It has been said that traveling, any kind, gives you the opportunity to tell new stories about yourself.  My first trip was early and short; I was less than a week old when I traveled from St. Boniface, Manitoba, where I was born, over the bridge to Winnipeg, where I grew up. 

My next trips were frequent and scattered through my childhood and youth.  Sometimes by train, but mostly by car, we would cross the country to visit my father’s family in Saskatoon, Toronto, and Montreal or cross the border to visit my mother’s family in Minnesota and Connecticut.  My sister Susan and my brother Ross and I, all dressed in our Davy Crockett jackets, spent most of the trip pinching each other to defend our indiscernible territorial space in the back seat.  We weren’t very interested in the ephemeral flora and fauna, but the destinations were always fascinating and the visits with our cousins enthralled us.  Another early impression of the world being considerably larger than my neighborhood came from the summers we spent in Gimli, a working fishing village less than an hour’s drive from Winnipeg, settled by an Icelandic population, with its own distinct, intact culture. 

I had to revisit that hospital in St. Boniface on numerous occasions.  One time, at age seventeen, I met Patricia, a woman of indeterminate age with a great sense of grace and humor.  When we were both discharged she invited me to lunches and teas at her apartment.  Patricia, like most of the people in St. Boniface, was French Canadian, and she insisted that we speak only French each time we met.  Culturally and gastronomically I could not have been further from my roots.  It was only a twenty minute drive but it was exotic and it gave me the opportunity to tell a lot of new stories about myself.  I’m not surprised that I was enchanted with the idea of seeing myself in new and different places very early on.

Shahar, the 26 foot boat in which the author
sailed thousands of miles

People who knew just how small our boat was thought I was either very brave or completely out of my mind.  It did indeed feel as though there was little separating us from the mighty oceans, especially in extreme conditions.  There is no escape hatch in the midst of a storm, nor are there distractions.  Actually, this is a constructive element.  It made me completely attentive to the task at hand, and heightened my observation skills; two qualities that would help anyone begin the process of writing.  Another factor: I could be Judy’s second-hand witness, at least in describing the “set design” of her story.  I had sailed a similar route, and I had also sailed on the Melinda Lee for a month.   I had a further advantage.  My education and training in Radiology, and my experience with the Maritime Foundation had cultivated in me the ability to analyze the mass of documents in an objective and scientific manner.
Hester and Judy in Mexico - waiting for the
bus to provision for the sail to Costa Rica

It seems all of our life experiences and sensibilities come forth when we write. Still, I could not quell my ambivalence about my aptitude as a writer.  I had never kept a journal, taken a writing class, or nourished the creative side of myself in any particular way. 

So I wrote.  Shaped by my world view, informed by my own sentiments, I wrote.  I had a strong sense of how the story could be told, and as I wrote I learned not just what should be included, but what to throw out that didn’t work.  I wrote on my computer, but I also realized that I needed to have paper with me wherever I went.  I lost some great sentences that took form in my mind in the most inconvenient places and times.

 I learned how much of a commitment it would take to write a book, and not a little bit of courage as well.  The book invaded my life, and I wrote.  Once, I had to break away for an entire month.  I simply felt overwhelmed by the impossible sadness of it all.  And there were moments when the accounts in a document produced strong feelings of agitation and I’d take a time out.  I didn’t want to write from anger. And whatever my sentiments, I had a duty to be responsible to the truth, and the truth needed no exaggeration in this story. 

I didn’t have too much balance in my life as I wrote.  I maintain a strong interest in radiology and maritime safety.  I managed to train as part of a relay team for a triathlon, and I volunteered as a facilitator in an English-multilingual conversation group.  I presided over several weddings.  I loved the opportunity to travel and to meet all kinds of interesting people when it was required to do more thorough research for the book.  I want to continue to visit new countries, and to remain a responsible world citizen.  Closer to home, I am nourished by the love and support of friends and family, and I plan to do a better job of mending any bonds that were broken during my period of seclusion.  I intend to learn to speak Spanish, and to play the ukulele.

I am in the midst of writing several magazine articles on very disparate topics, but I have learned to write from a place of joy. I am certain that my goddaughter, Annie Rose Sleavin, would want that for me.

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Relevant literature that might be of interest to you:

Pathfinders: A Global History of Exploration, Felipe Fernandez-Armesto
We, the Navigators: the Ancient Art of Landfinding in the Pacific, David Lewis
Moby Dick, Herman Melville
The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner, Samuel Taylor Coleridge
The Secret Sharer, Joseph Conrad
The Penguin History of New Zealand, Michael King
The Path Between the Seas, David McCullough
The Outlaw Sea: A World of Freedom, Chaos, and Crime, William Langewiesche
The Stowaway, Robert Hough
The Colombo Bay, Richard Pollock
The Happy Isles of Oceania, Paul Theroux
Coasting: A Private Voyage, Jonathan Raban