The Great Seduction

Like all good lovers, it was breathtaking.

I left Vava’u, Tonga where my boat sits on the hard and I traveled back to the States to visit family. I wasn’t there long—three weeks in all—and before the first week was over I was under the spell of a great seduction.

Sailing by myself around Vava’u, Tonga

I was taken completely.

And like all good lovers, it was breathtaking in the beginning arcing to a domestic contentment then turning into a gas lighting experience where my own creative mind and critical thinking skills faded. I couldn’t even concentrate enough to read a book.

I don’t even know what to call this lover, destroyer of my time without admitting how deeply tempted I was by the charms, smiles, fascinating facts, and an unrelenting dopamine hits delivered night and day.

Instagram, Facebook, Substack, the news, and all things internet had my heart, my mind and my better judgement. In less than a week my unfettered access to the internet hooked my brain; before I knew it I was scrolling through Insta before I went to bed and found some platform to ‘inform’ me when I woke up.

The last few days before I flew back to Tonga, I realized I had entered a great seduction; a retrieval and co-option of my brain. So subtle and alluring I didn’t realize how deep-in I was until I was preparing to leave.

This ‘lover’, this weird flame who burned for me at all hours, calling my name in woeful or excited tones, anticipating my every move and desire was harmless at first until it closed its fist around my throat cutting off my breath with its demands for my soul.

All I wanted was to get back to Tonga, where people carry smiles rather than phones; where the kids play in the water or walk home from school in groups, not a device to be seen; where the market brims with fresh produce and there is no Uber or Lyft or Grab. Where the pace of life is tempered with open, empty time to watch the clouds, talk about the swell or complain about the mango tree pollen.

Can you believe it? There are still places in the world where life is lived before devices took over our life. In Tonga, I still pay for things in cash—a transaction rich in social connection most of us don’t realize we have lost. In the states I tap my phone to pay, completely forgetting there is a person behind the counter.

I balk at the option to use my palm print to pay for groceries via a biometric system Amazon is rolling out. I couldn’t believe it! My palm print? What is happening?

I look around me, stunned our lives are losing the glue that keeps us human. This isn’t convenience—even though it feels like it—its highway robbery of our beautiful human nature. It’s the great train robbery of our minds, the Oceans 11 of our psyche.

And yet, if I lived in the States, it would seem normal. I wouldn’t even notice the theft of my thoughts. I would consider it ‘innovation’ and ‘cool’. I would remain tech fluent and upgrade my devices like everyone else.

I’d use AI like I used google when it first rolled out—access to all things-all things. I have a friend who says he writes an article then posts it to ChatGPT to ‘clean it up’. He also told me ChatGPT can make a picture of him with less wrinkles.

“What?” I said in protest. “Why would you do that?”

“My writing is better,” he said. “My photo looks better.”

But what’s wrong with just you, everything you? I want to shout.

It’s only because I live on a 39’ sail boat out in the middle of the South Pacific that I have a blueprint of a life architected at a humane pace. The internet isn’t so turn-key—I have to fire up my Starlink to connect and can only run it for a couple of hours due to its power demands. I have no bandwidth to scroll endlessly nor do I have the desire. I want to set my sails or fish or go snorkeling. I want to read in my cockpit or tackle a boat project. I feel alive and real when I do those things. I feel connected and inquisitive. I feel me.

That sounds inconvenient, against the backdrop of instant everything, but it’s not. It’s life saving.

I can dip in and dip out—my world is ruled by weather, sea state, sunrise and sunset; I drink tea in my cock pit as the sun comes up and I watch the birds swoop in early morning feeding frenzies. I read with great appetite, a novel’s world cuddling me to sleep at the end of the day. There is no food deliveries—I have to cook everything. There is no Amazon deliveries—I have to learn to be creative if I don’t have the right part.

But when I go back to the States, I watch my daughter roll her eyes when she explains how to work some new-fangled feature on my phone. I laugh, embarrassed, secretly feeling adrift in a culture that demands the exchange of a thoughtful life for a convenient life—the latter a decoy to a type of subjugation we are already used to, we are already blind to, we are already lost to.

It took less than three weeks in the States for me to hand over a good portion of my time and brain to the seducing forces of ‘instant information and dopamine.’

I feel like a dog shaking water from its fur as I gain my balance back here in Tonga, where the hardware store has an example of how to fill out a check taped to the top of the counter. Remember those little helpful small business prompts?

How to write a check to the hardware store in town.

Every Thursday night a bunch of Tongans and expats get together at a little tavern here in Vava’u called The Basque—no one hangs out on their phone. People play pool, a woman cuts our hair if we want, dogs run through the place and kids hang over all of us. The waitress knows exactly what each of us drink and before I cross the floor to the bar she has a Heineken ready for me. We spend hours talking. I never recall seeing anyone dipping their head down to examine their phone.

I’m anchored now in my favorite little spot, no one around. It’s raining and my bananas are going bad—I’ll make banana bread, read and tackle one of my many boat projects. There isn’t enough solar energy today for me to fire up my Starlink—my internet access truncated by the lack of clear skies. In the States, access was 24/7, which was part of the problem. My ability to tolerate moments of boredom, stagnation or suspended action dissolved as I simply reached for my phone to relieve me of that nothingness.

My boat in my favorite anchorage in Vava’u.

Here I never feel stagnation or boredom. Yesterday a turtle swam around my boat, popping its head up, then diving down, then popping up. The starfish are so huge here I can see them spread across the sandy bottom from the deck of my boat. I watch this morning the rain clouds moving through the bay, taking turns dumping warm rain; I watch the wind ripple the water until it hits my boat, passes then ruffles the fronds of the palm trees on the hills surrounding me. Sounds boring, but it’s incredibly fulfilling to watch the world we have been trained to ignore. Last night the clouds blazed a pink across their cumulous towers; the only thing missing was the dramatic sound of kettle drums!

Birds lining my rails one morning.

I am in such peace.

And at the same time, I am so sad we are en masse losing our ability to stay human, to remain remarkable and independent. I long for all of us the days before devices corralled and held our brains hostage.

Do you remember what it was like to wait for a letter to arrive?

Do you remember what it was like to anticipate something you knew nothing about because there wasn’t an internet to set your expectations?

Do you remember the exasperation of boredom that eventually spawned a fort in the backyard, or a ‘concoction’ in the kitchen?

Do you remember endless sleepovers on summer nights with only a flashlight for entertainment?

Do you remember what life was like before the unfettered access to instant dopamine hits?

And for a whole generation, there are no such memories. According to the Journal of Pediatric Nursing, digital addition occurs as early as the age of two, short-circuiting the beautiful evolution of a young brain, the blooming of curiosity and observation. Who are we becoming if a whole generation denies itself access to their raw, unfiltered, bored selves?

These are just questions I think about because I have a unique advantage of stepping away from a culture demanding instant everything. I can assure you, I lost perspective while I was in the States. I was almost gleeful accessing my instagram and loved settling in for a good scroll.

Returning to Tonga, back to my sailboat, back to a culture steeped in family connections, generosity, kindness and a pace filled with space is a balm. Anchored in town I hear a choir singing every morning at 5:30am. When they disband the men sing a final chant in deep tones. The sun is just rising.

Life is more challenging—nothing is delivered to me; I have to lug my backpack around as I shop for food and have to make multiple trips as I can only carry so much. I have to time the tides to make water and when the wind is going to pound, I have to move my boat to a protected area. All of this takes time, patience and space. There is no hot water to wash my clothes and my showers take place after a good swim using water warmed in my solar shower. I covet tomatoes as they are rare here. Cheese has been impossible to find until a few days ago when provisioning ship arrived. Gasoline runs out here. If I want good bread I have to make it myself.

All of this seems like a hassle, but for some reason I feel satisfied and fulfilled.

The other day as I rode my bike to the boat yard I was going down a hill and skidded on some loose gravel. I didn’t lose my balance, but a local watched me falter. He ran out and swept away the gravel on the road so I wouldn’t risk a fall on my daily route to the boat yard.

That guy wasn’t on his phone, he was gazing at the world as I flew down the hill in front of his house.

I wish this wakefulness and presence for all of us. When we are isolated and siloed into frameworks of social media and constant ‘information’, we lose these simple gestures born from just being present. Just gazing out the window. Just watching the world and keeping each other in good stead.

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