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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.✨
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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. **
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January 2025
Cassidy Wayant
North Carolina Heritage. Colorado Born. Aloha Spirit. |
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