by David and Daniel Hays


JAMAICA TO PANAMA

A true specimen of Cape Horn was coming upon us . . .
The sails were stiff and wet, the ropes and rigging
covered with snow and sleet, and we ourselves cold
and nearly blinded with the violence of the storm.
—Richard Henry Dana, Two Years Before the Mast


Day 78: Jamaica, waiting for Dad. I'm on the dock. Three days of chores and
Sparrow is spotless. Without the motion of the boat at sea, my body itself has
no work and it's out of tune. So, I'm sitting here, I mean I'm sitting here,
waiting for inspiration on the dock, sick of the leather-and-salt-spray smell of
the cabin. I'm writing a journal, and I'm waiting for inspiration. Instead, I
have rum. Another shot of courage and still I wait—warmer—wait—I grin! I've
gotten us here! This perfect boat, which I made and sailed. I've got it all down
on paper, all seventy-eight days of this voyage so far, from a shaky start in
New London on to right here. Two thousand seven hundred and forty-two sea miles.
Now I've had three punches of rum, and the edges are fuzzing a bit so I'm not so
"present" with my various neuroses. But not to worry—if I go away a bit, when I
come back I'll probably still fit into them. Basically I'm looking at my
bellybutton, and nothing's happening, and I feel ucky with what I call land
dirt. "Ucky" is not the sort of passion to inspire much creative writing. Let
some beauty walk up to me, point and then laugh — now that would inspire me. But
all I've got is barking dogs, crickets, and a greasy bellybutton.

Highlights of the last two weeks:
1. Getting "busted" by six Coast Guard cops armed to the teeth while drifting in
the Windward (windless) Passage between Cuba and Haiti. A helicopter circled, a
150-foot cutter sliced up, and six Coast Guard cops
boarded me from a rubber boat. I got a ticket for not having a bell — which I
later found out I'm not required to have. They were just disappointed at not
finding drugs, Cubans, or Rastafarians.

2. Swimming with porpoises the day I spotted Jamaica. They x-rayed me
with their sonar; I could feel it bouncing on my bones. A couple jumped over me
and I almost touched a family.

3. Customs in Port Royal. The customs agent had a long "coke nail" (to scoop
cocaine into your nose, usually a pinky nail, and, as in this case, painted red) and
when I said, "No drugs," he said, "Come on, really?"

4. Right now — being drunk. Not so much a highlight but dizzily fun anyway.
It frightens me that I'm twenty-four and not a little boy. I don't want it at
all. Seems like I always need to have something in my life bigger than me to be
committed to or I'll go nuts.


At least the moon's getting bigger every night. And really, dammit, what's so
important about being adult, about being "Daniel"? What if one of my best
friends — Joe, or Glenn — says, "Do this, Dan." I will if he means it. Even if
he's wrong, my doing it strengthens us both. Mistrust eats at the soul. It makes
me mad. Is being Daniel worth dying for? I want a cause, a quest. In the
meantime I'll do anything. Sail.
Sartre said that the fear a man walking along a cliff experiences is not that he
might lose his balance and fall, but that he might jump—that he sees how in one
moment he could choose such an action, so un-wishy-washy. Even when I was small
I knew I could walk on the yellow line of a road for miles, but raise it even
four inches and call it a railroad track and after years of practice I still
fall off every hundred feet or so. What fear!

Can you imagine the power all bottled up in beliefs? If I let them go, what
could I do?

I just tried to sit up and had the fun experience of rolling onto my back
despite what my brain tried to tell my muscles. I've a grin a two-by-four
couldn't wipe off, and I suppose if a girl came by I'd have the courage to say
hello.

Glimpsing into my soul—terrible things to keep alone— 'cause they're naturally
not—takes a lot of work to create the illusion—even Shakespeare—or, God forbid,
Freud did not imagine—if you think you're different, you're a dummy. Oh boy,
that rum. I give up on writing and have to face a sailboat (moving) that I lurch
onto; I must jump and secure a bed for the darkness of sleep, and now I can't
tell if the boat's moving or if it's just me . . .
DAY 79: 1 am of the opinion that the best thing for a hangover is to fool your
stomach; I am preparing a huge greasy breakfast of fresh Jamaica eggs, potatoes,
onions, and A.I sauce—all overpowering. The tummy (I use that awful word only
because Dad says it's unbearable)—the tummy goes, "Hey, I thought we were 'out'
today, but—um— OK," and you're better. The family flies in today.

On Fri, 06 Nov 2009 02:52:32 -0600, cavelamb
wrote:

ven when I was small
I knew I could walk on the yellow line of a road for miles, but raise it even
four inches and call it a railroad track and after years of practice I still
fall off every hundred feet or so. What fear!

Nitpick. You mean a rail. Two rails, a bunch of ties, and the
necessary clearances above and beside them, is a track.

Casady

On Nov 6, 1:52 am, cavelamb wrote:
by David and Daniel Hays

JAMAICA TO PANAMA
snip-

Writes very well for a twenty-four year old. Present company excluded,
of course. Tom

tom wrote:
On Nov 6, 1:52 am, cavelamb wrote:
by David and Daniel Hays

JAMAICA TO PANAMA
snip-

Writes very well for a twenty-four year old. Present company excluded,
of course. Tom

It gets better, too.
I couldn't put it down last night.