Even though I didn’t return from my trip with a kabillion hours of footage, I still have piles of video to sort. I’ve been converting files slowly in my free time, in anticipation of making one beefy trip doc-ish thing (sort of). Last Saturday I was sifting through deee-lightful scenes of mid-Atlantic swim calls and acrobatic rope swing stunts from the Picton Castle foreyard, when at MIDNIGHT I concluded that it would be a “good idea” to throw something together. You know… the mood and/or inspiration hits, and what you gon’ do ’bout it? (Besides do something about it.) At 6am I had this:

Good-bye ocean life, hello work life. I’m getting back on my grind; recently I’ve been collaborating with Tanjola Brands for an upcoming artist named Veronica. They’ll be releasing behind-the-scenes videos of her recording process, but first wanted to post something more playful. Soooo Veronica shot a lip dub in her parents’ car and I added some animate-y spice. Fun.

[Written in March 2011 while crossing the Atlantic]

Here’s why my best friend is awesome: she gave me a zombie hunting t-shirt for Christmas. It’s no secret that I’ve got a healthy (?) fascination with all things zombie, and a t-shirt that says, “Intramural Zombie Hunting League” on the front, is covered in zombie hand prints and adorned with my last name on the back… wellsir, in my world that’s a perfect gift. Lookit this thing:

When I opened the present, I shrieked in both delight and horror. Hannah presented it to me as something I could use on the ship, and I could not fathom such a thing of beauty getting filthed up. “That’s why I got it for you!” she said. Her mother declared that with such a shirt, people would run screaming from me and/or think I’m a lunatic. I scoffed. If anything, I thought, these are the things that might happen: 1. People give me high fives and we proceed to discuss zombie movies; 2. People ask me, “what the eff’s up with your shirt?” and I slap them heartily across the face, or 3. I am deemed Queen of the Picton Castle on account of my super sweet tee.

You know what I didn’t foresee? The thing that actually happened, that’s what. I waited until we set sail to break out the zombie tank, in celebration of a voyage in motion. I strutted on deck with my be-splattered frock, waiting for the accolades to rain down upon me. Instead, silence. You know why? BECAUSE EVERYONE ELSE IS COVERED IN PAINT, TOO. To the crew, I was just another paint job gone awry. A few people asked me what I was painting in red. A couple others pointed out that I had a handprint on my boob. Eventually the scant few zombie inclined on board mentioned that I look like I’ve been in a zombie fight, and I practically asked them to marry me.

Since those early days, I’m proud to say that my zombie tee is now decorated with tar, other shades of paint, grease and more tar. These are the markings of a deckhand hard at work; with no discernible future in zombie hunting, I’ll be happy to walk away with that title instead.

PS: Just a friendly reminder to put some thought into your zombie escape plan if you haven’t already.

[This post was originally written for the Picton Castle Captain's Log. You can find it there, but I wanted to post it as part of my records here as well.]

So there we are: a rogue crew of 7, bobbing in a lazy circle not far from Antigua. Just us and an engine-less Carriacou Sloop called “Good Expectation,” which we had previously believed was called “Great Expectations.” We had been floating in approximately the same position for 24 hours. The wind? Taking a vacation somewhere else. The sea? Glass. Our morale? AMAZING – because we were about to crack frosty beers on a sunny day.

Let’s rewind. It’s Thursday morning in Antigua and the Picton Castle crew are doing their Picton Castle thing. Tidy up, hoist the small boats, prepare the ship for departure. Just as I had finished flexing my bulging ladypirate muscles while single-handedly hauling the rescue boat into position (ok, I admit that another 20 people may have been involved), Mate Mike summoned me to the bridge. If you aren’t aware, trainees such as myself are normally not to set foot on **~~The Bridge~~**, which is a lookout spot exclusively reserved for Captain and the Mates. Naturally, I concluded that I must be in trouble.

6 of us stood wide-eyed as Mate Mike presented a scenario to us: our mission was to deliver a Carriacou Sloop to St. Barth, with a stop-over in Anguilla; the sail would take about 2 days. Were we interested in joining as crew? Um…. how about YESYESYES.

We immediately gathered provisions and necessary cargo. Food for several days, propane, water, dishes, passports. A change of clothes, camera, notepad. Also beer and ice (very important). 45 minutes later we were stepping on board our new (temporary) home.

Soon we were out on the open water, waving buh-bye to our Picton crewmates, celebrating the adventure ahead of us. There was Mate Mike, the brains behind the operation and all-around sailing guru. Paula and Katelinn; Picton pro crew, back-up brains and bada** ladies. Davey and Fred; bros, brawn and skill. Me: slightly nerdy, very clumsy trainee with 2 months sailing experience. And bonus crew member Ollie, the bonvivant who would be documenting our expedition. Smells like a sitcom?

We’re screaming along at a terrifying 2 knots, smiling like fools. We’re free, baby! This is living! This is the stuff dreams are made of! And then… nothing. The wind takes an extended coffee break and leaves us staring at Montserrat, an active volcano, several miles off our port quarter. Antigua looms behind us and a tiny island called Radonda peeks from the horizon dead ahead. The calm does not faze us – we jump in the water and open chilled beverages, then eat dinner while watching one of the most spectacular sunsets I’ve seen with these virgin eyes. Katelinn pulls out her viiolin and we sit in a content post-supper haze, and life seems perfect.

Oh, wait. Speaking of Katelinn, let’s focus for a moment on this lady’s genius. With Paula’s assistance, she rescued a propane tank SANS REGULATOR into something workable using only chopsticks, duct tape, a latex glove and small empty tube of sunscreen. People of earth, because of these modern day McGuivers’ brains and persistence, we were able to eat hot food on Good Expectation. Praise Neptune, hallelujah.

I’ll spare you from the hourly logging of our 2 day bobbing session, but let it be known that we floated on glass for practically 48 hours. Antigua jeered, Montserrat blew its smoke with Parisien arrogance and Radonda remained as a mere chocolate chip on the horizon. Ollie stood at the bow, all 7 feet of him, and called out, “heeeere puffy wuffy!” Fred and Paula dove underneath the hull to remove a seaweed beard that had grown in the harbour. We took naps to avoid blistered lips (and also because we could). We took down the mainsail and put up the awning. We jumped in the water for multiple swim calls (Paula avec coffee). We rationed Heinekens so that a) they wouldn’t disappear in one foul swoop and b) they would be much more exciting to drink as a reward for our patience. We weren’t going anywhere, but we were relaxed and we were happy.

Then… DAY THREE. MAGIC. The wind found us overnight and by jove, we were moving! Sayonara, Antigua! See ya never, Montserrat!** Davey was prepping the fishing lines and he asked me what the catch of the day should be? We agreed that mahi mahi would be best. No lie – the guy hadn’t even finished tying the lines when he called, “FISH ON??” Somehow – whether it was brute strength or sheer determination – the boys hauled a massive mahi up on deck, which proceeded to flop violently and desperately… straight into our cockpit. Mate Mike tackled it like a rodeo ninja and … well, I’ll spare you the details, but 5 minutes later he and Davey were fileting a 40ish pound mahi mahi.

Oh, sweet bliss. Soon I was scarfing down the best galdang fish I’ve probably ever eaten – Mike fried it up with some oil, salt and pepper – and by day’s end, the 7 of us ate pretty much the entire thing (please, hold your applause). Other things that were awesome: we were speeding by St. Kitt’s & Nevis; a whale surfaced to say hello; we had decided to go directly to St. Barth aaaand once again our evening concluded with a violin serenade. Ladies and gents, this was a perfect day.

The next morning we sailed triumphantly into Gustavia Harbour, St. Barth. I imagined that the giant Beyonce yachts gazed at our charming dreamboat of a sloop with yearning in their eyes, for we had successfully spent three days experiencing a real ol’ fashioned sailing adventure. Our vessel was small but sturdy, we caught our own food, we slept under the stars on deck (or in a pile below), we used paper charts (gasp!), we had no engine and were therefore at the whim of the elements. It was epic.

After sailing gracefully to the dock (again, no engine required thankyouverymuch), we spent the next 5 days bumming around St. Barth before Picton Castle arrived. Some of us had no wallet, some of us had no shoes (aka: me), but all of us had an unforgettable time. Of course, that’s another story…

**This is actually a lie. On our passage from St. Barth to Carriacou I woke up early one morning to see Montserrat glowing behind us. I shook my fist, lovingly.

[This post was written on our 30-day crossing of the Atlantic Ocean]

Back in the days when I would traipse about my luxurious Toronto apartment with modern amenities such as flush toilets, a washing machine and a refridgerator, I would try to imagine what life would be like on a tallship. “Why, even using the little girls’ room would change dramatically!” I thought. Well, I was thinking like a pansy. Things are different, but the same. I’ve gone camping plenty of times in my life – I’ve used outhouses. Ship’s bathroooms are for royalty, compared to outhouses. If you need to whiz in the middle of the night, you climb out of your bunk, feel your way through the dark and do your business. No rocket science, no fuss, nothing ca-rayyyy-zy.

I used to also try and imagine what it would feel like to be in the middle of the ocean with nothing else around for hundreds of miles. I assumed that I would have moments of awe, one of those instances when you realize how small you are and how massive the universe is. As it turns out, so far it’s kind of the opposite. At all points of the day, we’re surrounded by a perfect 360 of ocean and sky, so to me it creates a dome effect; you can actually see the curvature of the earth. It feels like we’re in a gargantuan snow globe, and the Picton Castle is the centre of that world. At times I could see it even feeling claustrophobic, if that kind of thing bothered me.

It’s weird though, because for my entire life I’ve been surrounded by a constant buzz of changing landscapes and peripherals that influence the way my brain works. When we’re at sea, there are no passing people, buildings, billboards or vehicles. Until we reach land, it’s the same ocean and the same sky (with shifting weather conditions, of course). The only thing my brain has to focus on is this microcosm of a world on the ship: what I’m learning, the work we’re doing and the community of people I’ve met. It makes life so simple. Take away the constant barrage of distractions in every day life and you’re left with a simplicity that is exactly what I was hoping to find on this voyage.

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About an hour outside of Luderitz you will come across a vast plain that is known for its colony of wild horses. Do horses exist in colonies? I don’t know. I can tell you that a flock of crows is called a “murder”, but a mob of horses? Sorry bub. Anyway, like I said, murders of wild horses frolick on a roomy field outside of Luderitz, and 10 of us paid a local tour company 7 bucks each for a ride there.

But listen, this post isn’t about the horses. They were cool, sure. Their manes flowed in the breeze and with each **~~neigh~~** they seemed to say, “welcome, honored guest! Observe my gallant posture and handsome gallop!” A few shipmates got close enough to the baby horse to touch it, until mama bear came a-stormin’ through with revenge in her eyes. Don’t worry, nobody got destroyed. So yeahhh, pretty horses.

Also, the landscape was nothing to sneeze at. In fact, I was all over that landscape. On a scale from one to holy sh*t, it was spectacular. For the first time in my African visit, I was finally laying my eyes upon something that looked, you know… like Africa. It was vast. It was mountainous. It had trees. It was bush-y. It was grassy. It felt epic.

As I strolled along this gorgeous piece of land and exclaimed such things as, “oh mah gahd!!” and “wow. wowww. waoowww,” I stopped to take a snap of the aforementioned baby horse. Mmmseeeee:

Mid-snap, I heard a rustling below me, but was like, “boooorrrring”. Shipmate Sophie goes, “uh, there’s a snake at your feet,” and I look down to see this red and black bad boy slithering about my sneaks. I stepped back gingerly and raised my camera to capture the creature, but it was all, “EFF YOU, LADY!” Seriously. It reared its head and HISSED AT ME!! It wasn’t very big – maybe 15-20 inches maximum – but its head was shaped like a cobra. Very cool. I was like, “alright, alright, no pictures. I get it,” and it slinked into a hole. At this point you may be disappointed that I don’t have a picture to show you, but I can show you this:

Here’s where things get a little craayyzeh: 2 days later I opened a letter from Lila, which she had given to me before I left Toronto. Inside there was a work of art by her 2.7-year-old daughter Claire and an accompanying note. It said,

“When I asked Claire what she drew she said, ‘snakes.’ When I asked her what else, she replied, ‘snakes live in the desert.’ She’s very smart. At least you don’t have to worry about snakes on the boat!”

Here’s the kicker: the letter was dated for me to open on March 1. The day I almost got eaten by a bear-sized snake? MARCH 1. Thank you, and gooooood night.

[Note: This was written sometime in March during our Atlantic ocean passage.]

Guys. Guys. Guys. I am so happy right now, living the life of a sailor. Every time I stand with my face in the salty breeze, rainbows and kittens flow in my wake.** Like, come on – this Half-Dork-Half-Woman-of-Steel hybrid has officially crossed the Atlantic Ocean in a sailing ship! Don’t get it twisted though – as joyful as I may be, there are some things I started to miss A LOT after being at sea for a month straight. For example, I miss you a whole bunch. But besides that, it almost always comes down to food. Here is the approximate timeline of my hankerings:

5 days at sea: Wow, I could really use an apple right now.
9 days at sea: Man. A smoothie would go down reallll nice today.
14 days at sea: DID SOMEONE SAY SALAD? Vile temptress, you shut your mouth!
16 days at sea: Mango! Coconut! Passionfruit!! AVOCADO!!! AUGHH!!!
16.5 days at sea: ORANGES!! FROZEN GREEN GRAPES GAHD DAMMIT!!
19 days at sea: KaleSpinachCollardsBroccoliLettuce gimmegimmegimme…
21 days at sea: **all of the above in constant brain rotation**
26 days at sea: I will shoot somebody for some fresh produce and a pina colada right now.
30 days at sea: Carb induced coma. Can’t think.

Wait, let’s make one thing clear: the ship’s cook is spectacular. He makes delicious food, he is amazing about catering to dietary needs and he can do a fajillion things with rice. His name is Donald and we love him to bits. Here’s Donald:

It’s just… you see, produce has a short life expectancy. And it’s not long before fresh supplies run out and your meals consist of the trusty ol’ carb-carb-meat combination. Sometimes carb-carb-carb-meat. Don’t forget the canned vegetables (we consume a lot of canned beets and pea/carrot mixes). And for snacks? Crackers, peanut butter, nutella, cereal and ramen noodles. Now, while I highly endorse a cracker slathered with Peebs & Nutella, I will almost certainly retire its consumption post-sail.

FUN FACT: did you know that you can extend the life of an egg by coating it with Vaseline? It’s true, wise guy.

Among the shining lights of dietary goodness on the ship is the beacon of nutritional superiority: FRESH FISH. Yes my friends, we be catchin mad scales up on this tall ship. Tuna! Mahi mahi! Wahoo! (I’m saying “wahoo” as in the fish, not as in the expression of joy. The name really pulls a double duty.) Donald is a master of fish preparation and I have been thoroughly spoiled by the freshest filets I have ever consumed in my LIFE.

Yep – I’m happy as a clam on this here barque. And sometimes I thank the stars that it’s not 1887 and I’m chowing down on god knows what… ye olde ham bone? Dry flour? Nutella and peanut butter are luxuries – and I’m thankful that I’ve got ANY food to stuff down my dirty maw.

**(Well, almost every time. We all have our cranky-pants days. Like this one time when it was 3:15am and I was sleeeeeeeeepy and it had been raining since I took the deck at 12am and the rain JUST WOULDN’T STOP and it was pelting down at a 45 degree angle and seeping through my foulies and I kept chanting, “bed bed bed bed bed bed bed bed… bedbedbedbedbedbed!! CHARGE!!!!!” Only instead of “CHARGE!” I said “BED!” but just now I wrote “CHARGE!” so that you could imagine how my chant sounded. But the next night there were 2 superheroes who made peanut butter chocolate morale brownies and that was probably the best night watch ever.)

[Don't worry, our pasta was only green on St. Patty's Day.]

What’s the best place you’ve ever gone swimming, huh? A lake? Puh!! Hawaii? Yawn. A magical pool of healing water in ancient Rome? Meh. Guess who’s been frolicking in 10,000 foot deep waters of the south Atlantic? THIS GYAL.

Rewind. On our first day anchored at St. Helena, I discovered one of the many great joys of sailing aboard the Picton Castle: SWIM CALLS. After a day of work, our boss man took a look around, saw that the harbour water was nice & clean and he declared that the Pool Is Open (!!). The swimsuits were donned, the rope swing secured and the cameras poised to shoot.

Just as I was about to leap off the side (a paltry 4-5 foot drop), Mate Paul “Jet” Bracken announced that for my first time, I must jump off the jib boom. Now, I’m sure he wasn’t 100% serious, but a challenge is a challenge and I was not about to look like a sissy. I don’t know how high the jib boom is, but to give you an idea, here’s a photo of the ship (thank you, Google):

I gingerly made my way out on the headrig and stood up on the jib boom. I looked down below at the water and gulped; in that moment it seemed to be barfingly far away. I knew it wasn’t, but when a person starts to psych themselves out in the head, sh*t gets out of hand. I stood there for what seemed like ages but was probably about 3 minutes. Shipmates started egging me on from the water, which of course increased both the pressure and the weight of the situation. In my head I was saying, “come on, you pansy. You are going to be fine,” but my feet were not moving. Finally, tired of looking like a princess I took a breath and stepped off. Of COURSE it was awesome, of COURSE it was fun! It just goes to show you how your head can make a mountain out of a molehill, and you have to get over that or drown in it.

Now, about this 10,000 feet of ocean. One week later we’re sailing again (3 days off the coast of St. Helena), and it’s a Sunday. Sundays mean NO SHIP’S WORK! and also sometimes mean MARLINSPIKE!, which is a fancy word for crew party. That morning I heard rumours that a mid-Atlantic swim call might be announced, and sure enough, a few hours later the sign was posted.

Captain gathered us at midships and made some announcements. There shall be 2 lookouts at all times, watching for sharks and jellyfish. Jumping off the lower yard is permitted. Do not swim around the ship. Now go, and be (mostly) free.

The line for the rope swing was 10 people deep in an instant. I rigged up my waterproof headcam while boys competed to see who could do the most flips in the air. Some brave souls jumped off the yard while others floated around nonchalantly on pool toys. It was slightly mind-boggling to imagine what lay in the depths beneath us but nobody seemed fazed by it, even as a Potuguese Man O’ War floated by. (One of the more dangerous jellyfish; everyone got out of the water to let it pass).

Satisfied with our dog paddles (me), rope swing flips (not me) and high jumps (also not me), we climbed out of the water and cracked beers while we lay in wait for supper. Shortly afterward we dined on grilled mahi-mahi (caught that morning), and springbok hunted by Mate Paul in Africa. As an aside, if you’ve been wondering if I’m happy on this voyage, the answer is yesssssss.

It only takes 5 minutes on a ship to learn that these pirates speak a different language, maytey.** Thankfully after about 2-3 days of hazy-eyed confusion, it’s simple to catch on.

First of all, never say anything in full. Words must be shortened, lest you walk the plank. For example, how would YOU say, “mainsail”? If you were me 3 months ago, you would say, “main sail.” WRONG, LANDLUBBER!!! From henceforth you shall say, “mains’l.” This pattern continues shipwide: forecastle = foc’s'le. Topsail = tops’l. Topgallant = t’gallant. Jib boom = j’boom.

Second of all, there are words and phrases that become part of your every day language, and if you use alternatives that are similar, you will be scorned for weeks. Instead of saying, “stop,” sailors declare, “avast!” When an action is sufficiently performed, we announce, “that’s well.” When we’re hauling on something heavy, we ensure involved parties are working together by chanting, “2, 6!”

In the beginning, I made the grave mistake of calling my new home a boat. Ladies and gentlemen, the Picton Castle is no BOAT. The Picton Castle is a SHIP!! Duh. The monomoy (rowing boat) is a boat. Your grandmother’s Chrysler is a boat. This 179 foot picture of grace and beauty is a SHIP. Do not follow in my footsteps, dear person you.

We do not use the “bathroom”, or the “washroom”, or the “toilet”, or the “loo.” We use the “head.” We do NOT go “downstairs,” we “go below.” Stairs are ladders. Ceilings are overheads. Walls are bulkheads. Fore, aft, port and starboard. Galley, scullery, fiddley and mess. Clew up. Sheet home. Wake up at 0715. Almost all of these things were previously foreign to me and have since become part of my hourly lexicon. So if I come back to landlubber life and start saying things like, “excuse me, I’ve got to use the head” or maybe, “that’s well” when you pour me a frosty bev, then please just roll with it. I’m a sailor now – deal wit it.

** Nobody ever actually says the word, “maytey”.