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Sailing AUKLET

~ Small sailboat cruising and related thoughts

Sailing AUKLET

Category Archives: Why Go Sailing

Maybe Not Done

29 Friday Jun 2018

Posted by shemaya in Race to Alaska/r2ak, Why Go Sailing

≈ 14 Comments

It took until about March for the water to look a tiny bit appealing. One warm day (comparatively) and a little breeze, sitting on the shore. It happened again in April, once or twice. By May it occurred to me that if a boat had a little more space, and if it were in a quiet cove, I might like it. The fear wore off, with a good long rest. Being about done with the discomfort, not so much.

Two weeks ago, middle of June, the 2018 Race to Alaska started in Port Townsend, Washington. This year they had perfect weather for the initial crossing to Victoria, streamed for all the rest of us to see on Facebook live. “For THAT race,” I said, “it would be worth being uncomfortable.” Knowing full well the pounding they took in 2017, and the long calms, the year before that, has not seemed to interfere. This year, 80° for days, and a lot of rowing, peddling, and paddling. Eventually the wind came, and the temperature dropped. Seven women got to Ketchikan first, all the rest of us bursting with pride. I ordered some charts. Actually, I ordered them the day the boats all set out from Port Townsend.

It’s far-fetched, the possibility of Race to Alaska 2019 including an entry with my name. What’s nice to feel is that given the right motivation: Alaska, BC, mountains, fjords, true silence – even a drive across the country – something inside lights up. I’m happy on land. But the room that had gone dark, that is filled with sailboats, might have the kind of light that comes with dawn. Faint, in the east. With stars.

***

On the plus side, as far as practical realities of the r2ak, there is that ever since the Race to Alaska was proposed about five years ago, its requirements have been a guiding theme in AUKLET’s development, and my own. Motorless – check. Human power (yuloh) – check. Navigation, current, big tide. Stores for weeks. Water (see rainwater collecting). Check, check, check. Heavy weather sailing – see junk rig. Check. Night sailing. Solitude. Check, check.

The work that was done in these past years has stayed, banked, even as I walked away. The boat capable of such a trip is right there in the boat shed. It dawned on me in the last few weeks that what changed, in my lessening enthusiasm over this last while, is that with so much familiarity, and so much practice, I was getting bored. Who would’ve thought! There was stress, and there was discomfort, but there was not the newness of the unfamiliar, and the delight at finding one’s way. And the all-absorbing challenge, to expand into such new territory, which goes so far to counterbalance the stress and the discomfort. But ALASKA! And British Columbia, which is the bulk of the Race to Alaska. Lots to not know, in that proposition. To study, and to see how it unfolds.

So maybe it’s not done. Applications for entering the 2019 R2AK open in September. In the meantime, though the front runners are all snug in Ketchikan now, the 2018 race is ongoing, particularly for those in small craft that are paddled or rowed. Soon the sweep boat – affectionately called the Grim Sweeper – will be making it a real race for those on the slow end of things. If I get in the race, I would expect to be somewhere in the middle, or having my own personal run with the Sweeper. But there is no shame in that. Being in the race would be by far the greatest victory. With bonus mountains. Whales. Sea otters. And me.

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For information on the Race to Alaska, see: https://r2ak.com/about/r2ak-explained/

How It Ends

04 Monday Dec 2017

Posted by shemaya in Why Go Sailing

≈ 20 Comments

Other sailors have told me – from their cozy position on a powerboat, or from a spot firmly on solid ground – that one day it just changed. Nothing dramatic or bad happened; they were just done. It seemed incomprehensible to me, at the time, in each conversation.

There is another Auklet post, written but not yet put up, from the beginning of this summer. It has to do with considering the possibility of being done, and various reasons for this dramatic shift, but was written while there was still sailing to do this year. I had committed to the Junk Rig Gathering in Penobscot Bay, for one thing. As the organizer of the event, it would not have done, to miss that. Certainly not for a reason as diaphanous as this odd feeling in the back of my mind.

It’s good that I went on that trip, which turned into 37 days, up and down Penobscot Bay, as well as the going and coming back to Gouldsboro. Penobscot Bay is a solid 50 miles from here, or more, depending on route, and how one counts arrival and departure. It was a good trip, better than the previous two, earlier in the summer, this one with lovely wind and quite a bit of fine weather. The Junk Rig Gathering was stellar, and visits with friends and family from Rockport to Swans Island all added to the enjoyment.

Oddly enough, when I got home I still had that feeling, more and more entrenched, that it’s done. A profound relaxation even, as the boat came out of the water, rather than my usual immediate pining for spring. This was good to discover. It wasn’t because of a bad trip, sloshing around with no wind and not enough sleep, or fog and no wind, or bashing grindingly to weather, into too many gusts and too many waves, or any of that.

During that last trip there was beautiful, stupendous sailing, along with the typical interjection of less-than-stupendous harbor issues, those last completely balanced by nights, and days, in gorgeous, idyllic, peaceful coves. There was more to learn – always, which is one of the things I love about sailing – and a chance to feel the familiarity with the boat that has made it possible to sail well in a variety of situations. Sailing onto and off of docks, and out in the wild wind and foaming waves, there is huge satisfaction in watching the boat, and rig, go, with a certain amount of competence, from all these years.

Oddly, and for the first time, this wasn’t enough. The rather cramped space inside the boat – which has never bothered me for longer than the first couple of days after moving aboard – felt constricting, and uncomfortable, ongoing. The long calms were aggravating, rather than meditative. More than all of that, the fear of making a mistake, of ending up on a rock somewhere, or overboard, never really left. I said prayers for actually making it home in one piece, hoping that I might pull that off this one more time, and thinking how ironic it would be to crash just when I was ready to stop.

Fortunately, no rocks were so much as tapped, this entire season, and I stayed firmly on the boat, at all the appropriate moments. Neither of these concerns used to cause me nearly so much stress. In the past I have indeed clunked rocks occasionally, not being that worried about it, while at the same time staying attentively away from the big ones with breaking seas. While I was always careful to not fall off the boat, it wasn’t a big concern, other than being mindful of exercising basic caution. The risk did not particularly worry me after the first couple days of adjusting to being aboard.

Now, I have lost my nerve.

The funny part is that it doesn’t feel like “I have lost my nerve and therefore I am ready to stop sailing.” That might be it, but it feels more like I have become ready to stop sailing, and therefore whatever magic that produced the nerve to do all the wild things I have done afloat has evaporated, along with that underlying, rather driven desire. The desire melted away, and with it the capacity to do those somewhat brave, nervy things. Oddly, I’m not really missing it.

This could of course change, and I could go out again. But I don’t really expect that. Sailing has given me so very much: solitude and self-sufficiency, when my life on shore had neither; travel, and marvelous connections with people; friendships and good times remembered, which all remain; a task requiring such depth and breadth of knowledge as to make it completely absorbing, for years. Connection with the gorgeous ocean, and the light, and stars, on the water. Nothing takes that away.

Meanwhile, there have been other considerations. This last year has been somewhat daunting, from a memory perspective. I’ve written before about both cognitive and memory issues, that have come and gone, and various interpretations of why that might be. It has become more difficult to remember odd things that pass in a day, or a week. On land it is rarely significant, but it remains shocking to perceive such blank spaces where something was once known, or to completely forget relevant, familiar details, in the face of a current question.

On the water, there is a limit to how far one can go, compensating for those kinds of gaps. At some point, extra study, and knowledge, and a rather OCD approach to daily systems, are not enough to tip the balance toward safety. I think that I could still do it, sailing off, but the risks feel palpable, in a way that they didn’t used to.

Perhaps this comes back to the question of nerve. Nothing used to stop me, including obstacles that are not these days as big as they once were. But the drive has left. The boat – and sailing overall – have brought me here, blessed to be in a place where the tide rises and falls outside the window. Or at my feet. The warm weather will come again, and I hope to be swimming.

It’s enough, now.

[Photo credit: Suzanne Jean]

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There is more to say, about this and that – a little bit of trip stories, the Junk Rig Gathering, and the article about the Mer Veille radar detector that I’ve been meaning to do for ages. Posting that other entry from a few months ago, about contemplating stopping, is on the list. I’ll hope to be filling these in, over the next while.

Thank you so much to all the many readers here, and especially to those of you who have written back. It’s been such a pleasure.

Through the Magic Window: Sailing As Meditation

14 Saturday Nov 2015

Posted by shemaya in Why Go Sailing

≈ 22 Comments

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A funny thing happens, off sailing for days, or in the intensity of one long day with an assortment of conditions. For a while I thought that this was all about fatigue, that odd experience of being much, much less connected to the necessities of daily routines. Small mistakes, or details overlooked, and a focus that feels dreamy, rather than the usual, grounded, routines of the day. After those long two or three day passages – of which there have now been four, this year – it happened again that it was the day after, even after having had a good night’s sleep, that I was prone to those odd mistakes. This year I became especially aware of the feeling of dreamy, altered reality that went with it all. As the year has gone on, I’ve found this happening even after long single days of major effort, with no overnight sailing at all.

Often, those extended, hard-push days come because of a schedule that involves trying to visit with somebody, who will not be available a day or three later, after the amount of time that would be involved if the sailing schedule were more relaxed. So after having sailed hard, on what would normally be a rest day, I find myself in to a dock, and visiting. Oddly again, by part way through the day of activity and interaction at the dock, rather than being more tired, and more affected by fatigue, instead I am back into that “normal” place. No more unobservant mistakes, no more sense of dreamy unreality to the tasks of the day. If it’s time to sail away later, to someplace for the night, that goes forward with the usual grounded routines solidly in place.

Meanwhile, there is this: sailing, for me, and single-handing, particularly, have that quality of “I just have to do this.” A pull, that when honored feels exactly right. When neglected, there is the feeling that I am missing something vitally important. All these years, I could not have told anybody more than this: that I simply am drawn to doing this, with a sense of both urgency and deep desire.
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Along the way, time in the boat has contributed to increasing strength, well-being, and overall health. Through the long winters ashore these have often slipped, but have returned again with a good long dose of boat time. Once again oddly, if I hang around on the boat for too long in one place, with friends, enjoying the fun of life near town, that magic shift begins to lose traction. I’ve begun to think that oh well, just being on the boat is not the magic cure.

Then for whatever reason, it’s time to be off to sea again. Sitting with exhaustion, and those long, long days that unfold themselves when the weather is just right to sail, and just right the next day, and the one after that. With a destination in mind, it makes no sense to decline a good wind; doing so can mean an extra week, and/or long slogs upwind, or worse, without wind at all, floating in place for half a day or more, if one has the poor judgment to raise the anchor in the first place (nevermind that the weather report said that there would be a breeze). So in those times that are just right, it’s off to sea again, communing with the wind, and the tide, and the long, long days, sometimes into nights.
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Surprisingly, in those long runs strength returns. Along with that dreamy feeling, somehow interwoven with fatigue, but I am learning that although they are interwoven, that dreamy feeling and fatigue are not the same thing. The dreamy feeling has complications: it can feel like loss of cognitive ability – and in some ways, it is. Although mistakes are not catastrophic, they can be pesky.

In a conversation about all this a few weeks ago, I talked about concerns of losing mental capabilities, and fears of something along the lines of dementia. But I got an interesting response back (thank you, Lori): that when one is doing deep inner work, in a big way, sometimes one ends up in an altered state that is something like meditation, and in that place, the normal everyday stuff can slip away. I heard this and thought, yes, that feels right, somehow true to my experience. This was relaxing – I mostly stopped worrying about dementia – and it was illuminating, especially in relation to sailing, and that dreamy state. As in, sailing off for days or weeks at a time is an entry into a different kind of awareness. Sailing requires focus, and at the same time, that very focus can be the pathway to disengaging from the concerns and cares of one’s land-bound life. Rather like meditation.

This connection between sailing and a meditation-like state, and the experience of healing, goes together with the material that is taught by the brain retraining folks, particularly in the work by Ashok Gupta. Gupta focuses quite a bit on stillness meditation as a primary tool for recovery from chronic illness that is related to limbic system issues. (See previous posts, linked below, for more on this.) Myself, I don’t ordinarily consider myself somebody who is good at meditation. In brain retraining, I have been more drawn to the techniques offered by Annie Hopper (also referenced in those same links), which do not particularly emphasize stillness meditation. And yet, here is sailing, and this meditative-like state, and my experience of improved well-being, if I spend enough time in that place. It’s not just being on the boat; the kind of sailing matters. Off, and alone, with enough time to be totally immersed.

This is the kind of sailing, and boat time overall, that lets one press into that place of somewhat altered reality. Partly fatigue, but partly something else. It’s liberating to go to sea, any way around. That it has this aspect that is something like meditation is not something that I’ve thought about before. I’ve just known that whatever that feeling is, I want it. And it feels deeply important, far beyond the glitter of an interesting toy. Come to find out, the mechanics of this healing are becoming perceptible.

So this is what I’ve learned: the motion of the boat is good, and I’ve known for a long time that it works rather like passive range of motion exercises. Muscles, joints, and everything else, that are over-tight, or strained, loosen in the process of relaxing into the gentle shifts of a small boat. Not so much in snappy, uncomfortable waves, but with attention and some luck one can mostly avoid those. The less obvious benefits of the sailboat process come from that state of meditation, that arrives without fanfare, often completely invisible as it interweaves with fatigue. As I’m learning to recognize that meditative feeling, I’m hoping to become more fluent in working with it. I am told that as it becomes more familiar, it’s easier to move in and out of a place of meditation, shifting between that dreamy state, and the requirements of everyday life, with more fluidity and ease. It’s the jarring of the transitions that I think contributes to the odd mistakes, especially when one has no idea what’s happening in the first place. Recognizing the process should go a long way toward helping with that.

The other obvious question, having come this far, is whether once recognizing and becoming familiar with that state of meditation, it can then become possible to move into it regardless of outside surroundings. As in, do I have to go sailing to find that place? I like sailing anyway, for all the many reasons: the water, the motion, the intriguing challenges of rigging, wind, and current. The absolute, extraordinary beauty of light on water, clouds and sky, and wild shorelines of all varieties. But sailing having shown the way, having opened the window, perhaps it is also possible to enter the feeling of that place, from anywhere at all. And by entering the feeling of that place, to have access to the healing that comes of residing within it. It’s a long way around, compared to basic brain retraining protocols. Heaven knows that making this boat project happen has been a vast undertaking. But sometimes the long way around, with all its depth and richness, is just the perfect thing. So I’m paying attention, feeling the perfect gift of the opportunity to watch how the entire process unfolds.

In the meantime, there is more sailing this fall, with a plan to haul the boat in a few weeks in Gouldsboro, and to settle in for the winter there in the new house. Presently I’m in Smith Cove, outside of Castine, watching the rain. It’s a snug place to be, with gale warnings on the radio, and time to sit still, and write.

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[mostly written in September, 2015]

Previous posts on brain retraining:
http://sailingauklet.com/2014/07/28/brain-retraining/ (skip to bottom for resource links)
http://sailingauklet.com/2014/10/26/brain-retraining-on-board/

The Anchored Wind

17 Saturday Oct 2015

Posted by shemaya in the boat, Why Go Sailing

≈ 2 Comments

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The boat rears and bucks, on its tether to the underwater ground. The wind will shift later, around to the west, and all will be placid, more or less. But for now, the tide risen over the sometimes-protecting eastern rocks, it’s all about waves, the boat an agile thing, demonstrating its paces.

For those of a certain age (something like middle) – and perhaps only in the United States, and maybe Canada? – going to the supermarket as a child, companion of one’s mother, or other adult, meant passing the mechanical bucking horses outside the entrance to the store. Child-sized, with saddles and stirrups, ready to go. Put in a quarter, or probably a nickel, when I was small enough to actually ride them, and up and down, forward and back, the mechanical horse would give you a ride. It was always over too soon, and you wished for another coin in the slot, patting the sturdy neck and face of your sometime steed. It was the best thing about going to the store, easily rivaling the gumball machines, or the search for the prize buried somewhere in the CrackerJacks. The motion was fun, and we always wanted more.

Today, as the boat bounces, I’m thinking about that. Endless quarters in the slot. Who ever would have thought that I would come to complain about this. Child who went to every carnival, favorite ride The Scrambler, turning, bouncing, changing direction at all moments. The motion of this boat is something that you would be hard-pressed to achieve, for whatever cost, on land. Physical therapy devices come to mind, none of them with the stamina, or simple ease, of my berth, in the anchored wind. Even the cash laid out for the boat could not compete with the hourly cost of this much motion from any other source.

It’s a gift. Remember that!

Just Because You Don’t Remember…

19 Thursday Mar 2015

Posted by shemaya in Why Go Sailing

≈ 8 Comments

New Salt just launched, May, 2002
A number of years ago, when I was sailing the Falmouth cutter, one night I ended up in the drink. It was about two in the morning and I had been anchored in back of the breakwater at Duck Island, on the south coast of Connecticut. The weather deteriorated and it wasn’t so nice out there, so I decided to go in to my regular slip in the nearby marina.

It was raining, with a fairly stiff wind that wanted to blow the boat away from the float that I needed to tie up to in my short slip. (The photo above is that very boat and marina, but a slightly different slip.) Alone, and the docks of course deserted at that time, I made the tight turn to port, into the space between my float and the adjacent boat, and with dock line in hand took a rather long step from the starboard rail to the end of the float. Normally this would have worked, but the wooden float was slick in the rain, my foot slipped, and down I went, presumably with a splash.

I say “presumably,” because I have a clear memory of coming up to the slip, stepping across, the grip under my foot letting go, and the very beginning of falling backwards toward the water. Then there’s a big blank spot, and my memory begins again when I am in the water, floating easily because of all the air trapped in my warm clothes and foulies. I had apparently had the presence of mind to keep holding onto the dock line, because it was, thankfully, in my hand.

The docks at that marina are somewhat high, and I floated beside mine for a couple of moments, considering what to do next. It was obvious that I wasn’t going to be climbing right out of the water, so after a little thought along the lines of, “if there is ever a time when I really ought to inflate this lifejacket, that would be now, at two in the morning, in the dark and the wind, in the water.” The lifejacket inflated as it was supposed to, and before the boat could drift too far back I swam close enough to a cleat up on the float to be able to reach up and tie the line I’d been holding. As things went on, the boat drifted back to hang on that bow line, almost touching the boats on the dock across the way.

Meanwhile, I was focused on the matter of how to get out of the water. For some reason it did not occur to me to try to use the emergency rope ladder on the boat (regularly used for swimming), so we still don’t know if, in a tremendous amount of rather wet clothing, it would have worked to climb that. It also didn’t occur to me to swim the fairly short distance from my slip over to the rocky shore, between the lines of boats. From there I could, at that time, have walked around back to the dock and the boat. I’m a good swimmer, and after all had the lifejacket inflated, but swimming to the shore simply didn’t cross my mind as an option. There’s some current that runs through there, so perhaps that was for the best.

What I did think about was that the marina was full of people on their boats, probably sleeping. I was going to need help to get back up on that dock, and knew that at least some of the people I knew were within range. So I took out the little orange ACR whistle stashed in the lifejacket and gave it a try, with quite a number of pretty energetic toots. No response.

All the safety training materials I’ve seen, from backwoods, to kayaks, to generic boating, say that whistles are far more easily heard than people’s voices. I was thinking about that information, there in the water, with no response to the whistle, but decided that voice was worth a try regardless. Things weren’t desperate – I was floating, I was warm, and I wasn’t even particularly wet, with the foul weather gear taking time to allow the water to get in. So I started hollering the names of two friends who I was pretty sure were sleeping in their boat just a couple of boats away on the other side of the dock. That went on for a bit, with no response, and then it finally occurred to me that I should actually be calling for help. So instead of just the friends names, I yelled out “I’m in the water – I need help!”

That was all it took. Seconds later several friendly people were on the float, reaching to give me a hand. Together we figured out the best way to manage, and shortly I was out of the water. While that was happening somebody meanwhile had pulled the boat in and secured it to the proper cleats.

As we all collected ourselves, I asked them if they had heard the whistle, and they said no, not at all. They had heard me hollering the names of my friends (who, sleeping in their cabin, never heard a thing), but attributed the yelling to the kind of rowdiness that sometimes goes with life in marinas. But the folks who heard these calls were awake, and dressed, and as soon as they understood the situation they were there in a flash.

Nowadays I have “storm whistles” stashed all over the place, as well as the knowledge that in this sort of situation it’s not only okay, but crucial, to say very clearly that you need help. I hope to not land in the drink again – after that event I changed my docking system, to make stepping across unnecessary – but I sure did learn a lot from the experience, and the “basic facts” are just the beginning.

The most remarkable thing is that it’s now about 12 years later, and I still have no memory of the actual time when I was falling. What I do remember is feeling terribly banged up afterwards. When you fall accidentally off a boat, particularly near docks, it’s not necessarily the ending up in the water that’s the problem. Rather, the biggest issue comes from what you hit on the way down. I was fortunate not to hit my head, but based on the pattern of bruises, I think that my left arm must have come down on something pretty hard. And I had that overall thrashed feeling, which I’ve only otherwise experienced after a major car accident.

In the grand scheme of things, it’s not particularly important that I don’t remember that second or two of my life; the surrounding memories, and evidence, make what passed in those moments pretty clear. I’d like to know what I bashed on the way down, but the injuries are long healed, and it doesn’t really matter. What is more than relevant, however, is the illustration provided by this experience.

As I’ve said before on this blog, I’m a survivor of quite severe childhood abuse. Most of this abuse I know about because of an odd kind of “shadow memory,” and because of the repercussions of those childhood experiences in my adult life. Just like those 1 to 2 seconds of falling from the boat, I have no regular, clear memory of many of the things that I know took place. And very much like being in the water after that fall, the outcomes of my childhood experience – the physical and emotional challenges of my adult life – point to how things got that way. The only difference is that a person floating in the water is so clear and unequivocal.

As somebody pointed out to me (thank you, Lori) after the post from some time back titled “Thoughts on Rescue,” there is no lying in ocean rescue. Nobody thinks, “oh, the person I see in the water might be lying about it,” while the rescuer tries to decide whether or not they should fish them out; there is no evaluation of motives, or memories, or stories, nor is that question even relevant to the situation. Whether the person who needs help is in a life raft, or crawling through smoke in a burning building, the appropriate response is unequivocal. If it is physically possible, they are rescued. Even if the person doesn’t remember falling, it’s obvious that they are in the water, and people reach to help them back to dry ground.

These days, I am fascinated, and comforted, by the relationship between memory, history, and the here-and-now. When I ask myself, “oh, did that old stuff really happen?”, all I have to do is look around at the surrounding present. When the surrounding present is just as incontrovertible as floating in that harbor, dock line in hand, you know that it’s true.

I’d prefer not to have fallen off that boat, but gosh what a gift it was. I learned a lot, lived to tell about it, and gained a model for better understanding of the entire arc of my life. Can’t ask for much more than that…

Brain Retraining On Board

26 Sunday Oct 2014

Posted by shemaya in How Does This Work, Trips, Why Go Sailing

≈ 4 Comments

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Brain retraining is a set of techniques for promoting healing from long-term, chronic illnesses, and from various kinds of trauma. A previous post on this blog, from July 2014, goes into details of how this works, and includes an assortment of resources available for those who are interested. I’ve now been working with these techniques for about six months. It was a question, in getting ready for this recent trip, how the various practices of brain retraining would go together with sailing away on a boat. It turns out that it’s a good fit.

The basic concept of brain retraining has to do with the goal of calming one’s limbic system – the part of the brain that is responsible for the fight/flight/freeze response – so that other inner systems can function more freely, including those involved in all sorts of physical well-being: cellular healing, basic digestion, overall brain function, and a whole lot else. The brain retraining approach to calming the limbic system involves identifying thoughts that tend to put the limbic system on alert, interrupting those thoughts, and replacing them, in an organized, focused fashion, with the conscious experience of joy and peace. This then results in a calm limbic system, which is the primary goal for specific healing – it’s a perfect bonus, that one also gets all that experience of joy and peace to go with it.

There are loads of specific techniques for achieving limbic system calm. These include holding wonderful past experiences in mind, visualizing a positive future, and feeling all of those images here in the present, as well as practicing various forms of meditation and other mind-shifting exercises. Additionally, there is a process of identifying one’s patterns of thought, and making changes in those larger patterns, if their habitual form has been leading to specific thoughts that trigger limbic system alert. For example, one might have a habit of worry, or a habit of distress, or of dissatisfaction, or of fear. This is where it gets particularly interesting, as far as relating all of this to sailing.

In setting out again on the boat, I became aware of a number of the above sorts of patterns in my general internal routine, and I also started paying specific attention to the sometimes subtle distinction between “relaxed attentiveness” and “hypervigilance.” Boats are tricky – if one has a habit of hypervigilance, getting on a boat can be like offering cocaine to an addict. There are so many crucial details that really do need to be attended to, in order for all to go well. Safety issues – all that water, and making sure that it stays on the correct side of the hull, never mind putting up sails, or putting down anchors. Just imagining all that, from a secure location on solid ground, can be enough to rev up a stress response.

The trick is to recognize that the stress response is a choice, and that it may or may not be the most helpful, effective approach to the situation at hand. Occasionally there are times when immediate, intense, physical action is required – whether on land or at sea – and that’s what one’s limbic system is there for, keeping us safe, and well supplied with the resources to meet a physically challenging situation. But for all the rest of it, “safety” is best achieved by having a relaxed limbic system, in spite of habits to the contrary. A state of relaxed attentiveness lets in more information, makes mental room for clearer problem solving, and leaves one’s body rested, ready for any necessary action. All of these promote more safety than does an ongoing state of hypervigilant tension, which drains the capacities of each of those resources and more. So the question, for those who are habitually hypervigilant, is how one might do things differently.

This is where brain retraining comes in: once the patterns of maintaining limbic system alert are identified, it’s possible to actively make a change. Who would’ve thought! Thank heavens for all that recent brain research, which has contributed to figuring all this out, and for the individuals who have been using that new knowledge to put together practical, daily use sorts of techniques for influencing the inner processes of one’s mind and brain. (For specific references, see resources in the post from this past summer: http://sailingauklet.com/2014/07/28/brain-retraining/ )

The bottom line, coming from all of this, is that I have become a more relaxed sailor. Not less attentive, but learning the practice of relaxed awareness. One of the brain retraining folks, in talking about pacing as it relates to physical activity, discusses going through the brain retraining techniques before making a decision as to whether or not to do something that might or might not be too much for one’s present capabilities. I’ve found this approach enormously useful in making decisions about what action to take, in stressful situations that have nothing at all to do with physical capabilities (though it’s enormously useful for those questions as well). This calming process related to decision-making has been particularly helpful in sailing. Sailboat cruising is so filled with significant decisions, often with plenty of time available for the use of an assortment of tools to ease, and improve, the decision-making process.

An example of the way this can go, from this recent trip, had to do with a question about the safety of a particular anchoring location. It’s easy to worry, sometimes – to be downright scared – about being alone out on a boat, female, in what is so predominantly men’s space. Duck hunting season opened, I in one of those favorite creeks, unpopulated, except for sometimes surly men in camo clothing in camo boats, with firearms, passing by now and then. There were friendly kayakers, once, and a couple of regular motorboats, but mostly it was folks outfitted in camo, occasionally friendly, but generally not so much.

The thing is, I have, sometimes, been just as afraid in more populated places, wondering what the risks are. Combined with this, there is the issue of old fear, buried in the past, that can so easily come to the surface, seeking resolution by catching a piggyback ride on present day details. As the self-defense folks say, “fear is information.” But sometimes that information comes in code.

The funniest thing, there in that beautiful creek, was that I had been completely unafraid while anchored there for a couple of days and nights, but the third day did not feel the same. I had made the mistake of listening to the news on the radio that morning, which might have contributed, having heard horrible stories of bad behavior by a particular group of young men, and questionable community response. Or maybe something had changed – I do know that I felt very aware that my presence had been noted by quite a number of people, mostly hunters, who had by then had more time to think about it. But it was intriguing to also notice my own pattern of fear, and alarm, in spite of the lovely quiet water, the setting sun, the two anchors that were holding so perfectly, Bahamian style so that each turn of the tide would have one anchor holding the boat into the current, and between the two anchors, just off the nearby shore. Snug in this creek, so when the wind did blow, everything was perfectly fine. And yet I was worried.

It’s a great processing opportunity, when this kind of situation comes up. There’s EFT (the tapping technique, also discussed in a previous post, from August 2013), and now brain retraining. By morning, having practiced all my tools (at some length), and having experienced no interference from the other people out on their own projects, I could calmly say that I was no longer wildly stressed, and at the same time, I felt that it was wise to leave. In the past, that action taken, of following the tide out of the creek, would likely have been the same. The difference was that I felt fine. Calm, and appreciative of the beautiful morning. Passing a side creek with hunters flattened in their boat was good for a bit of a start, but once gone by, with a tall mud bank again between us, and a bit more inner work as AUKLET and I drifted toward the main river, relaxed attentiveness returned.

This is the practice – whether at home or on board. It’s been good to see that it’s possible to continue this work on the water, and it’s been even better to see that the work makes the time on the water, as at home, a much more peaceful place to be. Safer, and more comfortable – who would’ve thought that actively taking one’s alert system out of gear would have that effect. But I sure do like it. And I’m ecstatic that there is a way to put this process of brain retraining together with time afloat. It’s such a treat when all the parts of one’s life can go together.

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Swallows at Old Lyme

17 Friday Oct 2014

Posted by shemaya in Trips, Why Go Sailing

≈ 2 Comments

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IMGP7592 Goose Island, in foreground

The end of this fall trip is approaching, and I’m back in the Connecticut River, spending a few days each in various favorite spots. One of these is in back of Goose Island, a little north of the I-95 bridge in the town of Old Lyme. Every night, for a bunch of September and some of October, Goose Island, which is completely flat and entirely covered in reeds, is the gathering place for thousands and thousands of migrating tree swallows. This would be extraordinary in itself, but it’s more than that. Each evening, as they get ready to settle for the night, the birds fly in, according to some reports from as far as 30 miles away. At first they all fly around in a loose, meandering group, gradually expanding in number as the sun approaches the horizon. Quite a few birds come from the north, roughly following the river. Anchored upstream, you can see them go by in various small groups as evening approaches, and at Goose Island itself the numbers gradually grow, until the sky over the island is completely thick with birds.

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~~Click on photos once, and then again, to zoom in – I sure would love to see good quality photos of this, done by somebody with the skills and equipment to do it justice. In the meantime, here are my own… ~~

This event is rather well-known in the area, and as the birds approach, so do the people. Kayaks, small motorboats, and sometimes a larger boat find their way up the creek in back of the island. On the main river, on the other side of the island, a tour boat routinely brings larger groups, and motorboats can be heard beyond the tall reeds. Most folks come by some sort of water-craft, because there is no public access to the nearby shore. This shore is lined with upscale homes, also with people on the lookout for the evening birds. And it’s clear that the occupants of those homes are inviting their friends: sounds of cocktail parties, and gatherings of 10 or 15 people at the private dock/boat ramp on the shore are often seen, especially on a pretty weekend evening. Going in to that creek for the birds involves some fascinating people-watching along with the wildlife.

According to reports on the Internet, estimates are that there are as many as 300,000 birds in these evening gatherings, and I believe it. Looking up into the full group is like watching snow, when it falls in giant flakes, and you look toward the clouds and the three-dimensionality of the endless flakes above you gives a completely different perspective to the air overhead. The birds are like that – black flecks, near and farther up, and farther again, all moving, like snowflakes coming down in a swirling breeze.

At some point, the timing of which seems to vary from one evening to the next, the birds begin to shift from flying in a loose, vaguely defined cloud, to moving together, flowing in swirls and patterns. They bunch more closely, with sharply defined edges to their individual flocks. They wheel and turn, flowing up and down, to the side, shimmering in something that recalls the movements of the northern lights. It can take your breath away, and people on shore, and in their boats, can be heard exclaiming at the best of the self-choreographed patterns. IMGP7293 (2)

Apparently the scientists have something to say about gathering for self protection, and all that, but to me it looks like moving energy. Not a coincidence, the similarity to the patterns of northern lights – what if the birds are following shapes in the electromagnetic fields that are all around us? Or other energetic pathways not so clearly defined by science? It feels like a cosmic gift, the opportunity to witness this extraordinary display. Sometimes they seem done, and then they begin again, tightly organized and flowing, shimmering, this way and that.

As the daylight starts to go, what the birds are up to changes again. Some nights sooner, and others later, but very near to when the sun is below the horizon and it’s becoming hard to see, the swallows start to drop. Sometimes it’s like rain: the thick, dark cloud is above, and it seems like the birds relax their wings, or something, because they simply fall. Straight down, directly into the island reeds. In droves. There is the most amazing rustle, a whooshing sound, as thousands of birds drop, and disappear into the reeds. I’d love to see how they all fit in there, once landed. IMGP7297

Other times, it’s like a tornado. Rather than dropping like rain, the birds funnel themselves into one tiny section of the larger island, a couple hundred yards square of what must be a good 10 acres or so of island reeds overall. From their cloud in the sky, the birds swirl down, creating a spiral path, pouring themselves out of the air, to the ground. Again the rustle, which I originally thought was the sound of birds in the leaves of the dry reeds. But witnessing this repeatedly, it became clear that the rustle happened before birds reached plants. Something to do, I guess, with how they relax their wings to drop in that way, and the wind brushes through their feathers. One hopes for no trains, or passing boat engines, to obscure that sound. In 56 years on the planet, I’ve never heard anything like it. It’s special, to hear a completely new sound – and even better, a sound that comes with such a magical activity. IMGP7300

Earlier in the evening, the blackbirds come – in nothing like the same numbers, but in tight, choreographed groups, that suddenly settle onto the island. They make that noise too, and again, somehow, in the morning when they leave. The blackbirds seem to like to start their day in groups, the same way that they finish it. The tree swallows, on the other hand, slip away with no fanfare. I’ve tried and tried to see that many thousands of birds come back up from the reeds. A group here, or there, but nothing that would account for the clouds that descend in the evening. Maybe they slip out low to the river, on the other side of the island – one day I’ll anchor over there, if there’s not too much traffic, and see what I can see.

As it is, I had the opportunity to witness this miracle six times. Three in a stopover for days on the way south down the river, and then when I was in that creek again for three nights this past week. Now about 5 miles farther north, getting the boat collected for haul-out in Deep River, I watch in the evening as swallow-groups fly south, cutting across the land at the bend in the river. I know where they’re going, and hold that extraordinary image in my mind, swirling birds, dropping like rain.

Two Stories

21 Thursday Aug 2014

Posted by shemaya in How Does This Work, Junk Rig, the boat, Why Go Sailing

≈ 4 Comments

So let’s get real, on the subject of fear. Now and then people say to me, or they say to my friends, something about me being brave, with all this boat stuff. And I have to say, it’s not exactly bravery. There’s something to do with psychic muscle – so many plans made, so many people helping, so much generosity received. Such an opportunity, not to be left to pass by, floating away down the stream. So you say yes, and get in the boat. But it gets harder to leave, every time.

Suzanne and I have bought a house – by the water, on the coast, in Maine. Gradually, through some combination of miracles that I cannot properly see ahead, I believe that we will actually move. But it makes departure from home – this home, of these last many years – that much more difficult, even just for a sail. The summer is so sweet: ignoring the city sounds, hearing crickets and katydids, and the soft summer smells, Massachusetts hardwood forest, and a yard full of plants, August-green. Never mind the traffic, and the music from the cars and the bar down the street. Katydids, and crickets. Daytime birds, and the night, late, when the street finally goes quiet.

How to leave? Knowing that I will probably not live again in this house, in August, with the summer smells, and night sounds of the raucous insects. I grew up in Massachusetts, and then went so far away, for so long. Utah, Arizona, California, and years in southern New Hampshire, not the same. Lived in the pine forest, in another corner of Massachusetts – beautiful, but no summer meadow. Arrival to the warmth of new friends is beautiful, and sweet. It’s the departures that I can’t stand.

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There was a date set: August 18, 2014. A Monday, with fine weather, and early in the week to avoid the heavy summer boat traffic on the river, and their big wakes at the ramp and adjacent dock. Melissa and Richard were set to bring their truck to Holyoke (from Maine – kind souls) to haul the boat and pop it in the water. Friends in Deep River were welcoming, with a spot at their dock all ready to go. And still, I was conflicted. For all the above reasons, as well as practicalities to do with the unfinished tasks. More rigging, especially – so much easier at home. Still, it could have been done.

On the Thursday before, as every day since we set this date three weeks earlier, Suzanne and I went off for projects – this particular morning, more work on the wiring in the mainmast. We completed the connections at the top of the mast, and with a small 12 V battery clipped to the lower end of the wires, confirmed, with satisfaction, that the Bebi-adapted tricolor and the anchor light both worked. Next it was on to the lower end of the wires.

There are so many opportunities for mistakes in a complex, long project such as this, and they are inevitable. In the normal, unhurried course of things this is not a terribly big problem – annoying at the time, and/or embarrassing, but over the long stretch of months or years, not particularly significant. For example, cutting a wire too short. Sadly, or perhaps for the best, I did that with one of our mast wires. There are reasons that this happened, clear in retrospect, but that did nothing for the 12 V wire that was now going to need more heat shrinks, and fuss, and complications with needing an extra person to help turn the mast in the garage so doing all that would be possible. All this on Thursday, when Friday morning was our chance to go forward with planned help for the items assigned to that day – NOT putting scant time into resolving this admittedly small complication.

In a fit of frustration, I blurted out “I don’t even want to GO on this trip!” That has been so hard to prepare for, working these last weeks, Suzanne at least as tired as I, and equally frazzled. The ache of leaving, again. The boat not really ready, and myself either.

In the end, thanks to that pesky wire, and the two of us out there crying in the driveway, together we pulled the metaphorical plug on this launch plan. It’s the best decision I’ve made in ages. I miss the sailing, and seeing everybody, and the quiet water. But I don’t miss the strain of departure, and the difficulties of sorting out the boat necessities so far from our handy shop. Tables for stretching out the mainsail with all its long battens, in comfortable positions for attaching the rest of the zillion lines and fussy ties. Sawhorses for masts, in easy locations in the shade, happy in the yard, tying on halyards and everything else. And I don’t miss the fear.

A few days ago, Monday the 18th arrived, and passed, here at home. All day long I felt extra happy to be here. Now there’s a sign of a right decision! Work on the boat has continued, with comfort, and relaxed joy. Not without complication – it turns out that it’s really good that we didn’t leave, because drilling for the mainmast retaining pin has not been simple. And neither has raising and lowering that mast. There will be more to say about this, over time. But presently, the bottom line is that perhaps the boat will go in the water this fall, or perhaps not. It’s only August, and there are still September and October after all. Having missed the last two years of summer and early fall here at home, it might be just perfect to stay, and savor. The water is not going anywhere, and spring will come soon.

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Brain Retraining

28 Monday Jul 2014

Posted by shemaya in How Does This Work, Why Go Sailing

≈ 4 Comments

This discussion of brain retraining is sort of about sailing, and sort of not. It’s also part of the reason why the boat is presently in the driveway, in July, with projects happily going forward but still at home on solid ground.

“Brain retraining” is a technique for healing, based on relatively recent research on the workings of the “limbic system.” This system is mostly in the brain, and has quite a lot to do with humans’ – and other creatures’ – fight/flight/freeze responses. Limbic system processes, and appropriate function, are thoroughly intertwined with immune system activity, muscle tone, joint tension, digestion, and neurological function. Doesn’t that just cover the works!

For very many years, whenever the question of explaining my health situation has come up, I have done my best to delicately sidestep the entire subject. Over the course of decades, I’ve run through a variety of diagnoses, and some of them have been true – Lyme disease, for one. But my gut feeling has been that none of those labels tells the full story, and anyway, talking about it has just made me cringe. If things are going well, talking about it often messes it up, and if things are going in a more difficult way, I’d also just as soon not go into it, other than necessary basics so that people have a context for a request for some kind of help. It’s been hard to explain why I feel this way, but it feels best to honor that sense of things, and so for the most part, including in this blog, I don’t say a whole lot about it. Regardless, here’s this post… The subject of brain retraining feels important, as does a certain amount of context, for understanding why.

Sometime this past spring I heard, somehow in the right way, or at the right time for it to sink in, about brain retraining as it relates to multiple chemical sensitivities (MCS), chronic fatigue, and fibromyalgia. There are strong immune system connections too, which obviously have a bearing on long-term microbial diseases, but the folks who know a lot don’t have much to say about that. They’d probably be sitting ducks for problems with the medical establishment if they did, so the rest of us are left to put it together for ourselves. Fortunately, that’s not hard!

The big news is that two different people have, somewhat independently, created protocols for addressing MCS, chronic fatigue, fibromyalgia and sensitivity to electric/electromagnetic fields, by working with calming what’s explained as a vicious cycle/feedback loop of overactivity in the limbic system. By calming the limbic system, and thereby coming out of a constant state of fight/flight/freeze response, one’s body has a chance to heal. “Healing” is, somewhat ironically, shut down during fight/flight/freeze responses. This is because those responses are designed for things like escape from attacking tigers, based on the evolved wisdom that if you don’t get away from the tiger, diverting all resources to that task, nothing else is going to matter in the least. Healing/cellular repair, digestion, immune system/disease response all go on hold, while muscle tone, tightened joints, wide eyes, and everything else needed for alertness and quick getaways receives all the blood supply and everything else. Designed for a few minutes of use at a time, staying in this limbic system alarm state for the long term doesn’t work out very well. Muscles and joints tire, energy levels become depleted, and effects of ongoing diminished function of neurological, digestive, and immune systems add up more and more.

There’s a whole bunch of material about how one can end up in a chronic state of limbic system alert – childhood trauma can contribute, as can a variety of adult life experiences, including physical and/or psychological injuries, and life stresses. There’s lots to read on the subject, if anybody is interested, and references are listed below. There are also, now, some very good resources available about how to actively develop limbic system calm. Quite a number of people with serious, life altering health issues have been having enormous shifts, working with these practices. It’s dramatic. I personally know some of those people, and it was enough to get my attention when I heard about what they were up to, being seen out and about town, looking quite well.

One of the brain retraining practitioners refers to this constantly triggered limbic system issue as “limbic system impairment.” I have mixed feelings about considering another “impairment” identity, but the overall explanation matches my experience exactly. It even matches when things got better a number of years ago, and I was on my feet for several years – and then when that changed again, to getting around not so much. It’s amazing to see all the pieces drop into place. It even explains my experience of sailing (I really will get back to this).

When I experienced healing, a number of years ago – going from a number of years of full-time electric wheelchair use to walking the woods, folk dancing, and driving across the country – I never could tell anybody why it changed. I could point to this and that, but I had no idea what really did the trick. In retrospect, because of a combination of life circumstances, and people, my limbic system had the opportunity to relax – and then things just got better. Some time after that, my mother died, and then 11 months later, my grandmother. I felt things begin to turn, after my mom died, and by a few months after we all lost my grandmother, things with my health were increasingly complicated. That’s when I quit driving, because of reflex issues mentioned in that post about “sailing as accessible transportation.” I was still having a good time – the Falmouth cutter sailing was in there, after the driving was done – and then the Lyme thing went crazy, knees, etc. etc.

Now, over 10 years after the beginning of the knees thing, the situation has had ups, and it’s had downs, with some kind of pattern that was not readily discernible. Lyme fits in there, and so does working on issues related to surviving, and recovering from, childhood and adult trauma. Health issues typically addressed by the brain retraining folks are all everyday parts of my experience, except for perhaps electromagnetic sensitivity, which I prefer not to think about. Now, with this new information about limbic system function, it’s like lining up a transparent drawing over the jumbled, chaotic picture of my life, and watching all the shapes line up, between the transparency and the hidden lines in the full picture. The transparent drawing is a key, and it actually fits.

As I said earlier, there are a couple of people who have developed protocols for addressing health issues using this new understanding of limbic system feedback loops. There are similarities between the two protocols, and one of those similarities is that they both say “practice this devotedly for six months, and then assess if it’s working.” Some people see dramatic changes a lot faster than that, and for others it takes more time. Surprisingly, about 80% of those who stick with it experience either substantial, or complete, recovery of their health. Of course some people are probably dropping out because they can sense that for them it’s not the right thing, or because they have inadequate support, or for any number of other reasons – those who have dropped out are not counted in the 80%. Still, it’s impressive.

So then there’s that six-month commitment – one of the practitioners says specifically not to undertake this in the middle of some big life change, like moving, or starting a new job. I’ve taken that to mean that it’s unrealistic to try to retrain your limbic system for calm while in the midst of uncertainty and unusual demands. While sailing is fun, and satisfying, it’s also completely filled with uncertainty and unusual demands! There is tension that goes with good seamanship, and successful arrival at the next safe harbor.

On the one hand, one of the techniques of brain retraining is to ask new and different things of your brain – funny exercises that shake brain patterns out of old habits are a part of the work. For example one gets to practice the Stroop test, reading words for colors that are printed in ink colors different from the words that are written, trying to read the words, or trying to say the colors, without reverting to the contradictory input. It’s surprisingly challenging. “Yellow” might be written in blue ink, and darned if you don’t say “blue” when you’re trying to say the written words!

When it comes to sailing, there are a broad variety of considerations; sailing is so multi-faceted. On the one hand, there are many opportunities for high concentration involving new, unexpected input, which is just perfect for brain retraining. Sailing at night, for example, is like this, with the completely different look and feel of both landmarks and waves. And the motion of the boat, day or night, is a constant new experience for body and mind. On the other hand, there are completely stressful events, including things like ships moving unpredictably, weather changes (anticipated or otherwise), anchors that might be set – or maybe not. And there is the rather unrelenting attention required: “situational awareness,” keeping track of traffic, weather, and navigation, and basic but crucial details, like not falling off the boat.

It’s a funny mix, sailing, and I think that at times the balance has come out, for me, on the positive side as far as support for limbic system calm, and resulting health improvements. Other times, it’s gone more the other way. Last year, for example, in 2013, I had a whole bunch of wonderful experiences. At the same time, the stressful side of things was heavily on my mind, and physically the whole undertaking was much more challenging than the previous year. With my current understanding, I can see the snowball effect of my worry about the various stresses. This is the vicious cycle/feedback loop that can happen with limbic system alert messages, which go to the cortex for checking, and come back to the limbic system with the message that yes, there is a problem. Uninterrupted, the limbic system goes further into alert mode, with further checking and intellectual confirmation, and physical difficulties that result from ongoing alert become progressively worse. Prompting more worries, and more alert… On it goes, not particularly comfortably.

Interestingly, “brain fog” is another of the potential outcomes of runaway limbic system feedback loops. Brain fog was another issue with which I struggled while sailing in 2013, and it was the source of the Cog Dys post from January, 2014. While I still think that issues discussed in that post are relevant, I am fascinated by the interconnections between limbic system function, and brain retraining, when it comes to the experience of brain fog.

Learning a new way of thinking, it turns out, actually changes the physical size and distribution of neurons in the brain. Folks working on recovery from strokes, and traumatic brain injuries, have been demonstrating a whole lot about this (see the work of Norman Doidge, referenced below, and Jill Bolte Taylor). It’s pretty amazing – what a person thinks, repeatedly, actually develops the physical size of neurons. When you change your thinking, say from stress about pain, to thoughts of wonderful experiences, even though there happens to also be pain going on, the neurons associated with triggering that pain become physically smaller. Wow.

Busting out sailing, for the first time in years, there is so much delight to be had, along with mental challenges and varied experience; the combination can make for a lot of limbic system calm, and a lot of healing. I came home from seven months of sailing in 2012 in pretty good shape. That next winter, the wheelchair seen in occasional photos became a place to pile things up in the house. I didn’t hike all that far, but inside the house and outside to the yard, with places to lie down, was working out pretty well. When we launched the boat in 2013 I didn’t really want to leave, but felt like it was somehow important. And in fact, it was important: sailing into Gouldsboro, and Belfast; so many wonderful visits, up and down the coast; and all those whales, from Cape Cod to Maine. But I lost a bunch of ground, physically. No more piling stuff up on the wheelchair for months, and back to needing a good bit more help, once I got home.

Presently, about three months into a daily practice of brain retraining, there is positive change. It’s got potential. We do plan to launch the boat – I really want to see how that junk rig works – but I haven’t been in such a hurry. Now that there’s been time to become familiar with this new brain practice, it should be possible to carry it on board. But in the meantime, the mental challenges of a new rig and everything else we’ve been up to, right here at home, have been just perfect.

So we’ll see what happens, on all fronts…

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Brain Retraining Resources

Programs:

Ashok Gupta http://www.guptaprogramme.com/ This one has a really coherent explanation of how limbic system feedback loops work. That explanation is included in the introductory videos that are free on YouTube. The order of the videos is jumbled up – you can go from one to the next, in order, by finding the appropriate title on the page at this link: (The presentation starts with session 1, part one, which is probably all the way down at the bottom of the page.) https://www.youtube.com/user/GuptaProgramme/videos?sort=dd&shelf_id=0&view=0 Or you can sign up for free links through the Gupta Program website. In exchange for receiving some of their e-mails, you get links for the full presentations all in order.

Annie Hopper http://www.dnrsystem.com/ There are online videos here too, though they are not the actual beginning of her DVD program. This program is not as focused on meditation, and “supportive services” are particularly well developed. She also has quite a full schedule of in person programs available in various parts of North America and now in Europe.

Neither the Gupta nor the Hopper program is “perfect,” to my mind, but each includes an abundance of information, tools, and techniques for developing limbic system calm, and thus overall healing. Both are effective in themselves, and as resources for understanding the considerations and developing one’s own approach.

Neuroplasticity books/websites:

Norman Doidge
book: The Brain That Changes Itself
website: http://www.normandoidge.com/normandoidge.com/MAIN.html
YouTube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ibpbkV7xc24
A YouTube search for Norman Doidge brings up a number of interesting presentations.

Jill Bolte Taylor
book: My Stroke of Insight
TED talk: http://www.ted.com/talks/jill_bolte_taylor_s_powerful_stroke_of_insight
This is not strictly about limbic systems and brain retraining – but it’s an impressive and fascinating piece of work about brain process and experience, and healing.

Lissa Rankin http://mindovermedicinebook.com/videos/ This page has four videos – I found the last one particularly helpful on the limbic system subject.

Book list (many authors) from Annie Hopper http://www.dnrsystem.com/resources.html

There’s a whole lot more out there, available by following the Google trail for related terms, as well as references and introductory videos and text in the Gupta and Hopper website materials…

[A follow-up to this post, “Brain Retraining On Board,” appears in October 2014, and can be found here: http://sailingauklet.com/2014/10/26/brain-retraining-on-board/ ]

Jewel Island

01 Saturday Feb 2014

Posted by shemaya in Trips, Why Go Sailing

≈ 4 Comments

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There’s nothing like January in New England to inspire a person to be a little over-serious. Serious is good too, but it’s nice to remember things like the following, as well.

Earlier this winter I finally learned how to include photos in the blog wherever I want them, rather than having them always place themselves at the top of the post. The secret, for anybody else who has had this puzzle, is that WordPress does not like older versions of Internet Explorer. Running the blog site from my shiny new version of Mozilla Firefox, suddenly all the controls work! The possibilities are a little mind-boggling, but for starters, it means that I can start doing more with the many photos from those months of sailing in 2013. Here’s a beginning:

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Jewel Island is in Casco Bay, which is the first big bay as you go north and east along the coast of Maine. It’s the one that has Portland within it, and South Freeport, with L.L. Bean, and the Harraseeket River, with my favorite seafood chowder anywhere. Casco Bay also has zillions of islands, ranging from protected and close-in to the mainland shore, to those on the outside, bordering the open ocean. Jewel Island is one of those on the outside edge of the bay, and is one of my favorite places, anywhere.

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For starters, nobody lives there. The entire island is conservation land, open to the public, with a lovely network of trails, and numerous campsites along the shore. And it has a fantastic harbor, protected from most directions. All of these attributes make this spot enormously popular with a whole bunch of people besides me, and this can be a challenge. When I arrived in 2013, on a beautiful day, there was a lot happening there already. 10 or 15 boats were in the harbor, with camping groups going back and forth from boats to the shore, beer in hand. As the afternoon went on, more boats arrived.

On the bright side, everybody is in a good mood, and some fascinating vessels come and go, including everything from enormous and elegant sailboats, mixed in with the more predictable plastic, to a couple who rowed the long way out in a home built dory. There are campfires on the bluff along the shore, and folks to laugh with about how cold the water is, when they come by as you swim around the boat, rubbing algae off the water line. It gets quieter after dark, and in the morning the crowd begins to thin out.

The grand social event is fun, when not overdone. This time around, I had the great blessing of impending wet and foggy weather. By the next evening almost everybody was gone, and by the day after that I was the only one there. The harbor is not well protected from the northeast, but this storm very kindly came from the south, and gently, leaving me perfectly snug. Between showers I paddled around in the packraft, touching rocks, and the needles on overhanging trees.

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Eventually I acquired a neighbor, and then the weather cleared. My next stop was the Harraseeket River, and that lovely chowder, along with a meeting for shore support. People talked about how bad the weather had been, but it seemed to lift their spirits when I said how incredibly happy I had been having Jewel Island all to myself, as a result of all those days of rain and fog. I would do it again in a flash, just that way.

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