Farewell French Restaurant

Eleven days ago, I worked my last shift serving at a French restaurant here in Boulder, CO. It was a surprisingly busy brunch, considering the fast-growing public concern with COVID-19. Classes at CU Boulder had already been moved online and the media was starting to get serious about the virus, but people were still excited about getting a mimosa and a croque madam (a damn good one, I’ll add). Some customers were clearly nervous, eyeing our fingers’ proximity to their breakfast potatoes and asking about the precautions we were taking. Our managers were rolling out new health and safety practices every hour, changing how we drop off and pick up checks, sanitizing pens every time they came back from a table. Despite the nervousness in the air, none of us expected the restaurant to close the next day.

In the two weeks since the restaurant closed, I have hiked and cooked and painted more than I usually do, though still not as much as I had hoped. With the optimistic view that I’ll be sailing soon and a lack of steady income, I sold my truck: a faithful Chevy that had been my dad’s Sea//Tow work truck for years before he handed me the keys. I drove that rusty-bottomed boat of a car out to Ohio for school for years, north to Maine for a job on SSV Corwith Cramer, east to Martha’s Vineyard for a summer of work at Gannon & Benjamin, and finally far west to Colorado to live with my boyfriend, Alex. He’s in school at CU (now online) and works a handful of jobs, from freelance photography to establishing the US HQ for Amundsen Sports—a clothing company out of Oslo, Norway. Like many other freelancers & gig-workers, some of his gigs have been put on pause due to the COVID-19 pandemic.

Processing a Pandemic

This time has proven itself to be dizzying. On a recent video call with my dear friends from college, we agreed that we find our mindsets changing by the hour. In the early days of the virus, we had likened it to influenza and chose not to consider what would happen if it was worse. Then, in a matter of days, the exponential spread of the virus forced our thinking to keep up with that growth rate. New information and recommendations came flooding in via our devices that normally help us connect and laugh with friends and family far away. My steadiest job vanished; no more hourly wages or generous tips. Now what?

Thankfully, I have a comfortable safety-net to catch me when I fall. I live in the front range of the Rocky Mountains with the best roommate I could hope for. My family, while spread across New York state, is just a Facetime call away; a technological feat that I take advantage of daily.

Living in the front range has some serious perks.

Being part of the 59 North family means that there’s a stunningly intelligent and caring group of badass sailor folk, spread all around the world, who communicate better than any bunch I’ve ever met. Andy and Mia have been consistently keeping us up-to-date with their thoughts and the rest of the team joins in the “what do we do now” contingency planning with such earnest enthusiasm. Being ocean sailors, we all know how to roll with the swell and weather the storms.

I have been thinking a lot about how this time reminds me of that stretch between Christmas and New Years; A time when I find myself home with family, loafing around. Maybe attempting new recipes or laughing over card games. And as that special time at home runs out, you’re glad to get back to work or school, to get back to various projects and the feeling of productivity. But the unusual difference here is that we don’t know when we’ll be ‘back to normal’. Which means it’s time to adjust our idea of normal, at least for the time being, and push on. My new normal has consisted of a lot of bread baking; The first loaf being remarkably unsuccessful. Imagine an incredibly dense, whole wheat Frisbee. The second loaf is pictured below and I can honestly say I have never been so proud of something I have made.

Weathering the Storm

This new (albeit temporary) way of life also reminds me of living at sea. There are parallels between the lessons the ocean forces you to learn and the lessons I’ve gleaned from self-quarantine. Many of those relate to patience, mindfulness, and adaptation. Time slows and daily tasks take on more meaning. The value we tend to place on constant productivity decreases. The items on the checklist seem smaller, but checking them off feels better. Planning for something a week in advance is no longer logical; we might not be in port by then. People in our proximity are family now if they weren’t before and we tailor the spaces we live in, giving them greater utility. Things going in their place matters more. I sweep the kitchen floor far more frequently. And like Shackleton’s men, we keep standing watch and completing chores even when it feels insignificant. We laugh and sing and dress up with friends, over Zoom instead of over the saloon table.

Like many others, I am not sure when I will be back to work. Just ten days from now I was supposed to fly to Florida to take my STCW and medical courses, after which I was to meet ICEBEAR in Tortola to begin the summer season. Those plans are now on hold, and for very good reason. So now, I’m pouring myself into other 59 North projects. Running the Instagram account has given me a great opportunity to connect with the incredible community that Andy and Mia have built. A job that hardly feels like a job! So, we shall weather this storm together. Cherish our daily tasks, no matter how small they may seem. Screw up some recipes and succeed at some others. Get creative and find new opportunities arising from the ashes.

Much love from Colorado, and hold fast!

Emma