Chilean fjords

bright sun - clear skies - 25 degrees Celsius - bikini & deck chair & warmth & breeze





The sun is sparkling off the teal blue waters of the Chilean fjords, lighting thousands of points of shimmering gold in the beautiful waters around us. We're surrounded by rounded, rolling hills bursting with verdant green, the foothills extending like a lizard's back toward the snow-capped Andes behind.

Our ship has slowed to a stop and dropped anchor in this place with its unrelenting beauty. A passenger on board had a medical emergency last night, and the captain has diverted the route to allow him to disembark. And so, under the deep azure of this afternoon's cloudless skies, over the green-blue of the fjords, toward the forested mountains, a tiny orange boat is cutting a snow-white wake through the waters and carrying one man to safety.

Around me, the upper deck has filled with people, emerging into the open air with their cameras and their curiosity - all waving to the little orange pilot boat, wishing the gentleman well and hoping that he recovers.

I don't know what happened to him, nor do I know where he is going. I wonder if he's okay; I wonder if his worried wife is holding his hand on the orange boat as it disappears through the labyrinthine channel. It's a heartbreaking study in contrast for me, especially because Andy and I have embraced this journey as a step towards wellness for ourselves. We are among the youngest passengers on board, the cute newlyweds, in a group of largely older, long-married men and women from all over the world and spanning the full spectra of health and happiness.

I am deeply touched to imagine another passenger's anxiety on a day of such happiness for us. I am touched by the gravity of his illness as Andy and I find our health. I am touched perhaps most by the story aboard the tiny orange pilot boat in blue waters beneath green mountains, adding its narrative to the rich tapestry of this place at this moment.

Our ship is once again sailing north toward Puerto Montt, gliding on the calm waters and adding its own shining white sparkle to the channel. Each time I look up at the passing mountains with their rounded, glacier-carved peaks and the lush forests painting the landscape from sea to sky, they seem more and more vivid. It's as if the landscapes I used to imagine as South America have found the perfect conditions, blossomed into three dimensions, and pulled me in, head over heels. I almost expect to hear pan flutes serenading farmers as they walk llamas along the hills.

I am pensive today, but happy, so happy in this moment. I wish my fellow passenger a safe journey home, send him as much of my happiness as my heart can bear across the channel, and contribute a small piece of my own story to the world here in the fjords.

finding the essence, at sea

{ The practice of soulful travel is to discover the overlapping point between history and everyday life, the way to find the essence of every place, every day... }
~The Art of Pilgrimage

As I write, I'm looking ahead at the horizon: an endless expanse of roiling blue sea reaches up toward layers of grey upon grey, where a palette of clouds hangs heavily with the weighty task of containing the bright sky above. Our ship is tossing, rolling, riding each undulating wave, and as it carries us forward it feels as if the motion is the sea's language channeled into me through the vessel, its messenger.

Many of my fellow passengers are visibly green with seasickness. They smile weakly at me, holding rails, closing their eyes, vainly fixing their gaze on the Andes rising to our east. The breakwaters are huge, and each swell slaps the side of the boat, sending foamy spray up several stories to splash against the porthole glass.

My own stomach quite enjoys the movement. For me, it's like being on a gentle rollercoaster, with a cup of tea in one hand and a pen in the other. The upward pressure as we ride a swell, the exquisite pause as the wave crests, and the gentle release are all comforts. A hand carrying us, lifting us over the ocean. A cradle and its lullabies.

I imagine that this place, these waters, have sung this same song for an age, and brave travellers have pondered its language for thousands of years. How lucky I am to be here.