There was nothing oozing or flowing or majestic about the scene. The earth’s core was projectile vomiting liquid trails; raw, violent energy rapidly calmed by the cool black mountainscape. I was hypnotised beyond my pain and fever by the liquid magma spatting and spewing into orange rivers. An intravenous line feeding hard-core antibiotics into my system obscured my view of the Icelandic volcano bubbling and breathing its fire. I lay still under the hospital sheets. I watched the raw beauty and chaos of nature play out on the screen. I noticed the fight and the fear dance through my body with the infection that had taken grip. I noticed a choice. I loitered on the steps in front of a familiar gaping doorway. I could step within, into the mansion of despair, wander dark hallways and fumble into darker rooms; or I could turn with eyes closed to the sunlight, and warm my face.
I might have been in the Arctic Ocean. I might have been pedalling a bike on the back of a sailboat, generating power, testing transitional technology and exploring perspectives of the climate change crisis.
“We miss you!” the text messages from my team-mates said before they’d disappeared off-grid, headwind into stormy seas in the direction of Greenland. They were generous – we’d only all met two days before – but I missed them too. I had been so excited to be part of a team, to be bound together not only by the compact space of a beautiful sixty-foot yacht, but by a clear goal, a passion and a purpose.
My sudden diversion into an Iceland emergency department marked another all too frequent near miss. I like living. I love feeling alive.
I avoided telling anyone back home. I wanted silence, no noise of concern or story. I was done with the drama of trauma, and whilst the tornado raged around my body, I lay in the eye of the storm. It felt new, to be in a hospital emergency department, completely peaceful.
When I did connect, lovely caring messages arrived. “So sorry you have missed out on the sail” they read, but I felt no sorrow. I noticed what had arrived rather than what not arrived. I noticed the beautiful people looking after me. I felt care and comfort. I allowed myself to be mesmerized by the magnificent volcano. I savoured the fresh, healthy and delicious food that regularly arrived. There was porridge and cream and kefir for breakfast for goodness sake. I had hours to rest and sleep and relax like I had never known possible. I mean, what was there not to like?
In the original adventure, Yacht Qilak with its extraordinary crew and six strong women were making their way across the Arctic Ocean. I watched a dot on a tracker as they slowly tacked toward the mass of Greenland. Unbeknownst to me, half of them were also laid in bed with wretched stomachs, sea-sick as they tossed through tough weather. They were battling with time and storms to reach the Greenlandic shore and begin the science and exploration intended. As they reached the shores of Greenland, much whiter than those of Iceland – some Viking real-estate scam there – I moved to a hospital hotel, a stepping stone back to reality. Slowly I eased back into the world.
As I rolled down a rainbow street in Rekjavik, a remnant of Pride weekend, I wondered at the adventure I was in. “Merge with the fight to transcend it” said Aureal, wise and golden on the screen of my phone. “Say yes to the fight”. I had. For the first time in my rollercoaster of medical incidents, I had dived in, no resistance or frustration, and stepped into the peaceful space that always lies in the eye of the storm.