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I recently wrote a short blog for Sea Shepherd Conservation Society about my first campaign as first mate aboard the R/V Martin Sheen. If you're interested in reading it, check out the link below. And while you're there, be sure to explore all the incredible ocean conservation work this legendary organization continues to do!
https://seashepherd.org/2025/02/11/sea-shepherd-monitors-and-protects-guadalupe-island/
*Image by me, Cassidy Wayant, for Sea Shepherd Conservation Society
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*Please note that, although this was written several years ago, I only recently found the courage to edit, finalize, and share it.*  Yesterday, I was dumped. It was a first for me. I’ve spent the majority of my dating life avoiding this situation. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve had more than my fair share of emotionally unavailable douchebags—like The Drummer with his eight ball of cocaine or The YouTube Sensation with his clueless girlfriend. In fact, my quest for love has resulted in so many escapades that I could probably write a novel. Looking back on the flips, flops, and ghostings, it’s almost comical how many two-week romances and month-long flings I’ve accumulated. Take The Fox, with his picture-perfect, side-swooping hair, for example. After an enjoyable day hiking with our dogs, I found myself sipping a cocktail next to him at a local bar when he suddenly said he needed to go to the bathroom. He got up, walked over three or four seats, and plopped down next to a young, attractive blonde. I watched dumbfounded as he stuck his hand out and introduced himself. I didn’t laugh at the time, but I do now. This time, though, it was different. I truly liked The Philosopher. But I could feel it coming—his distancing, his pulling away. For weeks, maybe even over a month, he had been planning his exit, and my anxiety skyrocketed. It felt like I was balancing a load of insecurities on a telephone wire, barely making my next step but having no idea why I was carrying this burden. He did it in the hot tub. We’d gotten up early that morning, our heads aching from the bottle of wine we’d shared the night before. I slipped into the hot water, the ground around us thick with snow. I sat across from him, propping up my feet and letting my knees stick out of the steam like little mountaintops. Naked, I traced bubbles with my fingers as silence hung heavy between us. His head drooped, his expression sullen. I inched closer, rubbing his knees and making funny faces in hopes of lifting his spirits. “Why do you look so sad?” I asked. The silence thickened as I watched the wheels turn in his head. I prepared myself for the sentence he was so carefully crafting. “I think we should break up,” he said. The words fell out of his mouth like an avalanche tumbling down a mountain. Oddly, I wasn’t shocked. Tears didn’t immediately well up. I think I’d been unconsciously waiting for this moment. That weekend, he had made a trip home to see his family—a trip I’d joined him on twice before during our six-month dance—but this time, I wasn’t invited. Throughout the weekend, the voice of my college boyfriend echoed in my mind: “I hate Colorado. Everything was fine ‘til you went home to see your family.” After a year and a half, I broke up with him, my first real boyfriend. I’d used that trip to sort out my thoughts and prepare for the inevitable. I knew what The Philosopher was doing but didn’t want to believe it. I liked him. I thought he liked me.
He took my hand as I sat up in the hot tub, suddenly very aware of my nakedness. I didn’t want him to see me—not all of me. He no longer deserved it. I dropped his touch and uncomfortably moved away. With nothing to say, I quietly stood up, grabbed a dingy white robe, and headed inside. I got dressed and began collecting my stuff. He had been letting me use his extra room as my studio, so I gathered tubes of paint and dropped them into a large white trash bag. From the window, I could see him with his head in his hands. I scanned each room for evidence of myself: the Dutch oven I’d brought to make chili, the stack of records we’d listened to together. Confused by our energy, my dog sat with him on the bed while he cried, and I loaded my car. He tried to hug me as I walked past him in the hall, but I didn’t want to feel his touch anymore. I shook off his fingers and collected my still-wet oil paintings. He lay back down as my worried dog tried to comfort the wrong person. The heartbreaker. Memories and red flags flooded my mind as I packed. I thought about the day he invited his ex-girlfriend and her child over to pick up a chair. The shock on her face when she walked in and saw me standing there. The excitement of her daughter as she hugged The Philosopher. It made me sick, essentially, when I learned he had done all the same trips with her that he had done with me. I spent the night crying with confusion and expressed my worries to him the next morning. He tried to assure me, but it only enhanced the insecurities that were building, ripping my confidence into shreds. He’d told me he was going through a string of short relationships because it takes six months to a year to get to know someone. But he hadn’t gotten to know me; he was still confusing me with his many ex-girlfriends and the similar events they had shared. The things that suddenly become glaringly obvious in the aftermath. It hurt to think about how he dismissed past relationships as unimportant. Now, I am unimportant. Just another girl. Nothing special. Someone to occupy his time until he got sick of me. A feeling I knew all too well because of The Yachty—a man who put me on the back burner while waiting for someone younger, fitter, and possibly with a more functioning uterus. That summer, I learned my cervical stenosis was severe, making it difficult to conceive. I felt broken. But The Philosopher didn’t want kids—he had 16 nieces and nephews. Now I realize he doesn’t know what he wants. He just enjoys the romance period at the beginning of a relationship. He’s a serial dater, and I fell into the trap. Two years ago, I ended the longest relationship I had ever had—three and a half years with The Captain. We had built a crumbling life together that I eventually completely knocked down. I ended it because I knew he never would, and we didn’t belong with each other anymore. It was probably the hardest thing I have ever had to do, but it was a rite of passage. And so is this. When I look back on my dating lifetime, all I have ever wanted was love. Endless, storybook love. But I was—and still am—very scared of it. In hindsight, I think I have purposely gone for the emotionally unavailable. Maybe because it was a challenge I wanted to win, or maybe because they gave me the freedom I crave. Maybe it’s as simple as I, too, am scared of commitment. In art school, I fell for a fellow painter. The Artist was adorable, just my type, but with a bit of pretty boy mixed in. I remember the night he abruptly left my house as if a fire was building in the kitchen, and he needed to get out quick. I was so confused. I thought things were going well; he seemed to like me. But he was just the beginning of this recurring element in my love life. A week later, another student was doing a project where she interviewed each of her classmates. She would pick a line or answer they gave, paint the quote on their bodies with water-based paint, and photograph the result. I was in the darkroom developing film when The Artist approached me. “I just got finished with my interview.” I looked up to see his smiling face as he lifted his black t-shirt, revealing his quote painted across his bare chest: “I should have warned her—I’m a narcissist.” I don’t know that I ever truly understood what he meant by that statement until now—until this moment and this experience. A person fending off their inner emptiness to make themselves feel special and in control, filling the void with another person in hopes of avoiding those feelings of defectiveness and insignificance. Is that what a serial dater does? And why am I so attracted to it? I always used to think I was unlucky in love. The man I lost my virginity to gave me the cancerous cells that resulted in my inability to produce. The string of men that followed him only filled a void I didn’t want to admit I had. The good ones, the kind ones, the ones who opened themselves to me—I ran from in fear of settling—never lasting more than a month before I would distance myself and make excuses for why they didn’t want to be with me. After I ended things with The Captain, I felt the need for a change of thought about the men I was choosing. A good friend told me to write down all the things I want in a man and carry it with me. He told me not to settle until that person checks all the boxes, every last one.  I have not always followed my ideal man list in the last couple of years. I’ve let the loneliness I carry get the best of me. I tried to fix the unfixable recluse Sailor. I mentally deleted boxes to make the Yachty fit. And all the while, I was running away from the Bartender, with his arms wide open. For The Philosopher, I had removed the most important box of them all—the real freedom I crave most—to live on the sea. I had come home after two years of sailing around the Caribbean to be with my family. I didn’t know what my next step was, and I was trying so hard to make it be Colorado, my home nowhere near the ocean. Convincing myself I didn’t need it, pretending the saltwater didn’t run in my veins. He made it easier to fall into step among the pine trees and the cold, rocky breeze. I even tried to become a lake sailor, which I now know I hate. That experience made me realize I am a sailor because of the ocean, not because of the sails. Yesterday morning, The Philosopher sat before me, choosing to remain in his past as he pushed away his present. His eyes were red from crying as he told me he could never make me happy in the way I deserved. I put my bag down, knelt between his legs, took his face in my hands, and told him he was wrong. He had made me happy. At that moment, I let the tears surface, and I let him see me. I sobbed into his sweater, knowing there was still evidence I existed, residing next to his bathroom sink in the form of my discarded toothbrush. And then I collected my things and walked out of his life. I realize now why this rite of passage is so important. I didn’t leave him—he left me. It was the first time I truly developed a significant relationship with someone I cared very deeply for, but who would eventually leave me. The Philosopher was no different from The Artist, The Drummer or The Fox; he just came in a different package with the added bonus of some similar qualities to The Bartender or the young Poetry Professor I had a short romance with in college. But this time was different because this time, I let myself fall. I let myself become emotionally attached. I met his family, and he met mine. We shared many laughs and took trips together. We made memories. However, I also continually told myself I could be happily landlocked. I explored job options that would keep me here, ignoring my free-roaming gypsy spirit. And when the ocean came calling, I ignored that, too. So the sea did what it had to—and soaked into him. What happened is right—I know that now. He was an important character in my story, a lesson I needed to learn, the street that forced me to make a U-turn. Yesterday, I was dumped. I got into my cold truck parked outside his house, a thin layer of ice covering the exterior. My dog cried anxiously in the back seat as I turned off his street. I let my eyes fill with tears. I let myself think horrible thoughts. I let myself reminisce about the good parts and even more about the bad. And as I came over the hill, descending into my hometown, the tears stopped. I realized it was time to stop hibernating in the easy. It is time for me to see myself—all of myself. ✨Self-portrait images taken with a Canon 5D Mark II and a 50mm lens as I opened my eyes to the sun rising over the horizon, filling me with a sense of inspiration.
I barely moved from my bed, only reaching for my camera and tripod. Sitting in my unmade bed, still in the t-shirt I slept in, with no makeup and unbrushed hair, I captured the moment just as I was.✨ My heart skips a beat as I read the message: “We have a beautiful boat and are always looking for crew!” It’s from a young woman running her own sailing charter business with her sister in the San Blas Islands in Panama. It seems too good to be true, and a knot in my stomach warns me to be careful. I google the name of the boat and the company to find a nice looking website showcasing a beautiful vessel. The owners of the boat are two girls, sisters, the same age as me and originally from the same time zone - I take it as a sign. It seems perfect. I ignore the growing knot in my gut and convince myself it is only nerves. I want to sail the world. This little sentence has become my dream and hopping on this Panamanian boat looks like the opportunity I have been waiting for. I accept the position on board the ship with promises of 10 percent return on all charters worked as well as room and board. As the older sister jokingly commented over the phone, “We’ll keep you alive, but we aren’t paying for your beer!” Immediately, I begin packing up my comfortable life in Kona, Hawaii: a world I have carefully crafted over the last eight years on the Big Island consisting of abundant amounts of love, laughter, and friendship. I find homes for my cats, notify my employer, and spend the next month saying goodbyes to my familiar island life. The knot still pangs at my gut nagging me. Is this what courage is supposed to feel like: as if my insides are being rung out like a disregarded rag? I swallow the lump in my throat, fighting the little voice inside urging me to stick with the familiar, commanding me to walk the road always taken, demanding that my moral strength is not strong enough to take this venture. But isn’t that the definition of courage: to persevere in the face of risk, struggle, and fear? My increasing anxiety levels get tamped down when I receive news that my dear friend Lucy has also been hired on the same vessel to work as the ship’s chef. I board my flight from Hawaii with apprehension about the life I am leaving behind and excitement about the dream I am about to chase down. Once in Denver, I meet Sarah for a steaming bowl of pho. She is the youngest sister of the sailing duo I am about to join and she is wonderful. My enthusiasm intensifies as I learn what similar personalities and common interests Sarah and I share. This courageous decision now feels right. I feel as if I have found a true kindred spirit. A month later, Sarah and I board a plane in Denver and head off to Panama together.  I first set foot on Panama soil on a cloudy, rain threatening November day. It is the second stamp on my passport, the first being from Costa Rica where we had flown in not 24 hours ago. We board a bus that takes us to the city of David, Panama where we collect our bags and wait for Sarah’s father to pick us up. The plan is to stay with him for a few weeks in Caldera before heading to the blue waters of Boca del Toro. He arrives in an old, black SUV and we load up without proper introductions. We make our way through lush forest jungle that resembles a strange mix between the tropical foliage of Hawaii and the deep, green pines of the Rocky Mountains. Sarah’s father lives in a ranch-style home high up in the rolling hills of this Latin-American nation. It is a comfortable artist’s haven overlooking the mountain range of Caldera - the highest mountains in the country. The first night, I sit on the porch. Sarah is next to me smoking a cigarette when her father calmly approaches us. A hand-rolled joint is pinched precariously between his forefingers as he steps out onto the long, narrow lanai. He hovers over me as if he were a high priest about to instill great wisdom. His tall figure intimidates me as he brings the joint to his lips. “You have a really nice energy about you,” he says while passing the joint to Sarah, blowing a thin streak of white smoke, “which is why I just want to warn you about my other daughter.” I take a deep breath, anxiously anticipating his next words. He points his long, bony pointer finger at me, forming his hand into the shape of a gun. “When my daughter, Ursula, points a finger at you, remember there are three fingers pointed back at her.” He flicks his three folded fingers back and forth as he stares down at me with piercing eyes. His point could not have been clearer even if he pulled the imaginary trigger. The knot in my gut returns.  When it’s finally time to leave Caldera and head to the ship, Sarah and I board a bus through the winding mountains to Almirante where we board a boat taking us to the archipelagos of Bocas del Toro. The boat ride is exciting. I half-hang over the side staring at the salty ripples on the ocean, letting the water splash across my face. Islands made of mangroves fly past me as the boat speeds over the sea swell, slamming down with each wave. As we pull into the small town, the sun is just beginning to set and the perfect magic hour of light floods the view of my newest adventure. With natural, rose-colored glasses, I see the steel sailboat for the first time. Her cream-colored hull and light blue trim glow in the setting sun. As we shift into neutral and coast toward the anchored vessel, I see the older sister, Ursula, standing on the deck. The sisters’ two dogs bark at the motor boat as if an invasion is upon them. We hand our bags to Ursula who stands tall and broad with her dress tucked purposely into her underwear. After a brief, friendly meet and greet, Sarah, Ursula, Lucy, and I pile into the dinghy and head to town for our first dinner together as a crew. We eat, drink, chat and watch Ursula shamelessly flirt with a patron at the bar. When it’s time to leave, Lucy and I make our way to the dinghy and patiently wait for the sisters while we sit perched on the inflatable sides. Finally, we watch a very intoxicated Ursula stumble down the dock, tripping over her own feet as she yells back to the bar at the guy she had been shamelessly flirting with. She holds a half-finished Balboa beer in one hand and two unopened Balboas in the other. “Look, ladies. I got us road sodas!” Ursula boasts and drunkenly chuckles while handing over her prizes to an un phased Sarah. She puffs out her chest for the men at the bar to see while tucking her shirt into the sides of her underwear. Attempting to board the dinghy in the most sexually provocative way, she slips on the rubber side and falls face first into the boat. Her skirt flips toward the sky, exposing her faded cotton panties. Immediately, she pops back up letting the wave of embarrassment roll over her as if the fall was purposeful. She poses herself with a stoic composure on the bow like a captain commanding her crew. Without even glancing back, she sticks out her arm, waiting for her open beer to be placed in her fingers. Sarah hands her sister the beer, and by the look on her face I can tell this is not an uncommon occurrence.  During my third night aboard the ship, gusts of wind reaching 60 knots rip through the anchorage. The massive storm front we are experiencing in Panama will go on to wreak havoc through the Caribbean and cause one of the earliest snowfalls in Texas’ history. Three boats sink near us, while others flee to more protected harbors. However, the waterfalls of rain, turbulent waters, and gusts of wind aren’t the storm I need to worry about. With little food on the boat, the sisters decide it is time for them to go into town and reload our groceries. They promise to return before dinner. Lucy and I remain onboard and have a relaxing afternoon listening to the rain, playing cards, and catching up on each other’s lives. Night falls and we begin to worry that the sister’s haven’t returned. The onboard lighting is dimming and I message Sarah to inform her about the dying batteries. We use the only remaining food available and make bacon and lettuce sandwiches and eventually fall asleep waiting for the sisters to return. The dinghy bangs into the side of the hull around 1:00 a.m. waking me up. Laughing and yelling, Sarah and Ursula board the metal ship. The engine roars to life and the sound of clanging pots and pans floods the previously quiet boat. While drunkenly making a post-midnight snack; Ursula can be heard yelling over the sound of the engine. She’s smack talking Lucy and me at the top of her lungs complaining about Lucy’s cooking and accusing me of not being productive enough. Sarah speaks up in our defense, “Give me a break, you’ve only known them for two days.” Ursula would have none of it. One storm passes and another one begins. In the morning, Lucy and I decide to confront the sisters, talk it out, and try to solve our issues without throwing in the towel. We write down the reasons we wanted to be there and the things that would need to change to keep us. Ultimately, the sisters agree not to maroon us again and to cut down on their drinking. For a while things are great. We get along. We get to work preparing the boat for an upcoming charter. Days are spent grinding rust from the hull with power tools, dusting decor, throwing out unnecessary items, and replacing linens. We all work together as a team, share laughs, and watch as the metal ship transforms into a worthy-looking vessel to host our first charter, which goes off without a hitch. It finally feels like I am where I’m supposed to be, living on a sailboat in an exotic location. Maybe I have overcome the bumps, hurdles, and hick ups. I am living my dream.
We have one day before our next charter to get ourselves and the boat ready to sail again. A good friend of the sisters and fellow charter captain, Mark, will be our next client. He and his four friends signed up for a charter in the San Blas Islands. The only problem is: we are in Bocas Del Toro. Being a good sport and an understanding captain, he agrees to change plans and meet us in Bocas.  Once everyone is aboard, Sarah pops open her traditional starter beer as we pull the anchor and raise the square sails. The sisters don’t fully trust their rusted rigging and almost always motor-sail with the engines running. We pour the guests heavy drinks and head through the Caribbean archipelago. The skies turn overcast and heavy rain threatens, so we anchor off a lush, green island and dinghy over to explore it. Surrounded by cow fields, the area is covered in beautiful foliage. A toucan perches in a tall tree as we wander the cow field where psychedelic mushrooms are growing in abundance. The skies open up and it begins to rain. We decide to head back to the ship and escape the deluge. The next morning, the weather is the same. We all don rain gear and head out on a rain-soaked adventure across the island hiking through the cow fields and copious amounts of manure to find a hidden, beautiful beach we had heard rumors of. Small islands litter the beachside with perfect palm trees as if it were professionally landscaped. It was a perfect day. Despite the weather not cooperating with us, we start our journey back to Bocas Town to celebrate New Year’s. Due to unbelievably poor visibility, I have to brave the elements and climb the mast to guide the boat through reefs. The weather finally clears as we reach Bocas Town and we tie up with several other boats to celebrate. The vessels are overloaded with fireworks, booze, and hand-rolled Panamanian cigars. Everyone is in great spirits. I agree to try one of the Panamanian cigars. Big mistake. I feel awful and have to hurl the gourmet dinner Lucy had prepared over the side before retreating to my cabin. At one point, Sarah tries frantically to wake me, but I can’t bring myself to get out of bed. I sleep through the fireworks, the ball drop, and the rest of the party. I also sleep through the dramatic late-night fight between the sisters that concluded when Lucy commanded her captains to retire to their beds.  The severely hungover sisters refuse to take their guests on one last day adventure. They can’t even bring themselves to pull anchor and elect to send the guests back to the town, the bars, and the shops they’ve already experienced. I feel terrible for the guests who are being denied the trip they were promised. Lucy and I do our best and take the guests into town and spend the day drinking, eating, dancing, and enjoying one another’s company. The sisters tag along, realizing they can’t completely abandon their paying guests. By the end of the day, I am completely spent and fall asleep back on the boat. Happy to help, Lucy agrees to stay up and play dinghy chauffeur for the sisters and the guests whenever they decide to come back. I wake the next morning to find Lucy frantically scrubbing dishes. As I approach her, she drops the plate in the sink and turns to me. “I’m done. I’m leaving.” “What?” I don’t understand, everything was perfect last night. “Wait. Stop. What happened? What did I miss?” “Those girls are insane,” the soapy water drips from her hands. “They showed up at 3:00 a.m. wasted, turned on the engine, woke up the guests, and picked another brutal fight with each other. Ursula ran around the bow screaming how everything is shit. The boat is shit. The guests are shit. We’re shit. Then she began to cry hysterically. Meanwhile, Sarah came down here and passed out. I even tried slapping her to wake her up. Thankfully, I figured out how to shut the engines off. So I’m done. This is all bullshit. They will never change.” Just as Lucy finished, one of the guests walks out of his cabin. “Welp, last night was quite the shit show...,” he laughs, brushing off the experience, but I know it’s too late. The charter is ruined. Lucy and I put our best faces on, help the guests collect their things, say our goodbyes and watch Ursula dinghy them back to shore. Lucy and I sit in her cabin and write a letter to the girls expressing our disappointment, highlighting the moments of devastation, while encouraging some healthy self-reflection. The letter is not taken well by the sisters. They read it and decide we’re no longer crew members. They will consider us “back-packers,” which would allow us to stay on board, but not earn a wage. They tell us that we will split the ten percent from the first two charters - half of what we were promised. Then they quickly take off into to town to tie up some loose ends before moving the sailboat to a new anchorage. Not once do they suspect that we might not agree with their new terms.  Lucy and I concur it is time to jump ship. Could this be the end of my dream? Is this as far as my courage has taken me? Everyone knows it took courage for the cowardly lion to speak up in the face of evil, but this is different. I am using a new form of courage, one that involves fighting the fear of letting my dream go rather than chasing after it. While the sisters are gone, Lucy and I quickly pack our things. Dark clouds gather in the sky above the anchorage. The sisters come back frantic to move the boat before it begins to rain. This is when they realize that we have no intention of staying. We say our goodbyes. Sarah and I hug each other, both shedding a tear of sorrow for the loss of what had once seemed a close friendship. It begins to rain and my tears blend together with the fresh water droplets as I watch my new adventure come to it’s unfortunate end. We have nowhere to go, just the name of a hostel. That night we stay in a single room with four other women. This flashback to dorm life lasts only a night before we decide we need more privacy. We find a cheap room above a grocery store. For $30/night Lucy and I share a queen- sized bed in a room with a view that overlooks an old, dirty staircase. And then the strangest thing begins to happen. We start to enjoy ourselves. We begin exploring the area. We find our first starfish, climb through thick jungles in search of sloths, and lie on warm sandy beaches with young children trying to sell us small bottles of coconut oil. We realize we can’t possibly keep up this vacation lifestyle as we are running out of funds. After brainstorming different ideas, Lucy decides it’s best for her to return to South Dakota. I decide to find another boat.
The opportunities seem to come from everywhere. I jump around from one boat to another and am even offered a position as captain of a catamaran and its crew - a position for which I realize I am not yet qualified. Eventually, I meet Oliver and Chloe who own a 41ft Morgan Classic sailboat. We hit it off immediately. They know about the sisters and laugh at their crazy stories as well as share a few of their own. Oliver, Chloe and a third friend, Sebastian ask me to join them on their boat for what will be my longest ocean crossing to the Cayman Islands. It’s the perfect opportunity. My dream. This is when I realize that like my dream, courage doesn’t end. It’s not a choice, an object, or an action taken. It is not a cocktail or a spoon full of medicine that we take when we need it. It’s a characteristic that we carry inside ourselves. It is a quality we express in every decision we make, whether small or large. Like gravity, we may not notice it but it’s always there. I did what many people think of as impossible. I left my everything: my home, my job, my family, and my friends on a whim to follow a dream I wasn’t sure I could accomplish. And now in this moment I feel free. Free to continue to accomplish my heart’s desire. This first step didn’t end the way I had hoped, but it left me with so much more. It left me with the courage to know that any dream is possible. And just like that the knot is gone. On February 26th, we cast off our lines and say goodbye to the shoreline of Panama.  ** This Article was orginally published and edited for the Seasonals Magazine. While the story is true the names have all been changed. **
 It had only been a week since Lucy and I started living aboard this old steel ship; within that week, we experienced winds with gusts reaching up to 60 knots, waterfalls of rain, and a rocking anchorage. The storm that gave Texas snow passed over us, sinking three boats and forcing several others to new anchorages. Of course, that week wasn’t all gray skies and chilling winds. The first couple of days were the calm before the storm, with smooth, glossy water stretching out to baby blue skies speckled with cotton ball clouds. The anchorage was one of the calmest I’ve ever experienced, with minimal rocking and soft ocean breezes brushing lightly through the rigging. A half dozen other sailboats gathered around us, dotting the tranquil seaside. The funny thing is, the hardest days to sleep were those first two—not because I was still adjusting to life on the hook, but because Bocas town comes alive at night. The nightclubs vibrated their basslines and beats across the bay, making my small cabin feel like it was in the middle of the bar. Mixing between techno, reggae, and Spanish flamenco, I had no choice but to cover my ears with headphones and play something soft to lull myself to sleep. Those peaceful days were short-lived. Rain clouds turned the blue skies gray, and the turquoise water became a murky brown as the current kicked up mud in its wake. At first, we didn’t think the storm would amount to much. Brushing off the warnings from our weather app, we headed to shore for some much-needed showers. Within a couple of hours, the rain started pouring—sheets of water coating the streets of Bocas. We waited for a break in the rain before returning to the dinghy. The rain had started again when we reached the bookstore, where our dinghy was slowly becoming a bathtub attached to a dock. Settling into the small restaurant, we crossed our fingers that the rain wasn’t finding its way into the open hatch in the aft cabin and waited for another break. When the rain paused, we bailed out the water-filled dinghy and climbed in, each hoping for dry beds when we got back onboard. The winds were picking up, and the square-rigged ship was starting to heel slightly. We hadn’t prepped the boat for rain, leaving us with waterlogged cockpit cushions. We tipped them up and gathered everything in sight that had only been slightly touched by rain. Our sunshades became rainwater collectors, and we retreated inside. Sarah and Ursula took turns draining full buckets into the water tanks throughout the night. At one point, I heard one of the sisters above me, wearing nothing but underwear and a rain jacket, siphoning water into the tanks. The sound of water running through the pipes echoed through the galley. The wind became more apparent as the rain subsided, howling through the rigging and tipping the boat on her side. By early morning, the rain had stalled, letting the sisters sleep while the wind continued to howl. The sound of rigging crying in the wind woke me up. One of the shade cover lines had snapped, and the fabric flapped violently, straining the boom. I quickly jumped out of bed, nervous about what I might find on deck. In the dark cockpit, I saw the old white sail snapping in the dim moonlight. The wind whipped around me, tossing my freshly washed locks across my face as I grabbed the sunshade’s corner and pulled it toward the cleat hitch. The pressure of the wind against the fabric strained my fingers as I tried to secure the loose edge. After several attempts to reattach the line, I devised a new plan, wrapping the cloth around the boom instead. Using the broken line and a loose sail tie, I secured the fabric and retreated to my cabin, whispering a quick prayer.  I lay awake listening to the wind whistle through the halyards as the sun peeked through cracks in the clouds. The wind died down, but the rain began again. Emerging on deck while the crew slept, I grabbed my camera. Standing in the cockpit, I noticed the soggy blankets we had accidentally left out. Rain soaked my hair and dripped off my nose as I walked to the bow. The rain hitting the water created a thick haze, nearly obscuring the island in the distance. Turning to return to the cockpit, my camera focused on a black boat behind us. The local police were trying to re-anchor a mastless project boat. As they approached, I realized they were heading straight for us. Pantless, I hurried back to the cockpit and down the companionway, hoping they wouldn’t notice. Just as I turned to go below, I noticed another boat anchored behind us was missing, and several others seemed much closer. Standing in the entrance, I heard the officials whistle for us as they cruised by to check if we’d made it through the night safely. Suddenly, Ursula jumped out of bed, phone in hand. “Becca’s gone! Sebastian’s boat! It’s gone!” she exclaimed, her eyes glued to the screen. She rushed up the companionway stairs, baffled by this recent news. “That boat has no engine, and Becca’s just watching it for Sebastian. She’s not a sailor—she wouldn’t know what to do,” Ursula explained, worry written across her face. The rain intensified. Lucy and I took over the job of emptying water buckets and bailing out the half-sinking dinghy while the sister’s slept and relaxed. We quickly got used to our hair never fully drying and our underwear always slightly damp. A couple of days later, the storm finally passed. In the interim, we cleaned and organized the boat, making room for four women and the new crew’s belongings while helping the sisters offload unnecessary items. Once the storm had cleared, we returned to the bookstore to dispose of trash and swap stories with the locals. We learned the boat behind us had dragged anchor to within two meters of shore. Becca, the caretaker, had jumped off, swum to shore at four in the morning, called a cab, and had the boat towed to the south anchorage. Another nearby sailor admitted they’d seen the boat drag but assumed no one was aboard. They, too, had dragged anchor and faced countless issues that first night, leaving them exhausted. Hearing the stories of boats lost or damaged made us feel incredibly fortunate. Our anchor held firm, with all the chain out for safety. The storm, nearly hurricane-strength, left its mark on town: trees down, streets flooded, and power out for hours. Locals scrambled for sandbags and tree trimmers to handle the damage and prevent further flooding. Many told us it was one of the worst storms the island had seen in years.    I decided to try the menstrual cup. What appealed to me most about the cup was the concept of not much waste. I was living on a bus at the time with the intention of moving onto a boat, and not having to deal with monthly period trash was extremely appealing. The first person to bring up the topic of a menstrual cup was my friend Aimee. For a couple of months, she had been bringing up forfeiting the tampon, convincing me to give this new method a try. While at work, my co-worker, Paige, had also begun talking about using this Eco-friendly method. We spent part of our afternoon looking them up on the internet. We learned that "The menstrual cup" comes in multi-colors from yellow to pink to black. There are two different sizes and many different companies. After reading all the reviews, I decided on a size small based on the fact that I have never had children. Big mistake there. Let's face it, I'm not twenty-two anymore, and as many women may know, periods by no means get lighter or more manageable with age. In fact, they seem to get heavier and heavier each year, and in my case, more and more painful. So maybe I've never had kids, but I sure got periods as if I had. Anywho, I picked the ‘Aretha’ cup in a lite green color. The cup arrived at perfect timing. I was set to get my monthly flow within days of receiving my package. I eagerly opened a small square box, pulling out a little bag with tiny yellow flowers printed all over it. My face lit up with excitement as I opened the small bag revealing the mini green cup wrapped in plastic. I held the cup up, examining it as if it was a rare diamond, pinching it together and then letting it pop back to its natural form. The top opening was about an inch-plus wide and about two inches in length, with a little tail that hung off the end. I placed the cup back inside its little flowery pouch and stuck it in my panty drawer for safekeeping. And there it waited. Reminding me every day of my looming monthly event. As the week continued, my period became late, not an out-of-the-ordinary occurrence, just an annoyance due to my new experiment. My breast began to swell, warning me my time was coming. Then it happened. I stumbled out of bed that cool morning, as I usually do. Clinging to the side of the bus, I carefully took a sleepily large step down onto a wooden platform made of pallets. Trudging through the uneven grass, I retrieved a hand full of toilet paper from the outhouse. (Side note: when living with an old-school outhouse, it is wise to separate numbers one and two as best possible. Keeping the two together creates a more potent smell.) With toilet paper in hand, I retreated to my usual pee spot behind the bus. T. Rex, my beloved orange tabby, followed close behind. I squatted down and took my pee position. T. Rex digs in the dirt, making a small hole next to the short stem of a baby sunflower plant. Following my lead, she also takes her pee position, and together we release our fluids. After I finish, I look down to see a smear of red across the white paper. "I knew it!" T. Rex looks up stunned, from her hole burying. I pull my panties up and practically sprint back to the bus. T. Rex leaps out of my way. I quickly run to my underwear drawer and pull it open, revealing the flowery bag stuffed between two pairs of cotton panties. Smiling, I rip off the plastic case and head back to the loo. My excitement was overwhelming. I quietly wash the little rubber cup before closing myself in the outhouse. I stare at the cup for a moment, folding it, unfolding it, and figuring out how best to insert the small chalice. Then I take a deep breath and go for it. It's in. It's comfortable enough; with a bit of worry that I hadn't placed it properly, I stepped out of the sugar shack and continued with my regular activities—soon forgetting about the small cup wedged inside me. Later that afternoon, I met up with Aimee for some happy hour cocktails. So far, so good, no leaking, and I could hardly feel it. Then it happened. A trickle of warmth. I knew it was no longer holding. I excused myself and headed for the bathroom. Luckily, in a one-person washroom, I squatted on the toilet, trying to get the now buried cup out. I could find the tip, pinch, and pull, but it wouldn’t budge. The tip would slip through my fingers. I tried again and again with no luck. Shocked and embarrassed by the amount of time I'd already spent in the bathroom. I washed my blood-soaked fingers and lined my panties in toilet paper. My face red with shame, I re-enter the bar, leaving the safety of the bathroom. I slide back onto my bar stool, and the image of the cup wiggling further up my cervix floats in my head. Aimee begins to tell me a story, but all I can think about is the plastic cup wedged in my uterus. I make an excuse to leave, not ready to admit my cup failure, and scurry out of the crowded bar. Relieved to see my boyfriend was not home yet, I pull up to the bus and the little Hawaiian homestead we had built. I grab more toilet paper and a bag of wet wipes and hurry to the outhouse, praying my boyfriend takes his time finishing work. The cup has retreated further up my uterus. I grab the tip and pull, but it slips, and my hand flies out like a rubber band on a slingshot. Blood coats my fingers. I try again, and this time I am able to grab the end of the cup. I pinch it as hard as I can, and it gives. The cup slides out with a gush of blood. I wash it in our little propane-heated shower. Not ready to throw in the towel, I fold it back into a narrow cylinder, then take a deep breath and slip it back inside myself. This time I let the tip hang out a bit, thinking maybe I had just put it in to far up the first time. I curled up in bed and quickly pass out.  The next morning, I could feel the leaking, but I was so comfortable, cozily wrapped in blankets—my boyfriend playing on his phone next to me. I finally get up the strength, fearful from the event the night before. I prepare myself with toilet paper and wet wipes. But when I reach up to retrieve it, it's even further than it was the night before. I take a deep breath and tell myself to remain calm. I reach up again, this time able to pinch the tip. I pull, but it slips. I try again, but this time pull so hard that my nail digs into my thumb, leaving an indention. Blood drips down my fingers. I try again, but no luck. I start to claw at it with the tips of my fingers, not able to grab the tip as I did before. I stand up and reposition myself. Still no luck. I pull at the tip using my other hand; my breath becomes heavy. Horrible thoughts go through my head as I picture the look on the face of the ER nurse when I tell her what is stuck inside me. I think about the pliers in the driver's side door of my jeep. I wonder what's better to sanitize them with, hydrogen peroxide or rubbing alcohol? Then I remember the tweezers on my makeup stand. I shake my head and think, "I'm crazy; that'll never work." That's when I decided to come clean to my boyfriend. I slowly walk into the bus, defeated. I pathetically cry, "I have a problem." He stares at me with both a look of worry and wonder. “Yes…" He carefully answers. "Well, I... Um... My cup is stuck." His face relaxes as he says, “well, sounds like something you should ask Google." Realizing he cannot help, I head for my iPhone, lying on the end of the bed. I sit down and open the common search page. "Pinch the tip to make the cup release," I read as I scroll through the first website. "Try to get your pointer finger to the top, and your thumb placed on the bottom, then bend it to release." It continues. I backtracked to the Google page and saw a link for Buzzfeed. This could be the relief I'm looking for. I click on the link: "75 things to do if your menstrual cup is stuck inside you.  I start reading them aloud. 1.) Deny the fact that your menstrual cup is unreachable and continue to claw at your insides like a panicked raccoon. Checked that off my list. 2.) Slowly allow the sour wave of fear to rise up through your body when you finally accept that it is, in fact, stuck inside of you. 3.) Quietly despair. "How does buzz feed know me so well," I think as I continue to read. 5.) Switch to your non-dominant hand and retry the raccoon thing. 6.) Stare blankly at the bathroom floor tiles for a moment while contemplating the meaning of life. Check and check… 7.) Try again standing up. 8.) Try again sitting down. Did that a few times. 15.) Consider for a moment leaving it stuck up there, moving to a new city, finding a new job, and starting a new life. 16.) Realize that none of that will change the fact that you have a menstrual cup stuck inside your body. 17.) Emerge from the bathroom and locate your live-in boyfriend. 18.) Explain to your live-in boyfriend that the menstrual cup you were so excited to use has betrayed you, and now you both have to move to California and change your names. I laugh as I read this one aloud to my boyfriend. 19.) Accept a hug while realizing this is as far as his help can go. 20.) Say goodbye to your live-in boyfriend and return to your bathroom lair—this is your home now. My boyfriend laughs as he gets dressed, then walks over to me and gives me a sympathetic hug, patting my back softly before he exits the bus and heads for our outdoor kitchen located under a Costco canopy to make coffee. I head back to the outhouse for one final try. I reach in. Pull at the tip of the cup. It gives just enough for my finger and thumb to pinch the tip, releasing the suction. Warm liquid starts to drip down my hand. Every muscle in my body relaxes as I stare at the small frustrating menstrual cup covered in deep red colored blood. I waddle to our outdoor shower, my panties hanging below my knees. I rinse the cup. Holding it up in the air, I examine the little piece of rubber. Taking note of its small details. Then with a deep breath, I fold the cup and slide it back into place. I'm still not ready to give up.   **Below is an update on current usage.**
It has been seven years since this dreaded moment of inserting my cup for the first time, and I can say that it has been a successful journey. My life’s landscape had changed dramatically; that boyfriend is now my ex, and my bus life got traded for a sailboat along with many nautical miles over the Caribbean Sea before leaving the ocean and heading back to the mountains of Boulder, Colorado. However, the cup has been my old reliable, coming to my rescue every month. I no longer dread it and have no intentions of giving it up. The low environmental impact and the fact that I never have to worry about not having a tampon while traveling has been wonderful. However, the most beneficial thing that has happened since forfeiting the tampon is the change in my periods. At the time, I had struggled with mind-numbing pain every month. I saw doctors and specialists trying to figure out why my period was so excruciating and extremely heavy. No one could give me a straight answer and just wanted to treat me for Endometriosis. I started using the cup because I knew I wanted to travel and had intentions of doing it by boat. One of the scariest things I could think of was not being able to find a tampon in a foreign country or, worse running out in the middle of a sail passage. At the time, I had no idea that this little cup was the answer to my womanly issues. My periods are now shorter, lighter, and less painful. I went from having a seven-nine day period to a short and sweet three-four day. I still get pain, but nowhere near what it once was, with only one and a half days of heavy bleeding. I don’t know what it is in the tampons that had been poisoning me all these years but will never go back. Whether you are traveling or not. I can highly recommend the menstrual cup. Cindy Sherman inspired self-portraits taken by me, Cassidy Wayant, at the property of the bus in Holualoa, Hawaii. Copyright 2016. Don't miss out on this fun small business family restaurant with pizza you'll dream about!!  I recently traveled to Asheville, North Carolina, to help with this delicious pizza restaurant's marketing image. They had suffered a hit after COVID and needed to remind their original customers that they were still open and serving the same mouth-watering cuisine.
It was a pleasure not only to get to take photos of all the food but also to get to eat it! 
 Niwot's curse on Boulder, Colorado People seeing the beauty of this valley will want to stay, and their staying will be the undoing of the beauty. ~Chief Niwot    Niwot's Curse was folklore I learned as a young Boulder Valley student. I find much truth in this curse as I have watched my home town change. My childhood memories rapidly disappearing as million-dollar condos and high-end retail replace quaint coffee shops and quirky small businesses.   But the curse was not something Chief Niwot had wished upon this unique town; it was a premonition. He dreamed of a great flood that swallowed the Arapahoe tribe, letting only white man survive. Fearful for his people, the chief tried to make peace with the white man in hopes of saving his people. But the overflow of gold-seekers continued to swamp the breathtaking valley pushing the peaceful natives out. Later, it is believed, that Chief Niwot died at the hands of the Third Colorado Cavalry in the Sand Creek Massacre. Proving a truth to his premonition. Eventually, the money-hungry miners were replaced with the hopeful peace and love of the 1960's hippy movement. Swarms of liberal, peace-loving, environmental progressive humans filled the little mining town. Quickly became a forward-thinking town floating in the state of cowboys and conservative country folks.  During this time, many local Boulderites worked to protect the open space surrounding the town in hopes of preserving the community as well as the land. Building restrictions where enforced, and Boulder could no longer build up or out. The small-town limits and bleeding liberal population began earning a representation among the state, referred to the town as the People's Republic of Boulder, the Boulder Bubble, or the (liberal) island in the middle of Colorado, which at the time was very much a red state. 
 It is sad to think Boulder will never be the same place it was while I was growing up, but I will always be grateful for the memories of what it once was.
And still, take much joy in the breathtaking scenery. 
Kelley and I bravely walked around the view blocking plant in hopes of seeing more. Being not more than five feet away, the entire body of the six/seven foot gator was completely exposed. Kelley and I stood frozen staring at the intense animal as he glared back at us, with one leg propped on shore, he leaned the slightest bit closer in our direction. With hearts racing, we scurried away from the scene of the crime and I declared to Kelley, “Yeah, I don’t think I want one as a pet after all.”  My life has been so crazy lately that I haven't had many moments to myself. But today gave me a much needed gift, the gift of rain. With clouds rolling in left and right, sailing didn't seem like much fun. Instead, I spent the day baking, editing, writing, and cooking. 
A much needed day of relaxing, gave me inspiration to do one of my favourite pass times, baking. Our oven is very small, which means I can only bake 6 muffins at a time but I I can't complain since they came out so lovely.  I found this wonderful recipe on https://www.errenskitchen.com/ In normal fashion, as well as a still broken refrigerator, I had no milk to work with. So I subsituted with a can of coconut milk. This gave them a nice buttery, sweet favor. I also made a spicy, vegetarian chilli to go with my mini corn breads. Perfect meal for a rainy day. Prep Time 10 minutes Cook Time 15 minutes Total Time 25 minutes Servings muffins Calories 174 kcal Author Erreb @ Erren's Kitchen Ingredients
US Measurements - Metric MeasurementsInstructions
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January 2025
Cassidy Wayant
North Carolina Heritage. Colorado Born. Aloha Spirit. |
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