TSJ: Life Lessons and Unmissable Moments

The Thrill Seekers Journal: Sailing Through Life’s Unmissable Moments

Hello Fellow Seekers of Adventure,

Welcome to the first edition of The Thrill Seekers Journal, where I share my journey of living a life full of spontaneity, excitement, and yes—frequent chaos. You may have given me your email, or I may have gone through my contact list and decided to subject you to my newsletter. (feel free to fire back with a strongly worded email if you wish to not add to your already overcrowded inbox). But here you are now, reading these words. I do hope you enjoy this story, and the many others I intend to share with you on a weekly basis.

 This week’s tale comes straight from the heart of the ocean, as I find myself four nights into an unplanned, and incredibly thrilling two-week sailing adventure.

No Time to Panic

Last night was one of those unforgettable moments that you can’t believe is happening right until you are in the thick of it. After a long day of sailing through icy rains that left me chilled to the bone, and choppy waters that triggered bouts of nausea in my friends Peter and Aurora, the four of us finally arrived at Pirate’s Cove, our anchorage for the night. I stood at the bow of the Pineapple Dinghy (The creative name of vessel I was aboard) holding the anchor remote in hand, awaiting Captain James’ orders.  

“Drop the anchor 40 feet down,” I heard James holler from the helm, 50 feet back on the boat's stern.  

“Dropping anchor 40 feet down,” I shouted back, watching the anchor intently as it submerged and disappeared into the murky green water below.  

“That’s 40,” I informed James, awaiting further instructions.  

As I waited, Aurora approached me from the starboard side of the ship, line in hand, trailing the boat's small dinghy behind her.

“James wants this tied to the bow, but I’m not sure how to do it,” stated Aurora.  

“No worries, let me teach you how,” I replied. I kneeled down to the cleat and began showing her how to loop the line and create a locking hitch that would secure it. I undid the line and asked her to give it a try. As I watched her secure the line, I heard James shout up to me again.  

“Drop the anchor 12 more feet.”  

“Dropping the anchor 12 feet,” I replied, as I pushed the button and watched the chain slowly fall deeper into the abyss below. Then, all of a sudden, it stopped after only dropping three feet. I pressed the button again. Nothing.  

“Hey! Carly! Drop the anchor 12 more feet!” James yelled up to me.  

“I can’t. It’s stuck—it’s not dropping,” I retorted.  

I stood there, trying to figure out why it wasn’t going down, and then I saw it. Right in the windlass, where the anchor chain feeds out, the cord to the remote was caught and pinched. Shit. While helping Aurora, I had unknowingly crossed the cord with the chain and didn’t check to make sure the chain in the hatch was clear before continuing to drop it. I immediately had flashbacks to 2019. I could hear my first-ever sailing instructor, Phil Foster’s voice barking at me: “Focus on one thing at a time. If you’re manning the anchor, never take your eyes off of it. And NEVER cross the remote cord with the chain.” I cringed at the simple mistake I’d made.  

After what felt like an eternity of getting the cord unstuck, only to find it was pinched so badly that it was no longer functional, James figured out how to drop anchor from the helm. We successfully set the boat for the night and all took a synchronized sigh of relief that we could relax for the rest of the evening. As I was about to go down into the galley to start dinner prep, a man motored up to me in a dinghy, catching my attention just before I dipped below the deck.  

“Howdy! I just wanted to check and see if you’ve heard the forecast for the evening?” His subtle Canadian accent put a much-needed smile on my face.  

“Can’t say that I have. Was planning on listening to it on the radio in a bit, though.”  

“Well, figured I’d let you know that it’s calling for 25-30 knot winds tonight. Northwesterlies.”  

“Thanks, what time is it meant to start gusting?”  

“‘Round 1:00 AM, give or take.”  

“Got it. I’ll keep that in mind and let the captain know. Thanks again.” The man puttered off in his small raft to the next boat over, continuing to spread the report of the incoming dramatic shift in wind.   

With the chaos over, I could fully appreciate the beauty of the cove we were calling home for the night. Pirate’s Cove is located on the southeastern tip of De Courcy Island, just off the east coast of Vancouver Island, a place I consider to be home and hold very close to my heart. Few places make me feel more at peace than the salty air, lush forests, and magical shores of the Pacific Northwest of Canada.  

As the night continued on, I made a coconut curry for dinner while James planned out the course for the following day. We chatted about the plan as I cooked, debating back and forth on whether we wanted to attempt crossing the Georgia Strait or if the incoming squall would make it too dangerous. I felt like it was an achievable feat, but we couldn’t make a sound decision until we heard the morning weather report. James, on the other hand, was more skeptical. He seemed to be unsure in his ability to safely navigate the 15 mile crossing. He had never done a major crossing like this in the Pineapple Dinghy, and knowing the high swell we would be facing there would be no room for error.

Our deliberations began to move in a circle. We were continually saying the same things back and forth, making no headway in our plan for the following day. Frustrated with our inability to make a choice, my overly confident “figure it out as you go” impulse took over, blurting out and cutting James off mid sentence: “You’ll never know if you have the ability to do it if you never try.” It's something I firmly believe. You can spend your whole life preparing for something, but you’ll never feel satisfied or confident until you try. To grow, we need to be able to step out of our comfort zones and jump into uncertainty. James paused for a moment, ruminating on this statement. He agreed that we couldn’t commit to anything until the morning, but stated that he did in fact want to cross if conditions didn’t deteriorate.  Satisfied with that response, I plated dinner, poured everyone a glass of wine, and began to feel excited about the upcoming crossing we were facing.  

Once we had all consumed the very last of the curry in our bowls, we climbed back up to the ships deck. As our eyes adjusted from the bright light in the cabin to the dark night that surrounded us, we were awestruck by the vast and sparkling array of stars that spattered across the black backdrop above. Unable to peel our wide eyes off the majestic sky, the four of us laid on the deck, and talked about our lives and all the adventures we wanted to go on. Just as we were all starting to feel our eyes get heavy and hearing the call of our cozy cabins, equipped with memory-foam mattresses, a thought came to me. I recalled various nights I’d spent in the sheltered coves on Vancouver Island, where I was fortunate enough to experience the wonder of bioluminescence only seen by the lucky people who know to look for it. All of a sudden I had a strong gut feeling, “Check the water” I thought to myself, turning around to the stern instead of following everyone into the cabin.

Alone on the stern deck of the Pineapple Dinghy, I grasped the line that secured us to the shore. It laid floating in the water, barely noticeable. With a forceful flick of my wrist, I caused the line to jump up above the surface, only to land back in the water with a bright, blue, bioluminescent-filled splash. No. Fucking. Way.

“You guys! Get back up here right now!” I hollered back into the cabin where everyone had retreated to seconds prior.

 It didn’t take long before I was jumping off the edge of the deck, gazing in wonder at how the thousands and thousands of plankton lit up around my body as I twisted and turned through the unbelievably fluorescent water. Once I finally, reluctantly, emerged from the water, I dried off and crawled into bed, filled with child-like wonder. Sleep, however; was eluding me, and had been for the past few days. Due to the fact that I am a very light sleeper, I decided to take an over-the-counter sleeping pill so I could ensure I was well rested for the challenging day we had ahead of us. I let it kick in, and drifted off into a quiet, calm state.  

But as with any good story, the calm didn’t last long.  

I woke up suddenly in the middle of the night to the sound of frantic voices and the boat rocking far more than usual. I checked my watch; it read 1:15 AM, just as my friend on the little dinghy had predicted. As much as I would like to say I jumped up and sprang into action (which is my usual response in these scenarios), I dragged myself out of bed—still in my sleep shorts and tank top— and swayed up to the deck, not unlike the way Jack Sparrow walks. Using every drop of focus I could muster, and gripping any rail or ledge to avoid toppling over, I made it up the steps. My cheeks immediately felt the sting of the freezing wind we had been warned about less than 12 hours prior.

“What is going on!?”

“We are dragging anchor! The boat is drifting into shore, and we have to reset everything!” J exclaimed, with the intensity you would expect from someone whose boat was at risk of being wrecked. However, I sensed something else in his voice. I couldn’t tell exactly what it was, but to me, it seemed like there was a hint of excitement and thrill. I recalled a conversation I had with him two nights prior. He had mentioned that one of the reasons he loved sailing was because it involved consistent problem-solving, fast thinking, and figuring out how to make things work. And this, without a doubt, was a fast-thinking, problem-solving scenario. 

“Why didn’t you wake me up?” I questioned, knowing this is a two person job, and I was his crew after all.

”I tried. I opened your cabin door, shouted at you multiple times, but you were deep asleep, so I woke Peter up instead.” I immeditally blamed the sleeping pills.

“Fuck…” I muttered, just starting to wake up from my mental slumber. “Alright, give me a sec to put some pants on. I’ll be right up.” I climbed back downstairs, hastily threw on my tattered Fjällräven cargo pants, and hurried back on deck. In that time a man who was living on a boat in the bay heard the commotion and woke up alongside us to assist in securing the Pineapple Dinghy. 

“Come tie up to my dock for the rest of the night. No sense in trying to anchor again this late with this wind,” the man stated from the safety of his no-bigger-than-30-foot chunk of bobbing wood, held together with rusty nails and relying on old, empty oil drums packed with styrofoam to keep it from ending up on the ocean floor. We graciously accepted and hurried to get the boat tied up. Rushing to beat the increasingly strong wind, and driven by the desire to get out of the rain and back to our cozy bunks, we efficiently went through our docking procedures and re-secured our boat to the small dock that now gave me much more confidence than our anchor.

I finally settled back into bed, exhausted but relieved. I thought about how these kinds of moments are really what I live for. These scenarios require you to be sharp, ready, focused, and calm all at once. There is no time to panic, and no room for error. Drifting off to sleep again, over an hour after initially being jolted awake by the wind and waves, I couldn’t help but smile and feel the glow of excitement for what was in store for the rest of our trip. 

Thank you for tuning in to The Thrill Seekers Journal. My goal with this newsletter is to share my stories and provide inspiration and ideas for those seeking travel and adventure. Please keep your eyes open for next week's edition, which will touch on a small missed opportunity I experienced and how I believe that shaped my drive to seize every exciting moment that presents itself to me.

Until next week, stay curious, adventurous, and never stop being a thrill seeker.

Anchors Away,

Carly Ball

"A ship in harbor is safe, but that is not what ships are built for." – John A. Shedd