveniently takes it away for me.
Here on the boat though most (not all!) trash is thrown into the ocean. (This was a difficult concept for me at first because I despise improper waste handling.) But in fact things like food scraps, paper, even aluminum can safely be tossed into the water without risk of polluting. Plastic, however, is put into garbage bags and tied to the deck, near the mast (the tall pole in the middle of the sailing boat), and carried on the boat until we reach a port where we can throw it away in a trash can (probably to turn up later on a beach or tossed into the jungle).
I’m doing my best to first reduce my waste, then recycle what I can and finally as a last resort I throw it in a plastic bag to be with us for the next month. I’m shocked how much trash two people can create!
Of course we create trash in ways I don’t normally at home.
Before living on the boat I didn’t consider toilet paper to be trash. It was flushed and dissolved down the toilet. Easy, efficient and thoughtless. The boat’s toilet can’t handle toilet paper, so it becomes trash – something that needs handled.
There are two ways of handling used toilet paper. First, my preferred technique, it can be tossed out the bathroom immediately after usage. Second, it must be thrown in a waste basket and dealt with later. The latter technique is used when we are moving, because if you try to throw toilet paper out a window of a moving boat it will fly back and potentially hit the captain in the face, which is exactly what I did.
One morning we were sailing along, and after doing my business I tossed my toilet paper out the window. Unfortunately it didn’t make it down to the water. It was caught in the wind and was caught flying from some mast lines (the lines coming down to the sides of the boat from the giant pole in the middle). The white flags were flapping in the breeze a few feet in front of Kevin when I, unknowingly, came above deck a few minutes later. Thank goodness they caught on the rope!
I’ve become much more aware and careful about handling my trash.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
