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  Swell

  A Sailing Surfer’s Voyage of Awakening

  At Patagonia, we publish a collection of books that reflect our pursuits and our values—books on wilderness, outdoor sports, innovation, and a commitment to environmental activism.

  copyright 2018 Patagonia Works

  Text © Liz Clark

  All photograph copyrights are held by the photographer as indicated in captions.

  Portions of this text were previously published in other forms.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from publisher and copyright holders. Requests should be emailed to [email protected] or mailed to Patagonia Books, Patagonia Inc., 259 W. Santa Clara St., Ventura, CA 93001-2717.

  FIRST EDITION

  Editor – Sharon AvRutick

  Book Designer – Mary Jo Thomas

  Photo Editor – Jenning Steger

  Project Manager – Jennifer Patrick

  Production – Rafael Dunn, Monique Martinez

  Creative Director – Bill Boland

  Creative Advisor – Jennifer Ridgeway

  Illustrations – Daniella Manini

  Publisher – Karla Olson

  Printed in Canada on 100 percent post-consumer recycled paper

  Hardcover ISBN 978-1-938340-54-3

  E-Book ISBN 978-1-938340-55-0

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017958742

  COVER Captain Liz and Swell. JIANCA LAZARUS

  OPENING SHOT “When will you begin that long deep journey into yourself?” – Rumi. JIANCA LAZARUS

  BACK COVER Anchor’s down, surf’s up. Ready for sea on my skin after

  three days of upwind sailing. JIANCA LAZARUS

  In loving memory of

  Dr. Arent H. ‘Barry’ Schuyler,

  forever my sailing companion.

  To my beloved father,

  Russell J. Clark, for always

  believing in me.

  And for my dearest soulmate,

  Amelia the Tropicat,

  may we meet again soon.

  Contents

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  BOAT DIAGRAM

  1 La Capitana

  2 Livin’ the Dream

  3 Buena Manifestación

  Gallery 1

  4 Blue Mountains Constantly Walking

  5 Wind in My Hair

  6 Precious Teachers

  Gallery 2

  7 Autonomy Afar

  8 The Boatyard

  9 Tube Trials

  Gallery 3

  10 Revelations

  11 Darkness and Light

  12 Vahine

  Gallery 4

  “At sea, I learned how little a person needs, not how much.” – Robin Lee Graham. JIANCA LAZARUS

  “If you have built castles in the sky, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be. Now put the foundations under them.” – H.D. Thoreau. SHANNON SWITZER SWANSON

  “Adventure is worthwhile in itself.” – Amelia Earhart. JODY MACDONALD

  All in, determined to learn the art of backside tube riding. JEFF JOHNSON

  “A good traveler has no fixed plans and is not intent on arriving.” – Lao Tzu. SHANNON SWITZER SWANSON

  Climbing like a local after months of practice. CHRIS MCGEOUGH

  Broken autopilot, busted wind vane equal long hours at the helm. JIANCA LAZARUS

  Learning to sail in San Diego Bay, age eight. RUSSELL CLARK

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  I’ve come to believe that pursuing our dreams is as important to fulfilling our souls as it is to creating a better world. Doing so taps into a power greater than our own, allowing us to break free from perceived limitations. A path opens toward our highest Self and a daring kind of spiritual freedom and connectedness that could collectively transform the world. Each of us has a unique journey that is ours to claim. My hope is that by sharing both my inner and outer voyages on these pages, you will be inspired to listen more closely to the yearnings of your heart, to face your inner dragons, and to decide to choose love over fear, again and again.

  Specific locations have been left out of this book because I believe the greatest inspiration comes not from a road map or waypoint, but from igniting the imagination to what is possible.

  La

  Capitana

  Don’t Give Up the Ship

  It’s still so close. Should I just go back?

  Reflections bend and weave across the dark, surging sea. I sit on the aft deck with my legs hanging over the rail, looking toward the glowing coastline. It’s nearly midnight, chilly and silent. Swell rocks gently at anchor at a small island just south of the United States–Mexico border. City lights halo San Diego and Tijuana. A mere thirty miles of ocean separate me from the safety of the wooden dock we were tied to a few hours ago. I wiped away tears after casting off Swell’s lines and watching a handful of my dearest loved ones gradually blend into the hazy winter skyline in our wake. Today is the thirtieth of January 2006, two weeks short of three years since acquiring this sailboat.

  I blink with fatigue as I try to convince myself to feel excited and proud after the seemingly endless preparation. But my fear and anxiety don’t want to negotiate. My inner turmoil seems written in the sky. To the north: light, familiarity, comfort, safety, family. To the south: dark, unknown, doubt.

  I’ve been dreaming of this voyage all my life, but I’m a wreck of nerves. It’s not rogue waves or pirates I’m worrying about—it’s the thought of failure. The horizons are calling. I want to sail away, surf remote breaks, learn from other cultures, find happiness and a better way to live in harmony with nature, but what if I make a stupid mistake? What if someone gets hurt? What if I’m not strong enough in mind or body? How would I ever get over the disappointment of failing myself and everyone who has helped me? Dread rises, tightening my throat as I think about the countless people who have supported me in getting to this moment. I imagine myself hiding somewhere in the desert rather than facing them with the news that I’ve run aground or hit a reef. Yes, I should go back and do some more reasonable sea trials before I sail off for good.

  A sea lion abruptly breaks the sea surface below my feet. He twirls and loops just under the water, spinning glittery ribbons of neon phosphorescence through the dark sea. He swoops and frolics, carefree and confident. My shoulders relax a bit.

  Whirling eights and spirals, my visitor mocks my intense mood. “This is what you wanted,” he appears to say—loop, swoop. “To live in the present ... appreciate nature’s simple wonders ... feel free.”

  He comes up for a breath and stares at me, as if awaiting a response. I know, I know ... I can’t go back. The seasonal window to sail south is closing. I just have to do my best and take the challenges as they come. I’m petrified, but there isn’t anything else I’d rather be doing.

  The sea lion’s bright trail dances off into the darkness.

  “Don’t give up the ship!” I call, imitating Barry during our goodbyes.

  December 1989, Baja California

  “It’s time, Sweetie,” Dad whispers, stroking my back. I roll out of my bunk and follow him past the engine room, into the main cabin of our family sailboat. It’s 3 am.

  He unfolds the chart for Baja and spreads it on the navigation table.

  “So here’s where we are,” he says in a whisper, pointing to a small penciled X. “And here’s where we’re going.”

  He points to a small island off the coast. I blink my sleepy eyes.

  “Let’s measure the distance first,” he says, handing me the dividers.

  I spread the bronze tips and hold them to the side of the chart, adjusting them until they measure exactly twenty-five nautical miles, as Dad taught me. He then lines up the parallel
rulers between the two points. I walk the divider tips along the rulers, making sure not to alter the distance between them.

  “One, two, three, four, and a little more,” I count softly.

  “Okay, so what’s four times twenty-five?”

  I use a scratch paper to do the multiplication, carrying the two. I like math. “One hundred?”

  “Very good, honey!” Dad whispers. “About a hundred nautical miles.”

  Then I align the hole in the compass rose over the X where we are on the chart to determine our heading, pushing the rotating arm to meet our destination.

  “265 degrees?”

  “Great, Lizzy! Let’s get underway,” he says, smiling proudly.

  He slips my life jacket/harness over my head, buckles it, and kisses me on the forehead before we climb up the companionway stairs. Outside it’s as dark as my haunted hallway back home. The seats are wet from the drizzling rain. I’m not scared, though. I’m always safe with Dad. The ignition buzzes as he turns the engine key.

  Dad disappears into the darkness and I hear the mainsail sliding up the mast. On his call, I shift the engine into forward as he raises the anchor.

  A few minutes later, he comes back with the flashlight gripped between his teeth, coiling the anchor snubber. “Are you ready for your first night watch?”

  My hands are tingling. I feel nervous but important. A cold wind mixed with raindrops gusts under the canvas bimini. Dad pulls up the hood on my jacket.

  “I’m ready, Daddy,” I tell him. I am nine and a half years old now and my family and I have been doing overnight trips to Catalina every summer since I was a baby. Two weeks ago we left San Diego to sail through Mexico for the next six months.

  “So remember, you are not to unclip your harness tether or leave the cockpit for any reason. If you have to use the head, wake me up, okay?” He points the bow out to sea. The glow of the compass light illuminates his handsome face as Endless Summer pushes out into the night. He sets the autopilot, then lifts me up on the seat behind the wheel and hugs me.

  “Keep a close eye on the horizon in all directions,” he continues. “If you see any lights or anything that seems odd, just wake me up. I’ll be right here, honey.”

  “Okay. I will, Daddy.”

  He lies down on the cockpit bench. I look ahead and all around. For now, the horizon is clear. I touch my BFF half-heart necklace and think of home. Of Mattie and Trim, our golden retrievers, and gymnastics practice. Of eating oranges in the grove with my little sister, Kathleen. And catching crawdads in the canyon with my big brother, James.

  The cold wind pulses across my ears. Scattered raindrops patter on the top of the canvas bimini. I squint into the dark night, exhilarated.

  A week into the voyage down the coast of Baja, and we’re still afloat. The arrival of a north swell abruptly rolls my crew and me out of our bunks early one morning. In the chill of twilight, Mark and Shannon haul up the stern anchor while I maneuver in reverse. Soon the compass points south again. The diesel grinds as the mainsail struggles to catch a light breeze. Once the sun beats out the morning fog, it glitters triumphantly on the calm sea to port. We are all in good spirits despite our rude awakening.

  I met Shannon just before the trip, and I liked her immediately. She’s a soft-spoken, scholarly blonde with dogged determination and a gorgeous smile. She listens attentively as I show her how to attach the main halyard to the top of the mainsail in order to haul the sail up the mast, or wrap the jib sheets properly around the winches. We have ocean love and adventure dreams in common, plus we both majored in Environmental Studies at UC Santa Barbara. And since she enjoys photography, I hope to use her photos in combination with my writing to sell some articles and find some sponsors. I’m determined to find a way to make enough money to avoid flying home to work when my savings run out.

  I’m thrilled that Mark, a college roommate, is here, too. His steadfast friendship and constant humor helped me through three years of exams and young adult trials. I happily agreed when he expressed interest in joining us for the first leg of the voyage. Every time I begin to stress or second-guess myself, Mark’s jokes ease the mood.

  “We better not sink ’cause you know I can’t swim, Liz,” he teases as I nervously scan Swell’s rig.

  A small pod of dolphins leaps toward Swell to play in the little wave that pushes off the bow. We watch from the foredeck as they surf and frolic, reminding me of the countless hours I spent as a kid sitting on the bowsprit of our family sailboat off the coasts of California and Mexico. My legs would dangle off the edge of the teak plank with the broad horizon before me—that’s where I started dreaming about an extended voyage of my own.

  I also witnessed floating trash and wildlife tangled in fishing debris, sparking my concern for the environment. Despite our family’s financial struggles after returning from the voyage to Mexico, Mom saw me mailing the cash I earned from chores to Greenpeace. She gave me a “Save Our Seas” poster and a world map to hang on my bedroom wall. I drew arrows on the map to show the route I wanted to sail one day. Both the map and the poster came with me every time we moved, which was often. I looked up at them during junior high homework, after gymnastics practice, and between high school shenanigans. Even after a girlfriend introduced me to surfing at fifteen, and riding waves became a fanatical new passion, both my voyaging dream and environmental concern persisted.

  As today’s dolphins carry on west, I thank them for the visit, then head back to the cockpit to update the logbook. That afternoon, with daylight to spare, we near a series of boldly stratified bluffs with small waves rolling down the inside of the point. We unanimously decide to drop anchor and race to trade our winter jackets and warm boots for neoprene wetsuits and booties. Once the anchor is set, Shannon and Mark bolt to the foredeck to untie their boards, then paddle for the lineup.

  They’re halfway to shore when I finish squaring away the decks and leap over the side. The frigid sea washes away my accumulated angst. I’m at home in a four-millimeter wetsuit on my favorite shortboard. Strands of brown kelp wave at me with the surge of a swell. I smile and paddle for the break.

  The surf isn’t extraordinary, but today every glide feels like a victory. Surfing—my solace, my numero uno—took a back seat during the almost three years I spent preparing for the voyage. Fishermen in a panga wave as they whiz toward a cluster of brightly colored shacks that break up the endless tan-and-yellow Baja landscape. When the sun drops low, and the evening chill sets in, we catch a final ride and begin the long paddle back.

  After a hundred yards, I look up. There’s Swell, bobbing faithfully on her anchor, her hull’s sleek, powerful lines aglow in the golden rays. Her beauty stops my breath for a moment. I can’t believe it. Swell blurs as tears fill my eyes.

  “I’m here!” I call to the sky. “It’s real! Thank yo-o-o-u-u-u-u-u-u!” I’m not sure who I’m thanking. I don’t believe in God, but this feels miraculous. There’s salt on my lips and a burn in my shoulders. I’m paddling out, rather than in. I’m finally in my dream, awake!

  The sun is out and the wind is right for our next passage south. I relish the crisp afternoon air while steering under full sails as we enter the wide mouth of San Quintín bay. Mark is in the galley making PB&Js and Shannon sits beside me in the cockpit, snapping photos of the multicolored sands and low grassy dunes off the port side. Suddenly I see whitewater fifty yards off the bow as a wave rolls over a shallow, uncharted sandbar. The depth gauge leaps from 150 feet to 20, to 17, and then 12 feet, as I make a jarring turn to starboard. My heart is in my throat, but thankfully our new heading brings us back into deep water.

  Mark sticks his head out of the companionway with a purple stripe smeared on his shirt. “Geezus Liz, you could have just asked for extra jelly!”

  I glance back to where I saw the wave, but now the murky green sea is calm, hiding the submerged sandbar once again. As we sail toward the south side of the bay to anchor, I nibble at my sandwich, heart still racing,
thankful for the fortuitous timing. If that wave had washed over the bar only a few seconds later, Swell would likely be aground. Serendipity? Luck? Fate?

  April 2001, Santa Barbara

  My classes at UCSB are over for the day. The scents of low tide fill the chilly spring air as I walk out the dock in the Santa Barbara Harbor. After spending a semester studying abroad in Australia, the only way Dad could entice me to come home and finish college was by sailing Endless Summer up from San Diego so that I could live aboard her in the harbor.

  Not only was the surf excellent Down Under, but I observed an underlying respect for nature in the small seaside community where I studied. On the contrary, I’m disillusioned by America’s general disregard for the environment. It frustrates me that businesspeople only chase profits, while compromising our most vital resources—fresh air, clean water, and healthy soils, rivers, and oceans. Why aren’t students required to learn about the natural systems on Earth that sustain our daily lives?

  I walk past where the harbor patrol can see me, and then set down my skateboard to push the rest of the way out on the cement dock. I have to be at work in an hour. My girlfriend Katie picked me up before dawn this morning for a surf mission, so I need a catnap. Katie and I are a couple of kelp flies. The beaches can’t get rid of us. We love everything about surfing—even the smell of our peed-in wetsuits, towel changing in parking lots, and the tar and seaweed that collects in our hair. The crowded lineups of wave-hungry surfers are the only bummer. That’s what’s so great about having a boat. Last weekend my friends and I took Endless Summer up the coast to a spot without public road access. It was my first voyage without my brother or Dad onboard. We scored a long right under the coastal bluffs with no one around!

  Now I’m even more excited for my sailing dream. What could be better than waking up on the ocean, traveling the world, exploring for perfect waves with no crowds, and sailing away from this short-sighted society that’s ruining the Earth?