Julie Bradley - Escape from the Ordinary (1)

esCAPE

FROM THE

ORDINARY

JULIE BRADLEY

Close Reach Publishing LLC
First Printing, December 2018
2018 Close Reach Publishing

Colophon is the trademark of Close Reach Publishing.
All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Close Reach Publishing.

closereachpublishing.com

Cover Design: Cyndie Shaffstall
Cover Photograph : J.M. Rieupeyrout, Amel
Photographs: Glen or Julie Bradley and J.M. Rieupeyrout, Amel

Identifiers: LCCN 2018913162 | ISBN 9781732918405

The Library of Congress has cataloged as follows:
Bradley, Julie M.
Escape from the Ordinary / Julie Bradley

SUBJECTS:
Fiji (South Pacific)Description and Travel. 2. Bradley, JulieTravelSouth Pacific. 3. Bradley, JulieBiography and MemoirSouth PacificFrench Polynesia. 4. Bradley, JulieAdventure and AdventurersBiography. 5. SailingPacific Ocean. 6. SailingCaribbean. 7. Escape (Psychology) 8. Life-changing events. 9. Moving, Household. 10. International and World PoliticsCaribbean and Latin American. 11. International and World PoliticsRussian and Former Soviet Union

Printed in the United States of America
DOC 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

CONTENTS

For Glen,
who taught me how to
dream big.

Authors Note

W hen people hear that we sailed around the world (I let that tidbit drop a lot), they all have the same questions: Did you have any bad storms ? Did you encounter any pirates ? How did you afford it ? But the most common is: How did you and your husband live in such close quarters ?

This account of our early retirement adventures answers all those questions about the perils of escaping from it all. My hope is that it will inspire all who read it to consider taking time off from wherever they are in life to pursue a great personal quest. If some of the adventures I describe sound too edgy, and staying home sounds more your cup of tea, you can share the experience in this book. Fair warning however: after lurching out for life changing adventure, it is very difficult to live an everyday life and the confines that come with stability.

Another question often asked is How much of this is true ? The answer: basically, all of it. I kept a journal during our entire seven-and-a-half-year circumnavigation and published articles in newspapers and magazines. As I reviewed those writings for this book, I was reminded of events, people and sometimes even entire islands I had forgotten. Those diaries provided frightening insight into our lack of preparedness the first year out. Lessons learned from bad experiences are the most lasting and this book, from the Bay of Biscay, France to Fiji, is full of our stupid mistakes as well as incredible adventures. In the sequel, Crossing Pirate Waters , the death-defying experiences are more a consequence of being in places like the Indian Ocean and Gulf of Aden, where bad stuff like piracy and tsunamis tend to happen.

Sometimes, in the interest of moving the story, or respecting privacy I skip the names of many boats and people we sailed with and befriended along the way. Also, it would be too hard to track them all down to ask their permission. Ive tried to convey dialogue faithfully, but when you see quotations it means that something approximately like this was said . I have tried to extract only the juicy bits of over seven years of daily adventures and travel. Exploring so many places and countries required making hard choices about what and whom to include.

You can enjoy more pictures of our voyage and travels as well as updates on what Glen and I have been doing since we sold our boat, at www.juliebradleyauthor.com .

Prologue

S omewhere off the coast of France, I woke up drenched in frigid seawater from a monster wave breaking over the bow of the boat. Recovering from the cold shock I looked around and saw that while I slept, Glen had furled the foresail into the size of a hand towel. The weather was worsening.

The sky was ominously dark, and BB pellets of freezing rain peppered my foul-weather gear before swirling their way down the cockpit scupper drain. Our electronic autopilot was pulling heavy duty; at times it whirred and slipped, thumping the boat into the next wave instead of riding up and over. Glen sat clipped in at the helm, ready to steer manually if needed. We were sailing as close to the wind as the laws of physics allowed, and it required supreme concentration to keep us so near to the edge. If the powerful waves completely overwhelmed our rudder the boat could round up into the wind and stop dead in the water. In the jaws of a Force 10 storm, dead in the water could be taken literally. I was scared. We were scared.

Unhooking my safety tether from a bolt, I slid toward Glen. He had been at the helm 30 minutes beyond our self-imposed watch schedules. I thought he had lost track of time, then remembered it was Christmas morning. His overtime was a sort of last-minute holiday present to me. Fighting against the wind, I pulled myself up to the helm and held Glenrather, I held onto him. The storm pelted us both and I laid my head on his shoulder.

Happy Christmas! I said into his ear.

Glen turned and brushed his beard against my face. Did I imagine it or were his eyes moist? In full understanding we clung there together. I kissed him lightly and tried some humor. This is an extreme way to get out of Christmas shopping. If we end up in a life raft eating each others limbs, I will never forgive you for the worst Christmas ever. Glen gave me a weary smile, but we both knew that if our sailboat foundered, we would never find the life raft. Even if by some unlikely chance it should happen to float right in front of us, we would be devoured by the massive, pounding waves before we could inflate the tiny survival craft.

The dream we worked so hard for was becoming a nightmare. Self-doubt froze me more than the frigid water battering the boat. Could we really make it all the way around the world? How many more mistakes like this could we handle?

Chapter 1

I woke in the cold, dark room with a headache. Slowly, with effort, my vision adapted, and I eyed my surroundings. The peeling faded wallpaper and musty odor flashed memories of my grandparents house, before the reality of subzero Russia pushed the nostalgia away. The window was open a slit to allow in what bitterly cold fresh air I could tolerate, making it damp enough to see my breath. I burrowed into the layers of blankets covering the nun-sized bedmine for the months of my final Army deploymentand looked toward the glowing red eyes of the digital clock. 0-4-3-0too early to get up and too late for more sleep. Cocooned and dreading the day, I thought about what I was leaving behind and what waited ahead. My restless sleep was expected after the three-day trip from my home in Washington, D.C., to the Ural Mountains, and I knew my pounding head was to be expected after the night of toasting vodka with my Russian counterparts. As though the Russians needed an excuse last nights clinking of glasses marked the arrival of our American nuclear weapons inspection team. Waking up in this room would feel normal within a few days, but I hoped tossing back Russian vodka never would.

Before leaving for Russia, I promised my husband, Glen, I would make an effort to enjoy this last gasp of my 20+ year Army career, but I still expected the time to pass slowly. A nine-week calendar hung on the wall in our operations room and one of the inspection team members used a Sharpie hanging from a string to mark the passing of days. As the team leader it would not be appropriate for me to keep a countdown calendar anticipating my rotation home. But I was glad it was there; as the weeks passed the large, Xd out dates would give me comfort.