We’ve become veterans of travel. We’ve mastered land, sky, and most recently, sea. And by sea I mean traveling by boat to places that can only be gotten to by boat (and planes, but we’re too cheap for that).
It started in El Salvador: our appreciation (and need) for the sea. Bypassing an extra five hours of travel, our pack of 39 boarded a large fishing boat and were told to prepare to get “a little wet.” Trash bags were chaotically passed out to throw our belongings in as the sun set behind us and the waves before us rolled into the boat, completely soaking us in shrieking laughter and salt. “A little wet” and “only a two hour ride” turned into a drenched extra half hour of shouts from “this is gonna make the best story!” to “I have to pee SO BAD” (contrary to popular belief, that last statement wasn’t me.) I jokingly entitled our excursion the Salty Sea Stories, thinking it’d be a one and done situation.
Not so.
Boat número dos came into our lives on a
Saturday morning at
6 am. After traveling all night, my team and I stepped into a creaky little panga, donned the obnoxiously cute orange life jackets and set out for Bluefields, the first leap of our Unsung Heroes month (read
HERE what UH is). The engine roared to life and within seconds, a few of us found ourselves in midair, hair whipping our faces oh so kindly. Turns out we’d chosen the VIP seats otherwise known as the front of the boat.
Boat three was a charmer. And by THAT I mean, it was the one we spent the most time with. Our second leap of faith was to the Corn Islands, reachable by a six hour voyage. Squishing three on a seat, we melted together in sweat, doing our best to avoid vomiting passengers behind us and completely missing out on the AC unit above us. Luck of the draw, folks.
Another Saturday morning introduced me to a woman named Isoleth Taylor, who was part of the Revival Tabernacle on Big Corn Island. Danica and I listened to her passion for evangelism and the youth on the island while God confirmed answers in our hearts for connecting her with Adventures in Missions. Because the island is so small, everyone either knows everyone, is related, or both. This works in favor for the handful of denominations, as their main goal is to “unite and conquer” the island for the Kingdom. We asked Isoleth to be the point person for future teams to partner with the churches. We said goodbye to our new sister and taxied off to the wharf for the yacht* taking us to Little Corn Island.
*yacht is a loose term for a boat larger than a panga. It’s a slow moving vessel, adding double the time to your sea travel. If choosing the luck of the draw again, the beaut will blow smoke and dirt all over you covering you in ocean war paint and blackening your feet.
Our next boat was a smooth twenty minute panga ride back to Big Corn. Smooth meaning I picked the worst seat again (will I ever learn) and had to sit under a tarp to avoid waterlash (whiplash from water?). I couldn’t help but smile at the continuation of stories–and lower half of me getting completely soaked.
Due to bad weather and an upset ocean, we were marooned on Big Corn for a few extra days, forcing us to leave by plane (and fork over a larger handful of cash). Please excuse the interruption from the salty sea stories due to a fifteen minute plane ride.
Continue.
This (yes, Saturday) morning commenced our final panga voyage and hands down our smoothest experience of the month. Bumpy and uncomfortable just the way we like it, but delivered us perfectly on time to our six hour bus, which I am now sitting on.
Our last month of the Race has been full of travel and adventure and stories. God has been faithful in his provision and imagination. I don’t think there’s a better way to sum up the salty sea stories than with an excerpt from the mind of yours truly on dramamine (boat #3).
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We are packed like sardines. A more appropriate saying for this setting as we are on the open sea.
The sun is hot and bright, doing its job of heating my white skin to a crisp. In an unorganized fashion, we bought tickets, threw our bags below, found wooden seats exited off the boat in order to hand over our tickets (which resulted in a semi mob of pushing and poking over the rickety wooden plank that connected land to boat) and now, here I sit. My feet are peeking out from the railing and I’m trying my hardest to ignore my aching back from sitting in crouched positions for the last 5 hours.
I’ve never been drawn to water, but the feeling out here is grand, to say the least. As we stood on the side looking out over the vibrant blue meshing with white foam, I realized there was nothing in sight but water. Us, sky, and water. It’s kind of terrifying yet also freeing. But isn’t freedom a little bit of terror mixed with curiosity?
This entire sail has been a struggle to keep eyes open. We all took seasick pills (obviously the correct term) and have been in and out of consciousness since then. For future reference, life jackets make decent pillows and sleeping pads.
By far the best part though is when I stand alone on the side and look out over the vastness. The wind is perfectly cool and whips my hair around, as if to say, “you’re welcome.” The sun no longer feels crispy and overdone, but warm and cheerful. The taste of salt and gritty layer of sea on my skin makes me feel like I’ve accepted the adventure–I am covered in adventure.
I don’t want to forget moments like this. When I said yes to unknown, said yes to uncomfortable quarters, said yes to dirty feet and sticky skin and the salty sea. It’s wonderful out here, and there’s no place like it on land. I’m doing my best to soak it up despite my drooping eyelids. It’s beautiful and I’m alive. And heaven will somehow feel like this.
