Bailing with my bucket list

“Honey? You there? I’m having phone issues,” I shouted, a finger plugging one ear.

“Where are you?” my husband, Francis, asked, struggling to hear through the loud music and voices surrounding me. 

“Outside Bermuda Yacht Club — it’s the only place I can get a Wifi signal.  Listen …,” I continued, eager to relay an important update to my travel plans before my cell lost service. 

Two days prior, I’d flown to Bermuda to check a big item off my bucket list — to meet up with the crew of Alliance, a 40-foot sailboat in the 2024 Newport to Bermuda Race, a bi-annual offshore competition involving over 160 sailboats. 

I wasn’t on the race team, but for nine months I’d been practicing and preparing to sail on Alliance’s return crew, tasked with sailing the boat back home to Rhode Island after the race. I’d dreamed of an opportunity like this since 2005, when I took beginner sailing lessons at the Norfolk Navy Base Marina. Weekends, Francis watched our three kids while I practiced in dinghies on Willoughby Spit, yearning to become a real sailor. 

However, like most military spouses, my bucket list came secondary to military life. After two summers of lessons, a PCS to Germany brought my sailing adventures to a screeching halt. Three moves later, we were stationed in Newport, Rhode Island, where I took more lessons at the base marina, hoping I’d get the chance to apply all those lessons to real sailing. 

Last summer, I was ready to give up, when I met Alliance’s skippers at a base social event. They invited me to be on Alliance’s delivery crew, including the return sail from the 2024 Bermuda race. Finally, I had my chance! 

But as my luck would have it, the night before my flight to Bermuda to meet Alliance at the finish line, the boat struck an object in the Gulf Stream and sank. All crew abandoned ship and were rescued by another racing vessel. 

I was crushed. Not only for my friends who’d be devastated by the loss of their sailboat, but also, selfishly, for me. I’d lost my opportunity to become a real sailor. 

But maybe not.

“… I was offered a return crew position on another boat,” I yelled into my phone.

“What?!” Francis blurted. “You’re not going, right?” 

“Alliance’s folks checked everything out. They say it’s a solid boat with an experienced skipper. We’ll be safe, so I’m going,” I said loudly. 

Francis was not happy. 

We sailed out of Hamilton Harbor aboard Heart of Gold, headed for Annapolis, Maryland. I shared a berth and responsibilities with another female crew mate named Lisa Schmitt. They named us Schmitty and Mo, and put us to work.

On the third day, southerly winds became northerly, as a low pressure front met us in the Gulf Stream. Switching from a port to starboard tack, all hell broke loose. Waves rose to 12 feet, wind gusted to 30 knots, and a squall unleashed buckets of rain. But on day five, we made it to the Chesapeake Bay, surfing following seas and fair winds all the way to Annapolis.

Stepping onto the dock that night after 750 miles at sea, I was filled with gratitude for the hands-on, intense learning experience I’d dreamed of for two decades. I’d done it. I was a real sailor.

“You still mad?” I asked gently after Francis picked me up at the Providence Airport. He shook his head, but the look on his face told otherwise.

A couple of days later, I couldn’t take it anymore. “Clearly, you’re still upset, so let’s have it out!” I blurted. I hated fighting with Francis, but this was necessary. I braced myself for a doozy. 

Words flew like flying fish, none of them landing on deck until I said tearfully, “Why can’t you be happy for me? You’ve done so many things while I was home with the kids — white-water rafting on the Nile, flying in a sea plane in Alaska, looking for poachers in a helicopter in Botswana, …” I went on, naming the wild adventures Francis had had during 28 years on active duty. His face suddenly softened. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, hugging me, finally realizing that I was entitled to chase my dreams, too.