They say you can hear the ocean calling.
I
must have heard my name sometime between second and third grade. Before
I ever saw the sea, I took an avid interest in an over-sized picture
book on the Titanic, during school library sessions.
At
the age of 12, I finally got to see the ocean. I remember gawking as I
walked over a sand dune and saw the murky blue-green sea for the first
time in my life.
I
was hooked – and the sea became an obsession. Shortly after declaring
to my family that I wanted to be a Marine Biologist, I took a school
Biology trip along the east coast of America. The morning we spent on a
reeling fishing boat, my lifelong friend and environmental chum Andrea
turned a deeper shade of pea-green with each heave of the vessel. I, on
the other hand, loved the feeling of wind whipping through my hair, salt
spray on my clothes, and turbulence as we lurched back to shore.
It
took another decade until I sailed again on the sea, but not as a
Marine Biologist. In the meantime, I took an altered course and landed a
publishing gig with a magazine in the UK.
Whilst
gallivanting through the British Isles, I visited a local exhibition
featuring non-profits. Mercy Ships soon caught my eye. A giant poster of
a white ship loomed over ‘before and after surgery’ photos of a baby
born with a cleft lip.
I
thought of my own cleft palate, sewn together in a Chicago hospital
years before. I was fortunate. In a world where cleft lips and palates
make up the second most common birth defect, my mother gave birth to me
in a society where my problem was repairable; hospitals affordable.
As
a child, I watched a television program that focused on a teenage girl
with a cleft lip. I don’t know where she was from – I seem to recall
some country too distant in my comprehension to be real. My adolescent
eyes must have been bulging at seeing the girl’s three lips though,
because I do remember my mother explaining to me that if my cleft palate
had been worse, I might have been born with a birth defect like that.
I silently thanked God that I only had two lips.
I
had the same kind of thankfulness as I paused to pick up a brochure –
floating hospitals that sail into a port and deliver aid, free surgeries
and offer training and education to those less fortunate – my dream job
stared me in the face.
I
made my way to the ship in Europe, as the vessel began a public
relations tour before heading off to Africa. There, the ship would drum
up support, collect donations, recruit staff, procure supplies and pack
in cargo. Working in the Communications Department I hosted visiting
media teams, wrote PR material and took photos.
For
the next three years, I lived, worked and ate with 350 other people in
this floating community, all while sleeping in claustrophobic cabins –
most of the time shared between three of us at once. The crew was a mix
of people from 40 countries, made up of singles, couples, families, even
children – all volunteers who had given up salaries (we all actually
paid to ‘volunteer’ onboard), friends, jobs, and their space to serve
the poor and needy in the developing nations we sailed to – all because
they believed in something bigger than their every day life.
The
ocean proved glorious – I never tired of sailing, sea salt, sunsets
across the waves, or sitting on deck reading and writing. But even with a
crew of that size, at times life seemed lonely onboard this 152-meter
long former cruise liner. Crew referred to the ship as ‘the Love Boat’ –
a result of the record number of relationships onboard.
I
spent evenings on deck writing in my journal, lamenting my loneliness –
wondering if I would ever tie a knot that wasn’t attached to a
lifeboat.
But
soon, the voice of a brawny Afrikaner Sailor captured my attention and I
found myself altering my course each evening to collide with him.
The
Sailor made my sea legs quiver, while he swaggered on deck and I soon
realized I was falling for him. Thankfully, the ship was equipped with
sturdy railings.
The Sailor and I dated forever until we finally tied our own knot in 2007.
The Sailor no longer works on the Love Boat, but he still goes to sea. I
don't get to sail with him, but on rare occasions if we're in the same
country, he lets me photograph him onboard one of his ships. We get to
see each other half of the year. Our life is nowhere near 'conventional' but I wouldn't have it any other way. Thankfully,
despite spending so much time surrounded by water, the Sailor still
enjoys the beach, so on his time off, I can still see and hear the
ocean.
