Swinging on a Star
What I Learned from a Bing Crosby Tune
I wish I knew when they were coming. That there was some sign of approaching flight—a ripple at the surface or an underwater whirring sound as they generate speed. Those suckers can zoom up to 45 mph! If I knew they were about to erupt, I’d snag a mid-air photo as a squadron of eight or nine emerged. But then again, the surprise is half the joy.
Another winged pisces flits from port to starboard in front of our bows, narrowly escaping collision, and my face splits into my every-single-time smile as Bing Crosby’s voice croons a 1940’s standard in my head about swinging on stars, moonbeams, jars, and being better off. Or, you might rather be a fish?
Two parts hydrogen, one part oxygen. I live with my husband full-time on a power catamaran. My yard is the ocean. Instead of watching squirrels scurry through a garden, I gaze at flying fish from the helm of my floaty home. I’ve always been happiest on the water, in the water, underwater, living the aquatic life. Kind of like a fish in a way. To answer Bing’s query, not sure if I’d rather be one, but if I must, I’m going flying fish all the way.
Living on a boat is the compromise after our relocation to the Bahamas several years ago was upended thanks to Category 5 Hurricane Dorian. But that survival story will have to wait for another time. Suffice to say we refused to be bullied into abandoning our tropical dream life, even by Mother Nature herself.
Yet Marsh Harbour, our destination of choice, needed years t
o recover. We knew we couldn’t go back anytime soon. Besides, I didn’t want to be a sitting duck stuck on land just waiting for the next off-the-charts storm, though we still craved island life harder than a chocoholic at a fat farm. To satiate our burning hunger, we had to shift.
We’d take a page out of nature’s handbook: add some adaptations and evolve, like so many creatures have done since life began. We could emulate tortoises who bring their houses with them and try the vanlife thing. Or maybe just adopt the stylings of Canadian geese—or any migratory bird—and split our year between tropical and temperate homes. But if we’re upgrading ourselves, why not both? Like my flying fish friends, we opted for duality.
Flying fish don’t really fly, of course. Exocoetidae, as they’re known in posh academic circles, are simply expert gliders.
Mild-mannered reporters—I mean, marine-dwellers—by day; aquatic superheroes by night…but also by day because their superpowers aren’t based on circadian rhythms, just on necessity. When threatened by predators from the depths, they don their superhero capes (or in their case, deploy their specialized aerodynamic pectoral fins) and launch themselves into the air. Is it a bird? Is it a plane? Nope, just a savvy, survival-obsessed fish.
I can relate.
While I respect Mother Nature’s dominion—and I’ve seen first-hand how powerful (and bitchy) she can be—I’d still like to maintain a little control over my own life. And though I debate myself daily on whether or not I actually have any control, I do have free will. And I want to exercise that as long as I can. But to live in an environment which can be hostile, one must be ready for anything. I prepare for and anticipate smooth voyages, but keep a Plan B handy at all times. Thus, duality.
The flying fish swims under normal circumstances; I cruise through the islands during non-hurricane months, the “safe” season.
The flying fish finds safety by escaping into another realm; I relocate myself, my husband, and our boat to safe harbor each summer, secured to a dock for four or five months till the “all clear” date in November.
We’re not big fans of living on a dock. But if safety dictates our boat will fare better should a storm threaten, marina life it is. Temporary landlubbers in a sea of fellow cruisers—kindred spirits who share the unique challenges and joys of living on the water.
The healing properties of water are well documented. Data suggests merely smelling salty ocean air provides a measurable uptick in happiness. I caught my lifelong tropical island dream, but only for a moment before it was wrenched from my grasp. While climate chaos dictates I’ll probably never feel safe enough in a permanent beachfront home, I’ll always be an aquatic creature. When I seek peace and joy, I head to sea. There, in the waters of the Bahamas—from Exuma Sound, through the Providence Channel, throughout the Sea of Abaco—I find serenity. I find my bliss.
Flying fish discovered how to access safe space in an alternate dimension. I’ve figured out how to reclaim my dream life, even if that means migrating to a safer space when hurricanes threaten —the duality of cruising tropical waters with a brief escape to a landlocked realm.
Life is fluid, may as well live on the water. So yes, Bing, if it means fulfilling my dream life, I guess I’d rather be a fish.
How about you? Would you rather be a fish, pig, mule, or another critter whose lifestyle you can relate to? Let me know in the comments.
Well, my hubby says I am part fish (because there is nothing I would prefer to do more than swim). But … true confessions here … he mis-identified me! Actually if he hung around to watch me doing laps, he would soon discover that I am really a mermaid, albeit one who has lost her fin and is trapped in a human body. I can feel the insistent call of the water whenever I must return to land. It haunts me in my dreams, and I wake each day to find a way back to the delicious depths. Of course, some days I don’t completely succeed and find myself in … a cement-formed swimming pool. Rather plebeian after my life in the turquoise and teal waters. But, needs must!