May 14. First day at sea.

We will leave today. Fabien arrives to wake us up and we finally set sail. Before we reach open waters, we buy some large chunks of ice to refrigerate the ham and cheese we have for the sandwiches during the sea crossing. I take a last glance at the town of Cartagena, that looks out proudly over the Caribbean sea. Once we are on open waters, the boat starts bumping a lot, and, well, I get seasick. The highrises are long out of sight when I have to throw up. My stomach as to remain empty for the next 48 hours. I just lay down on my narrow berth and switch sides like I am frying myself. Dreams revolve inevitably around the subject of good food. Steaks, pineapples, grapes, lamb chops, kebabs, fries, smoked salmon, lobster, garlic-shrimps, old cheese and mangos. It’s amazing how creative an empty stomach is. What am I? What is this? Am I really looking at the bright sight of seasick starvation? The delirium boosts creativity and it doesn’t kill me. What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger, to quote Nietzsche at least once in this story. I fry myself in my own sweat, it’s boiling hot in the berth, I turn around again and again, there are stones in my stomach. The equilibrium organ plays mad. I need a plastic bag the captain hands it to me relunctantly because it’s the only thing next to glass the Ocean does not like to swallow: plastic. Everything else is biodegradable. You can throw in tin cans, paper, cork – no problem. I dream about the Ocean as a giant organism (and it’s not too far off a comparison, I am referring here to Lovelock’s “Gaia”-hypothesis) and the Ocean knows how to keep her equilibrium in spite of the mess a 10-figure bunch of ignorant bipedal monkeys keeps making of her. I turn around on my bowel’s command, fry my other side, dream about good food again, and creativity. Can we artificially put ourselves in such a state that everything just pours out of us? Can we? Should we?

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May 14. First day at sea.

We will leave today. Fabien arrives to wake us up and we finally set sail. Before we reach open waters, we buy some large chunks of ice to refrigerate the ham and cheese we have for the sandwiches during the sea crossing. I take a last glance at the town of Cartagena, that looks out proudly over the Caribbean sea. Once we are on open waters, the boat starts bumping a lot, and, well, I get seasick. The highrises are long out of sight when I have to throw up. My stomach as to remain empty for the next 48 hours. I just lay down on my narrow berth and switch sides like I am frying myself. Dreams revolve inevitably around the subject of good food. Steaks, pineapples, grapes, lamb chops, kebabs, fries, smoked salmon, lobster, garlic-shrimps, old cheese and mangos. It’s amazing how creative an empty stomach is. What am I? What is this? Am I really looking at the bright sight of seasick starvation? The delirium boosts creativity and it doesn’t kill me. What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger, to quote Nietzsche at least once in this story. I fry myself in my own sweat, it’s boiling hot in the berth, I turn around again and again, there are stones in my stomach. The equilibrium organ plays mad. I need a plastic bag the captain hands it to me relunctantly because it’s the only thing next to glass the Ocean does not like to swallow: plastic. Everything else is biodegradable. You can throw in tin cans, paper, cork – no problem. I dream about the Ocean as a giant organism (and it’s not too far off a comparison, I am referring here to Lovelock’s “Gaia”-hypothesis) and the Ocean knows how to keep her equilibrium in spite of the mess a 10-figure bunch of ignorant bipedal monkeys keeps making of her. I turn around on my bowel’s command, fry my other side, dream about good food again, and creativity. Can we artificially put ourselves in such a state that everything just pours out of us? Can we? Should we?

May 14. First day at sea.

We will leave today. Fabien arrives to wake us up and we finally set sail. Before we reach open waters, we buy some large chunks of ice to refrigerate the ham and cheese we have for the sandwiches during the sea crossing. I take a last glance at the town of Cartagena, that looks out proudly over the Caribbean sea. Once we are on open waters, the boat starts bumping a lot, and, well, I get seasick. The highrises are long out of sight when I have to throw up. My stomach as to remain empty for the next 48 hours. I just lay down on my narrow berth and switch sides like I am frying myself. Dreams revolve inevitably around the subject of good food. Steaks, pineapples, grapes, lamb chops, kebabs, fries, smoked salmon, lobster, garlic-shrimps, old cheese and mangos. It’s amazing how creative an empty stomach is. What am I? What is this? Am I really looking at the bright sight of seasick starvation? The delirium boosts creativity and it doesn’t kill me. What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger, to quote Nietzsche at least once in this story. I fry myself in my own sweat, it’s boiling hot in the berth, I turn around again and again, there are stones in my stomach. The equilibrium organ plays mad. I need a plastic bag the captain hands it to me relunctantly because it’s the only thing next to glass the Ocean does not like to swallow: plastic. Everything else is biodegradable. You can throw in tin cans, paper, cork – no problem. I dream about the Ocean as a giant organism (and it’s not too far off a comparison, I am referring here to Lovelock’s “Gaia”-hypothesis) and the Ocean knows how to keep her equilibrium in spite of the mess a 10-figure bunch of ignorant bipedal monkeys keeps making of her. I turn around on my bowel’s command, fry my other side, dream about good food again, and creativity. Can we artificially put ourselves in such a state that everything just pours out of us? Can we? Should we?

May 13. Waiting in the port.

Fabien sends a taxi to pick us up from the hostel. We have to wait a few hours in the Club Nautico before embarkation. Today, it’s going to happen… my excitement has been stirred up like cappuccino foam for the last couple of days, and I do feel really good. It will be six days until we’ll arrive in Panama City and I’ll be able to update this monologue.

At least, that’s what I thought. Fabien brings our passports to the port captain who has to take care of immigration. We can leave only by his mercy. If we don’t get the passports back until 6pm, we have to sleep on the boat because sailing out at nighttime will make us marine novices prone to sea-sickness. We hang around, I join Fabien to a big supermarket where he buys the stuff for our trip. Seven people can eat a lot in six days. By the way, the supermarket looks exactly like what I’m used to in Western Europe and the civilized part of Northern America, with two exceptions:
1) There are security guards that check your bags when you leave the shop;
2) There are employees to help you put everything in bags and say “buenos dias” to you, with a friendly smile.
We have everything packed in Fabien’s small car and drive back to the boat. The preparations for such a sailing tour are extensive. It’s a lot of work to maintain a self-sustaining boat. And this is, in my case, a good opportunity to reflect about autonomy, independence, and the like.

At night, we feast on a huge pizza, provided for by Fabien our ever cooler captain, and then retreat to our boat to spend a beautiful night under the stars. Doing these things for the first time, it makes us all excited about the marine life we are going to experience in the week to come.

May 13. Waiting in the port.

Fabien sends a taxi to pick us up from the hostel. We have to wait a few hours in the Club Nautico before embarkation. Today, it’s going to happen… my excitement has been stirred up like cappuccino foam for the last couple of days, and I do feel really good. It will be six days until we’ll arrive in Panama City and I’ll be able to update this monologue.

At least, that’s what I thought. Fabien brings our passports to the port captain who has to take care of immigration. We can leave only by his mercy. If we don’t get the passports back until 6pm, we have to sleep on the boat because sailing out at nighttime will make us marine novices prone to sea-sickness. We hang around, I join Fabien to a big supermarket where he buys the stuff for our trip. Seven people can eat a lot in six days. By the way, the supermarket looks exactly like what I’m used to in Western Europe and the civilized part of Northern America, with two exceptions:
1) There are security guards that check your bags when you leave the shop;
2) There are employees to help you put everything in bags and say “buenos dias” to you, with a friendly smile.
We have everything packed in Fabien’s small car and drive back to the boat. The preparations for such a sailing tour are extensive. It’s a lot of work to maintain a self-sustaining boat. And this is, in my case, a good opportunity to reflect about autonomy, independence, and the like.

At night, we feast on a huge pizza, provided for by Fabien our ever cooler captain, and then retreat to our boat to spend a beautiful night under the stars. Doing these things for the first time, it makes us all excited about the marine life we are going to experience in the week to come.

May 13. Waiting in the port.

Fabien sends a taxi to pick us up from the hostel. We have to wait a few hours in the Club Nautico before embarkation. Today, it’s going to happen… my excitement has been stirred up like cappuccino foam for the last couple of days, and I do feel really good. It will be six days until we’ll arrive in Panama City and I’ll be able to update this monologue.

At least, that’s what I thought. Fabien brings our passports to the port captain who has to take care of immigration. We can leave only by his mercy. If we don’t get the passports back until 6pm, we have to sleep on the boat because sailing out at nighttime will make us marine novices prone to sea-sickness. We hang around, I join Fabien to a big supermarket where he buys the stuff for our trip. Seven people can eat a lot in six days. By the way, the supermarket looks exactly like what I’m used to in Western Europe and the civilized part of Northern America, with two exceptions:
1) There are security guards that check your bags when you leave the shop;
2) There are employees to help you put everything in bags and say “buenos dias” to you, with a friendly smile.
We have everything packed in Fabien’s small car and drive back to the boat. The preparations for such a sailing tour are extensive. It’s a lot of work to maintain a self-sustaining boat. And this is, in my case, a good opportunity to reflect about autonomy, independence, and the like.

At night, we feast on a huge pizza, provided for by Fabien our ever cooler captain, and then retreat to our boat to spend a beautiful night under the stars. Doing these things for the first time, it makes us all excited about the marine life we are going to experience in the week to come.

May 12. The First Supper.

Fabien the captain takes my passport because he has to go the the immigration on our behalf and then it’s time for lunch. Last lunch on this continent, with the last juice, the last soup. Today, I’ll have the last bit of streetfood here, the last walk through a park, the last south American newspaper, and so on. It make me think about the appeal of the “last”. Why does it fascinate us so much? I like to swim against the stream, so I created a little fantasy about a bunch of people waiting at the Gate of Heaven, smoking their first cigaret nervously, already making their first friends, feeling their attraction to the opposite sex for the first time, until Peter opens the Gate with the yawning of an advanced evening. “Come in”, he says and the crowd walks through the gate. “Make yourself comfortable everyone, cloakroam is on your left, you can leave your umbrella’s there too since you won’t need them. You might want to take a shower. If you’re done, come along with me. It’s about time for the First Supper.”

I go writing in “Juan Valdez” the real caffeine intake boosted my production a fare bit. I will write an unplanned novel, just by following the main character which will be a “he”-character, and see how his mindset develops. That can be interesting. Is he going to be desperate? Will he become a vegetarian? A sex-addict? Will he give up on himself? What kind of people will he meet? I feel like writing it for one single reason: skimming the cream off my fantasy that I reckon is too rich to be healty. I dreamt seven dreams tonight. About a Finnish girl I know, who had transformed into a schoolgirl and at the same time the place I went looking for her was an old Russian submarine; in parallel to that I dreamt about an ex-girlfriend staring at me from a high bridge, about my mother, about Pablo Escobar being hunt down by a hundred tanks on the streets of Medellin, and much more. So I will write that novel in a couple of weeks, and publish it here when it’s ready. And I’ll ask for donations.