The Limits Of Solitude
Sometimes you need more than a beautiful anchorage...
When I arrived at Nonsuch Bay and dropped the anchor more than 8 days ago, I cannot adequately describe the sense of relief and happiness I felt. I had loads of space around me. The surrounding reefs knocked most of the chop down, so Laughing Gull settled in to a slight bobble, with very little roll. I had a completely open view to the horizon, which meant the brisk winds flowed to and past me uninterrupted. It was the picture postcard definition of a great anchorage.
That high persisted over the days that followed. I read a great book (Richard Powers’ Playground), and started another (Kate Raworth’s Donut Economics). I got some writing done. I hacked my way through a few items on my list of boat jobs (serviced windlass, cleaned water strainer screens, continued my seemingly endless quest to eliminate the tiny leak in my dinghy floor, etc etc). I watched flocks of wing and kite foilers race blast around the bay. I skinny-dipped and showered naked on the transom (that’s how you know you are in a remote spot). I sipped coffee with the sunrise (accompanied by Bach, Mozart and Beethoven). I drank beer with the sunset (accompanied by John Coltrane, Miles Davis, and Thelonious Monk).
When you spend time in an anchorage, you come to learn its nuances. I was initially anchored out in the open spaces between reefs, the “rural” part of the anchorage. The swanky downtown was not far away, tucked into tiny West Bay, on the lee side of Green Island, which is owned by the exclusive Mill Reef Club. The breeze still whistles through West Bay, but the water there is very flat, making for an even more peaceful experience. It is popular, of course, with no room for more than 5 or 6 boats. When a spot opened up four days ago, I pulled my anchor and moseyed over to see what that neighborhood was like.
One calm morning I jumped on my paddleboard and went around to the west side of Green Island, where there was supposed to be some good snorkeling off a nice beach. When I arrived it looked like paradise, and one happy Frenchman on a catamaran had it all to himself. I left my paddleboard on the beach, near a very unfriendly Mill Reef sign promising surveillance and consequences for any trespassers, and swam out to the reef. Like most reefs I see these days, it was depressing. Some fish. A few fans. But mostly dead and dying coral. The contrast with what Caribbean reefs looked like when I first started snorkeling them 50 years ago could not be more stark.
Disappointed, I swam back to the beach. As I arrived, three boats with about 50 hopeful tourist pulled in to swim the ravaged reef. Good luck, I thought and paddled away. As I passed the Frenchman we both smiled ruefully. His private paradise was no longer private.
It was all pretty sweet. Except for one thing. It was mostly just me and Laughing Gull, and I had very little interaction with other members of my species. Now, I love being aboard LG for stretches at a time. But after about 6 days I felt off. It took a bit of self-diagnosis to identify my malady because my objective circumstances were so perfect. But eventually I knew what it was. I was coming down with a touch of loneliness. It wasn’t a severe, debilitating, case, more like a slight headache or cold that leaves you feeling just a tinge of discomfort. But perhaps it would get worse. Over the course of my solo rustication I had traveled day by day from splendid solitude into a less splendid zone of isolation. I needed more than natural beauty and passing squalls, I realized. I needed human company. Maybe it was time to go back to the “city.”
Part of me was relieved to learn that there was a limit to how much alone time I can enjoy. Not needing or wanting the company of others is the key gateway to full-fledged hermit-dom. I like that I can be alone. I also like that I still fit within poet John Donne’s frame:
No man is an island,
Entire of itself;
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
I may not want to live full-time on the continent. And I may seek to be a piece of the ocean world. But I am still part of the “main” (sorry, John, I get what you mean but I think the poet in you could have found a better word).
I lingered another day or two because West Bay was so pleasant. And I got a microdose of socializing by swimming through my neighborhood and talking with other crews. Two nearby charter catamarans were packed with a large group of very jolly Poles, who sunbathed, kitesurfed, partied, and shouted happily at each other across the water. Another catamaran, called Cloudbase, lacked a mast. The nice couple aboard explained that the boat had been on the hard in Granada during last year’s hurricane and the winds had ripped the spar from the deck. They were on their way, with their friendly dog, to St. Maarten, to pick up a replacement.
Still, I wanted more than casual conversation while dog paddling. So back to Gomorrah I sailed. Falmouth is still full of superyachts. Black Pearl is still anchored across the entrance channel. I won’t stay long, and a friend from Chicago will join me later this week for a mini-cruise. But all Gomorrahs have their pleasures. This one still has good pizza, good cocktails, and plenty of good company. Last night I enjoyed all three. It was just what I needed.
What I Am Reading (and Listening To):
1) This is a really good summary of why individual action matters, and why it can help bring about large-scale change and impact:
According to the organization Project Drawdown, which advances climate solutions, individual and household actions taken together — from reducing food waste to installing LED lighting — have the potential to produce about 25 percent to 30 percent of the reductions in greenhouse emissions needed to avoid the extremely dangerous aspects of climate change.
That is a surprising and hopeful insight. But how to motivate individuals to take action, and achieve some sort of scale? This is what social science says:
Of six interventions to change people’s behaviors, the study found, providing data or information was the least successful, while financial incentives like rebates, coupons and fines can make a difference.
But research has also found that social comparisons — what are my friends and neighbors doing? — had the biggest effect: When customers were told how their utility use compared to their neighbors’, the higher users often decreased their consumption by one to two percent. And with solar panels, people are persuaded to install them if they see them on their neighbors’ rooftops.
So don’t eco-splain (which I guess I do quite a bit of). Social contagion can do the job. But it needs early adopters, pioneers, to get things going.
2) Maybe a good, impactful, individual action would be for people to take Iceland off their bucket list (no one should have a bucket list in these times, but Iceland does seem to appear on many). This is infuriating, sad, and completely unnecessary:
Iceland has issued a new five-year license to hunt hundreds of whales in their waters each year, boldly reaffirming its controversial stance on whaling.
The Icelandic Ministry of Food and Agriculture announced this week it had granted licenses that allow annual catches of 209 fin whales and 217 minke whales during the whaling season, which runs from June to September. The permits are granted for five years with annual extensions, allowing up to 20 percent of unused quotas to roll over.
The license for fin whales was given to Hvalur hf, the largest Icelandic commercial whaling company, while the minke whales can be hunted by a trawler owned by Tjaldtangi ehf.
Fin whales are listed as vulnerable on the IUCN Red List. Measuring up to 25 meters (85 feet) in length, they are the second-largest animal on Earth in terms of length, second only to the blue whale.
Minke whales are the smallest of the "great whales", measuring around 7 to 9 meters (22 to 29 feet) in length. Although they are not at risk of extinction, there are serious ethical concerns about the way they are hunted, as with fin whales.
3. For a more uplifting story about a whale in Icelandic waters, check out the latest season of the podcast Serial, which chronicles the dramatic story of Keiko:
In the summer of 1993, the movie “Free Willy” — about a captive killer whale that’s heroically set free — was an unexpected hit. But when word got out that the real whale who played Willy, an orca named Keiko, was dangerously sick and stuck in a tiny pool at an amusement park in Mexico City, the public was outraged. If Warner Bros. wanted to avoid a P.R. nightmare and not break the hearts of children everywhere, then it was clear: Someone had to free Keiko — or at least try.
So you want to be a wildlife photographer?
(Click here, or image below, to see a great series of photos):
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