All sails raised

Apart from the disappearance of our cat a few years earlier, my kids hadn’t had any close encounters with death as such.

I always make a point of avoiding taboos and tense nerves when it comes to the subject.

I’d rather they grow up without fear or aversion towards it, because I believe that’s where all other fears stem from. So I go about life (and death) treating both realms with equal measures of transcendence.

There we were, pedalling our way to the harbour to meet the dead man and the living woman.

I realised that amidst the chaotic jump-start of the day, I hadn’t mentioned to the kids the unavoidable change in breakfast plans.

They still didn’t know Clinton was dead, and because I was unaware of the level of drama we would encounter at the harbour, I decided to pull over and give them the news myself, on the side of the road.

It was a good call, because on arrival we parked our bikes to the sound of loud screams and sobs, which would have been an emotional tide too shocking for the young crew had they not been informed in advance.

A faint smile emerged between the rivers of tears on Max’s red face when she noticed our presence.

She was glad to see a familiar face, as the rest of the international ragtag flotilla had arrived in the country after us, and she hadn’t had much to do with any of them.

She was gagging to fall into someone’s embrace. I offered my arms, and she stayed there shaking like a leaf for some long seconds.

Around us stood the harbour master and a few other sailors who had taken part in the early morning events.

They looked exhausted, traumatised, still in shock—and relieved that we had arrived to help steer the ship through the uncharted waters of postmortem protocols.

We gathered isolated pieces of the puzzle from comments made by those around us.

Clinton had been experiencing intense discomfort from gout in recent weeks (which had delayed their sailing departure), and apparently, he had woken up that morning in a strange state : delirious behaviour, pain, aggression.

He was stumbling through the cramped space inside the little yacht, searching for something he couldn’t find: fresh air.

He squeezed through the front hatch, shouting, as if that would somehow help him harvest more oxygen from the air around him.

He was drowning at anchor.

Two nearby yachts heard and saw his struggle.

It must have been surreal: a young, healthy-looking man battling for his life on the deck of a small white yacht, floating on murky river water, wrapped in the thick breath of jungle humidity.

Both skippers jumped into their respective dinghies and approached the eye of the storm.

An ambulance was called, first aid attempted, hectic endeavors to keep the man on this side of the veil.

Eventually, he lost balance, tripped and fell over the side, landing half in the water, half on one of the dinghies that had come to the rescue.

The skippers hauled him aboard the inflatable tender and brought him to shore.

By the time the ambulance arrived, Clinton had already left, with all his sails raised, into the ocean of infinity.

It must be so beautifully liberating, that timeless second when you surrender into the vast unknown and become free from all pain and limitations of the physical human body.

I truly hope he had a blissful departure.

As for the rest of us left behind, still inhabiting our corporeal cages, we set to work.

Funeral, cremation, accommodation on land, immigration arrangements, airplane tickets, boat disposal: everything was harmoniously orchestrated thanks to the unwavering strength of the international community.

This shared experience brought us even closer, and had the collateral effect of deepened gratitude and appreciation for sailing on this side of the veil, for now.