PASSAGE BRAIN

By Mike Benjamin, SV Exodus, President SDSA

Last month I wrote about preparing to leave for an offshore passage and the elusive condition known as “Ready Enough.”  This month, it seems only fitting to write about what happens after you arrive at your destination.

I should warn you at the outset that I am writing this while still suffering from the condition I am about to describe.  So, if this article wanders, repeats itself, or ends abruptly with a sentence about laundry, please understand that I'm doing my best.  I have reread it twice, which may or may not have helped.  I have reread it twice, which may or may not have helped.

Ronna and I recently arrived in Horta, on the island of Faial, in the Azores, after a successful Salty Dawg Rally passage from Bermuda.  Elsewhere in this newsletter is an article that covers the Rally, including the passage, the weather, the fleet, and the social events.  What I want to talk about is the strange mental condition that takes over after landfall.

I call it “Passage Brain.”

Passage Brain is a condition that develops after days of living on watch schedules, sleeping in fragments, listening to every sound the boat makes, checking weather, trimming sails, checking batteries, making meals, cleaning up meals, and wondering whether that new noise is a problem.

Then suddenly, there is land.  Not land on a chart plotter, real land.  You’ve arrived at your destination with dreams of restaurants, toilets that do not move, long hot showers ashore, and conversations with people who did not just spend the last several days exclusively discussing bowel movements, wind angles, squalls, battery voltage, or whether anyone has seen the good headlamp.

You arrive, tie up or anchor, and begin the long-awaited transition back to normal life.  By which I mean you step ashore and discover that your world is still moving.  What?  

You are land sick, which usually first appears at exactly the wrong moment, while standing in customs and immigration, trying to look respectable, alert, and fully in command of your paperwork.  Meanwhile, your body is quietly insisting that the room is rolling, and your brain is wondering why the customs officer will not stop swaying.

  Clearing customs after an offshore passage is a necessary first stop, and I am always grateful to be welcomed into a new country.  Still, there is something slightly cruel about requiring sailors to complete forms, answer questions, and locate documents at precisely the moment when they are sleep deprived and least capable of remembering where they put anything.  After several days at sea, even simple questions can feel challenging.

Boat name?  Fine.

Port of departure?  Usually fine.

What day is it?  No idea. Ronna, I need help!

Then comes the social reentry.  During the passage, your world becomes very small.  It is your crew, your boat, the ocean, and the endless cycle of watches, meals, weather, and sleep.  Suddenly, after arrival, there are people everywhere.  Other crews, rally participants, marina staff, officials, tourists, waiters, taxi drivers, and actual human beings wearing clothes they didn’t sleep in.

Seeing people other than your own crew is wonderful and slightly overwhelming.  You are happy to see them.  You are thrilled everyone arrived safely.  You want to hear their stories, but you also may not be entirely ready for complete sentences.

Of course, not everyone arrives in the same condition.  Some boats tie up, shower, and within hours are booking island tours, renting cars, planning hikes, and discussing restaurants.  These people can be annoying.  I admire them.  I respect them.  I do not understand them.

When I arrive after an offshore passage, my immediate goals are more modest: clear in, secure the boat, take a shower, eat something from a plate that doesn't slide off the table, and sleep on an immobile mattress.

Many cruisers are also thinking about Schengen.  For those with only 90 days in the Schengen area, the clock starts ticking as soon as they arrive, and suddenly every day feels precious.  A sleep day can feel like a wasted day, which is unfortunate, because sleep after a passage is not a luxury.  It is an essential repair item, right up there with chafe checks and oil changes.

Still, the pressure is real.  You've crossed an ocean and arrived somewhere beautiful.   You want to explore.  You want to see the island.  You want to walk the streets, eat local food, take photographs, and start experiencing the place you worked so hard to reach.  Unfortunately, your boat and body have other ideas.

The boat also made the passage, and she would like attention.  There is salt everywhere.  There are lines to rinse, sails to inspect, lockers to reorganize, laundry to do, systems to check, and repairs that were postponed with the optimistic phrase, “We’ll deal with it in Horta.”

Well, now you are in Horta and that phrase has matured into an obligation.

So, the first few days after arrival become a strange tradeoff between wonder and responsibility.  You want to explore.  You need to clean.  You want to celebrate.  You need to find the source of that smell.  You want to sleep.  You need to clear customs, check the boat, and finally deal with the damp pile of clothes in the corner growing mold.

 No one puts this part in the brochure.

There are no glossy photos of a tired sailor holding a customs form in one hand and a bag of laundry in the other while trying to remember whether the passports are in the nav station, the ditch bag, or in the safe place, so safe that no one will ever find them.  

The odd thing is that this period also becomes part of the joy.  The first shower feels miraculous.  The head isn't tilting.  The bed doesn't require bracing yourself, and it feels amazing.  Fresh bread becomes a major emotional event.  A walk on land, once your legs and inner ear agree on basic principles, feels like a privilege.

And then come the stories.

Slowly, as people sleep, shower, eat, and regain the ability to speak in something other than watch-report fragments, the fleet begins to decompress.  Crews compare notes.  Everyone had a different passage, even when crossing the same ocean at the same time.  One boat had more wind.  Another had less.  Someone saw whales. Someone broke something.  Someone had the best meal of the passage.  Someone had the meal that got tossed over the side.

This is one of the best parts of a rally.  Each boat sails its own passage, but the arrival is shared.  The stories become communal.  The anxiety softens.  The discomfort becomes funny.  The things that felt hard at sea become the stories told over dinner.

That may be one of the great tricks of cruising.  We remember enough to be proud, but not quite enough to stop doing it.

Eventually, Passage Brain fades.  The room stops moving.  Sleep returns.  The repairs are made and the boat begins to look like a boat again rather than a floating laundry experiment.  You start making plans, booking tours, and looking at the next weather window, because apparently, we learn nothing.

But for a few days after landfall, it is worth giving yourself permission to be a little slow, a little tired, and a little overwhelmed.  Arrival is not a switch.  It is a process.  Just as leaving requires preparation, arrival requires recovery.

So, if you see a newly arrived cruiser wandering the dock with a blank expression, mismatched shoes, and a form they were supposed to bring somewhere, be kind.  They may not be confused by nature.  They may simply have Passage Brain.

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