I have never been very good at standing night watch alone. For many years, when we were cruising fulltime, I tried to enjoy it the way so many other people told me they did. The stars. The peacefulness. The solitude. The oneness with the sea.
Whatever.
Weird, startling things always seemed to happen to me on night watch—the unlit, unmarked floating fish trap I sailed us into off the Dominican Republic, the tug-like vessel sitting motionless and completely invisible off Mayaguana that suddenly lit up as we sailed past, just long enough for me to have a frigging heart attack before it went dark again—the list goes on.
The only solo night watch that wasn’t a slow-moving anxiety attack was the 0400 to 0800. I knew the darkness wouldn’t last forever, and first light would come. When it did, all that was shadow would slowly take form. Seabirds—often shearwaters—would suddenly appear and keep me company, arcing effortlessly through the playground of waves alongside. At dawn, the sun’s shy warmth would dispel the chill of that darkest hour just before the break of day.
But mostly, I pretty much barely endured night watch. Until Maya came.
We found each other in the Guna Yala in Panama, she a starving, feral puppy abandoned on an uninhabited island, we a family who’d learned the cruising life is not quite as Instagram-perfect as today’s shiny happy social media sailors insist it is. We were all of us wounded in our own ways. And though we had always been a dog family—leaving behind two with friends and family to go cruising—the last thing I figured we needed on board was a semi-feral puppy.
It took about five minutes to realize I was dead wrong.
When she finally came to live with us—after weeks of our 10-year-old daughter earning her trust with bowls of fresh water, rice, the occasional chicken tidbit (only when the veggie boat brought pollo, which wasn’t often), and many hours we all spent hanging out on the island, our conversation and company and popcorn luring her ever closer each day—she changed everything.
Despite her fearful solitude surviving on the island, Maya was a joyful soul. She never missed a chance to play and entice us to do the same. She excelled at pulling us out of whatever sadness or tension we may have been feeling and reminding us to laugh. Her needs—like a good walk twice a day—led us on adventures we wouldn’t otherwise have had. She found friends everywhere but protected her pack fiercely. Nobody could get near the boat—whether a dolphin or a dinghy—without her barking the alert. She was profoundly sensitive; if one of us was sad or ill, she would draw close and stay glued to our side until we felt better. Her giving nature and unconditional love mended us.
With her, my night watches became less fearful. I wasn’t alone anymore. Harnessed and tethered just like me, she’d sit with me in the cockpit all those long dark hours, sharing McVitie’s Ginger Nuts (her most favorite snack), leaning her small body against mine for mutual warmth and comfort. My hand would stray to her soft ears, and she would breathe deeply, and remind me to do the same. At dawn the shearwaters would come, and she’d always be as astonished and delighted as I was at their swooping and gliding welcome of the day.
She was the best shipmate I have ever known. Always brave, helpful, attentive, funny, living in the moment. Unfailingly loyal, and always willing to listen to my hopes and fears, thoughts and dreams.
Sail long enough, and you will learn that shipmates come in all forms. Sail long enough, and you will learn that losing some of them is part of the contract.
As I write this, it’s been four days since she died, 14 years almost to the day from when she came to live with us in Panama. She’d stood watch faithfully over me and my family far longer than I’ve a right to wish for. I’m grateful for every single one of those days, for the thousands and thousands of miles we’ve traveled together. I know I have been lucky to have her in my life.
But I have never been very good at standing night watch alone. And though I know the darkness won’t last forever, and first light will come, I will never know another spirit and companion like Maya, and seeing the shearwaters will never be the same.
Keep on sailing,
Wendy
[email protected]
