The Fear Factor

Sailing alone in the middle of nowhere is the least of my worries until one moonless night.

One morning in April of 2024 I woke up excited. I was anchored just inside Banderas Bay, off of Punta de Mita, Mexico and not even a mile west of me was the open Pacific Ocean.

I had spent the last year or so preparing for this day—the day I haul anchor and head 3000 miles west, crossing the Pacific Ocean by myself all the way to Marquesas, French Polynesia.

I had provisioned extensively; filled my bilges with cartons of my favorite grapefruit juice, prepared meals ahead and even had a cold pizza from the night before sitting in my fridge. I had new standing and running rigging, new batteries, fresh oil and polished fuel. I had spare parts for my spare parts.

In short, I dialed in this 39’ feet of floating fibre glass for my first solo open ocean crossing. The only thing I had left to do was hoist my dinghy up on deck, deflate it and cinch it down underneath my boom vang for the open ocean ride of its life.

I’m beyond excited!

But scared? I’m not scared at all.

I’m impatient! Maybe a bit nervous. In fact I do a short breath exercise to slow my breathing down, calm my nervous system. My excitement hard to reign in. I had dreamed of this day for years!

I walk slowly to the bow, scanning the other boats around me and lift my gaze to the westward horizon. I haul and sail off anchor for the last time in Mexico.

Friends honk horns and wish me well—I am the only sailboat leaving that day. Little kids film me and I even a friend escorts me a few miles west as he heads to some off shore islands, his racing boat too fast to stay at my steady pace for long.

By noon I’m all on my own, not another boat in sight, land no longer visible.

And still I’m not scared. I’m focused.

I’m absorbed in my goal of avoiding as much of the Intertropical Convergence Zone (ITCZ) as possible. I’m nervous as I sail ever further SW towards the equator, towards the gathering low pressure systems, towards the convective zone where the north and the south trade winds meet delivering all kinds of surprises.

And when I finally arrive, the squalls and schizophrenic weather are what I expect. I reef my sails as soon as I see a squall galloping up on me and I reef my sails at night regardless of the forecast.

I sleep. I suck on black licorice and read thick books. I make log book entries and wait the hour it takes for my Starlink to connect. I scan the horizon and watch the sun rise and then set. Not a single boat out here as far as my eye could see.

And still I’m not scared.

I sail day in and day out. I come across a dismasted boat, and feel alarmed as I check if anyone is on board—which there was not, as a rescue happened months ago.

I wake up to a huge whale—longer than my boat—skimming just under the surface of the water, barely moving not more than 50 meters from my boat.

I’m chased at sea by a ‘friendly’ boat. A sail drone passes me and I think it is a new ambitious pirate technique or a wind surfer going for a world record.

A line of squalls hit with drenching rain and keep me up for hours as I battle the winds and sea.

And still I’m not scared.

I feel in control, sometimes surprised, but grounded as I make my way west.

Until one night I stand on my cockpit seats, resting my elbows on top of my dodger and scan the horizon in front of me. It is dark. No moon tonight. I’ve been at sea, alone, for three weeks.

At the edge of the horizon I see a light! I’m sure it is another ship and the excitement of seeing someone else in the middle of the desolate Pacific throws me into a state of elation!

I didn’t realize how lonely I felt until I see that light, bobbing on the horizon. Nothing shows on my AIS or radar, but I watch that light, already amusing myself with a ridiculous greeting over my VHF: Fancy meeting you out here! You come here often?

As I sail along, the light dims then sinks below the horizon. A dark emptiness takes its place. I then realize the ship I thought I saw, was actually a star setting, moving over the horizon and forever out of reach.

I stare at the dark spot on the horizon, feeling tears well up in my eyes. Hello? Is anybody out there?

Now I’m scared.

I suddenly feel I am in over my head. Where is everyone? Why haven’t I seen another boat all this time? What have I gotten myself into?

I feel a deep dread, my chirpy ignorance giving way to a bottomless hole of fear. An insurmountable personal squall descends and blocks out all my light, my excitement, my fearlessness and leaves me shivering in my cockpit in a ball of trepidation.

Oh god, what have I done?

All around me the black sea glistens with rolling swells, the sky fills with lonely, cold stars. The wind moans through my rigging, creating a hollow sound I used to find comforting. My little boat, so little on such a big sea.

I am scared.

My heart begins to beat hard and I’m seized with a deep anxiety unlike anything I have ever felt. No one is around to ‘save’ me. No one is around to hear me wail. No one is around to comfort me or to talk me down. The night is deeply dark.

I am utterly alone in the vast ocean. It’s all on me. Just myself and my boat, doggedly making decisions and choices that hopefully are the right ones to get me the last 1000 miles.

I remain huddled in my cockpit, trembling and nauseous, unable to gain control of myself—which also scares me!

I don’t recall any squalls that night, just a very black sea and a sky so studded with stars I would normally stare in wonder; but that night I shrank from the sky in fear. It was too big and I was too small.

The sea is too deep and my pluck too shallow.

Who do I think I am, anyways?

I’ve dealt with lots of mishaps up to this point, but those were all short term moments with adrenalin rushing through my veins. Short hits of ‘holy shit’ fading into a normal day, into a story to tell later.

But this was different. This night a thousand miles from land, a deep, deep fear sets in. And it’s not shakable.

It never occurred to me to ‘train’ for this. In fact, I don’t recall even hearing anyone talk about expecting a looming existential crisis at sea. But I think one has been nipping at my heels for the last few days now.

Just a few nights ago I harnessed myself in around midnight to deal with a fouled reef. The wind was howling and the boat rocking heavily with the swells. I clutched parts of my boat as I made my way forward. As I reach my mast, I hug it. I’m suddenly hit with the flat fact the ocean could care less whether I fell overboard. It’s an obvious observation, but it hit me at a strange, deep level.

I felt completely dwarfed, insignificant.

It was an overwhelming feeling and I quickly brushed it aside, only to have this sense of meaninglessness—a deep sphincter crushing feeling of mortality—rush back a few nights later.

This new profundity is downright terrifying.

With another eight hours until sunrise, I moan my way through the darkness.

I don’t recall being more grateful for the sunrise than that morning. The monsters in me subside; the sky blushes a beautiful pink and the swells glimmer gold as the following seas urge my boat forward.

The day opens up broad and expansive. I make tea and relax, a feeling of contentment rising in me like the sun. But things will never be the same.

The fear rattling through my rigging to claim me that night—even now, almost two years later—is like another part on the boat I must look at, polish and check for corrosion; it serves its purpose, it’s comprehensible.

I’ve metabolized a kind of awakening from that night, driving me to be really honest with myself and admit how fake and damaging my worries are; I prioritize what is important and I have little tolerance for my own laziness. I respect my limits and I don’t make reckless assumptions ‘that nothing will happen to me’.

I now feel an even deeper level of responsibility to myself. My relationships have more meaning, and I sit longer with ‘moments’ like sunrises or the flights of birds or little bugs I would’ve squashed.

I also fight a paralysis just hanging in the wings. I had friends who barely out-ran a severe lightening storm and shortly thereafter they left their boat for good—the balance of wellbeing never quite able to eclipse the fear they experienced that night.

I understand that, now. I’ve become aware—really aware, at a deep deep level aware—that I live, that I will die.

Sailing is no longer the same. Gone are the days of blissful ignorance sailing through the seas, content and confident ‘nothing will happen’.

Because, in fact, almost anything will happen. Intellectually I’ve known that, but at a deeper level I’ve accepted the true and honest fact I’m limited, I’m vulnerable, I’m alone…and, I’ve buried the lead: I’m not panicked about it.

I am who I am, and fear is part of what makes me work well. Fear severs the frayed edges of my life and drops me deeper into whatever moment is in front of me.

It ignites presence, survival and meaning in a world where I could have disastrously expected a rescue when none was coming.