It’s been a long road since our figure of eight “Voyage for VOYCE” around Aotearoa/New Zealand ended in May 2021. I wrapped up fundraising talks in August of 2021, and went on a hiatus after raising $50,000 to create a new scholarship fund so that young people in state care in NZ could have the experience of a lifetime aboard the tall ship Spirit of New Zealand.
The Voyage had taken everything we had (and then some). Zia, Windfola, and I all needed some serious R & R. Not only had my grandmother passed away near the end of the voyage — without us taking a moment to rest or grieve — but Windfola needed TLC after sailing about 3,000nm over an eight-month period. I felt utterly depleted — I had given more than I really had inside of me, and I needed time out of the spotlight.
Unfortunately, that hiatus devolved into a long spell of challenges for us. We found ourselves stuck as the country went into another lockdown that lasted through the end of 2021. Omicron had finally really arrived in Aotearoa, and the government tried to reduce community spread as it also raced to distribute vaccines.
Back home, most of my friends my age had already received their vaccinations. Travel to most countries was restricted to only those who had been vaccinated, and given my youthful age, I was a long way down the queue to receive my first jab in NZ. That meant I couldn’t really exit the country, even if the maritime borders had been open!
We were well and truly stuck. I had no visa to work… and the government had shut down most avenues through which to apply for one, even as a “skilled migrant” with a university degree. I had hoped to continue writing, as I had before our charity voyage, but I had slipped into a deep grief and depression. I couldn’t write, I just had nothing left. The sea was calling, but I was lost at land.
The darkness swallowed me whole.
Our last year and half has been worse than any squall we’ve faced at sea.
I found odd jobs to scrape by, but not enough to give Windfola the attention she needed. The border closure dragged on. Another cyclone season arrived. I kept thinking the borders would open and we could sail on; there was no sense trying to find employment willing to sponsor me to stay, because it would likely only be available if I made a long-term commitment to work.
I thought about flying home. I wanted to pick up my grandmother’s ashes and scatter them. I wanted to hug someone, to really be hugged, that kind of embrace that wraps right down around one’s soul. (As of today’s writing, it’s been nearly four years since I left the USA, and I am deeply homesick for my beloved friend-family.)
But, I couldn’t leave — if I exited NZ, there was no telling when they’d permit me to return for Windfola, my home since 2017! Typically, NZ doesn’t allow visitors to stay more than 9 months in 18, and we were well beyond that. We were in the same quandary we were in during our first year here… leave, with no guarantee we’d be permitted to return for a long time, or stay, living in limbo, parted from bluewater sailing and everyone we love most in the world. Add to that the fact that Zia wouldn’t be permitted to reenter NZ from the USA… Even if I knew someone in NZ who could keep her for 18 months, how could I leave her behind?
So, we stayed, and I sunk deeper and deeper into the abyss. Challenges abounded, and we ended up in a pretty bad situation just trying to get by. I fell out of touch with almost everyone, too ashamed to admit that I, Elana Connor, the woman who sailed around the country championing following your dreams and believing, had lost her hope. I didn’t think anyone I had met along the way would really care to help this pathetic version of the strong solo sailor they had admired.
Oh, how our worst voices degrade and diminish us when we are in sadness!
Finally, in July 2022, NZ opened its maritime borders. I was able to get a work visa at the end of August, but all I wanted was to finish preparing Windfola and GET OUT — I couldn’t make a commitment to an employer with only a few months of departure prep remaining. (It’s not that I don’t love Aotearoa NZ, but I don’t belong here, I have a mission to accomplish!)
I sunk every dollar I earned here (and some that I don’t have yet) into prepping Windfola for another bluewater crossing: a new anchor chain, a bimini to hold up new high-output solar panels and give us shade from the brutal Antipodean sun, restitching the main- and foresails, replacing two of the original foam sea berths in the cabin, and cleaning out every locker and crevice of the mildew and rat droppings that had accumulated during her long neglect.
Finally, in December of 2022, we were ready to return to full-time life aboard at anchor.
Since then, we’ve been floating around in the Bay of Plenty, shaking out all the gremlins in the boat updates, reestablishing our pattern of life aboard, and finding our happiness together again. I’m healing. I’m finally able to write again, and slowly, slowly, to let people in.
Next week when the weather breaks, we’ll start sailing north to get some miles under her hull and make sure all is well before we jump off to Australia. I need to sort out the details for exiting NZ, and for entering Australia (with a dog). It’s still a struggle, but I am hopeful that after giving so much here, the Universe — and my writing — will provide us with the support we need to sail on toward the horizon.
We’re not perfect, but we’re in motion.
May you always return to your hope,
elana, zia, and s/v windfola ⛵️💕
28 January, 2023; Matakana, New Zealand
