*From Mexico to New Zealand aboard a sailboat. These are the dairies of one year cruising in the Pacific.
I walk across the hotel’s luxurious corridor coming back from the toilets to the dock. It’s like 7am, my hair is a mess as usual, and I am wearing my pijama shorts still when I pass the main entrance of the Mayan Palace. I show my ID and with the electronic key open the door, enter to the port. I walk fast and light signing for myself “The Cat Empire” … we believe … we support … living life cuz life is short… la la la … I see Suzan and Keith an American couple retired to the sea life at their 65yo. I pass trough blue and white boats, monohulls and multihulls, large yachts and motor boats, nodding once in a while till the end of the pier B 40 where En Pointe, the little yellow trimaran, is tight. I lightly jump on deck, took an apple, put some music on, sit cross legged on the shadow and watch the two big shiny yachts we have for neighbors and how they have been working on them every morning since the day they arrived. Ha, that reminds me! These days I’m in charge, being the only person on board while Tom is in the States.
So begins a typical day on the dock. In the morning the people from the boats filtered / intrudes the hotel to use the restroom before the tourists wake up. Then we turned on the radio, tune the channel for the net at 8am. Today I check in: “En Pointe, change.” I drink coffee while listening the gossips from the sailing world, the weather, who comes and goes, who is selling some-thing for how-many coconuts.
When normality was inverted and “different” is now “normal”??
I did not realize when talking with neighbors about nautical miles, port names, boat parts and supplies lists was becoming “normal” until the day I woke up in the morning knowing myself floating. Immersed in this world.
It would be fun to start calling home the Mayan Palace and its port. Although not far from a reality. In these weeks I’ve been crossing worlds without border formalities and passports stamped, worlds that have no territorial lines, which are collapsed into a single moment and geographical point...
Like Mrs. L, a lady who works at the hotel. I surprised listen to her talking about travels in the various countries she was working to send money to their children. She had a different view about the “boat people”. She talked about the type of sailors who rarely are seen ashore, traveling in comfortable and luxurious ships that require very little help from locals, those who are dressed in the whole outfit of nautical brands: sailing shirts, shorts, shoes, clock and even sailing socks.
“They live in different countries, in different seas, but always carry their own world inside their boat, where they eat and speak as always. No go and find out what are the places they pass through and say they have known Mexico after spending a few weeks in sun bathing. The only thing that changes is the view they see from the window.“
It is not about geography. In the same place are the worlds of the luxurious Mayan Hotel and the little sailing boats in the backyard, where we use a bucket as a toilet.
It is not about geography. Here in Puerto Vallarta is where I use to spent family holidays in my childhood, even my house is a few hours from here … and yet I feel so far away, as if I had now reached new distant lands being in the same Mexico.
It is not about geography. As Mrs. L said “some sailors are on different countries bringing their world within themselves, changing only the view from their windows”
It is not about geography. Neither the difference is to live at sea or land, or to be “traveling” or “local”…
In the same geographic point there are so many worlds where normality are interchangeable, on the same corner so many worlds, in the same port there are so many worlds.
The different worlds are here in this moment, in oneself.