the ex

I have always loved watching the night sky. I could stare up in awe for hours, but for the life of me I couldn’t name most of the constellations. I knew the big ones. The dippers. The North Star. And I knew, the way you know about a famous person you’ve never met, that somewhere in the southern hemisphere there was the Southern Cross.

As the Clipper Race got closer, I started hearing about it more. Sailors talked about it like it was a legend. It was mysterious, famous, waiting for me in the southern sky. I had never seen it with my own eyes, and I had built it up in my head into something grand.

I still remember the night we finally met.

I was on deck watch, somewhere between Puerto Sherry, Spain, and Punta del Este, Uruguay. The air had that dampness that creates a chill even in the warmest of conditions and seeps into your layers. The boat moved through the dark with a steady swoosh of water along the hull, and our headlamps were tucked away or in red mode so we wouldn’t ruin our night vision.

One of my watch mates pointed up and squealed. They saw it. The Southern Cross. I tipped my head back and searched, not sure what I was even looking for.

And then I found him.

Only I wasn’t in awe. I was…disappointed. That’s it???

He wasn’t grand. He wasn’t spectacular. He just was. A small, tidy little cross sitting in the sky. Just four stars not particularly caring whether I was impressed.

We acknowledged him night after night when the stars were out. "There’s the Cross." Nod. Back to the watch.

Honestly, I was far more taken by almost anything else up there. The Milky Way, in all its crowded, spilling-over glory. The shooting stars. Almost any star, really, was more interesting to me than the constellation I’d spent all that time waiting for.

The only time I truly appreciated the Southern Cross was when he lined up with the direction we were heading.

If you’ve never helmed by the stars, I don’t know how to fully explain it. There is nothing quite like holding a straight course by the same stars that have been there for longer than anyone has been sailing. It felt simple and old and a little bit like magic.

The only thing that gets in the way is clouds. And we had plenty of those.

Even on the nights we couldn’t see him, we knew he was up there. The Southern Cross became a constant reminder that we were tens of thousands of miles from home. He followed us to South Africa and into the Southern Ocean, where cold and wet doesn’t even begin to describe it. He was still there on the western and eastern coasts of Australia. Then, as we turned north toward the Philippines in the late winter in the northern hemisphere, I looked up one night and he was gone.

Just like that. Nowhere to be found.

We remained in the northern hemisphere for the rest of the race, and assumed that meant we’d seen the last of him. The Southern Cross belongs to the southern sky, after all…right? We made our way through China, South Korea, and on to Seattle. I’ll admit it: I didn’t miss him.

Then came the leg from Seattle down to Panama, where we’d traverse the Panama Canal. It was our last big push south before turning north again for the finish line. One night, on watch, I looked up.

And there he was. Low on the southern horizon, right where I never expected him. Panama may still be in the northern hemisphere, but it’s close enough to the equator that he can still creep over the edge into view.

That’s when the Southern Cross earned the nickname “the ex.”

You built him up for months, finally met him, and discovered he was…fine. A bit of a disappointment. You move on to new places, new adventures, and eventually he disappears behind the excitement of whatever comes next. You celebrate when he’s out of your life.

Naturally, that’s when he shows back up - suddenly jealous that you’ve moved on - inserting himself right where he’s least wanted.

It became a running joke between the Watch Leaders on our team. We’d give an update on “the ex” during watch handovers. "He's back." ...said with an eye roll. Or “No sign of him tonight!”  The three of us would trade updates like we were tracking someone on social media. It’s a ridiculous thing to bond over, but on a boat where everyone is tired and a very long way from home, a running gag about a constellation meant more than it had any right to. Somehow the ex had become the thing that made us laugh together.

We were glad when he again disappeared from our view as we headed north from Panama to Washington, DC. Once again, it felt like we were moving on. Moving in a positive direction. But I have a feeling this isn’t the last of him.

Our plans for Salty will eventually take us across the South Pacific, and I can guarantee we’ll be reunited. I’ll probably roll my eyes. I’ll laugh a little. And then I’ll probably say, “Oh…it’s you again.” I already know who I’ll text first when he shows back up in my life.

And then I’ll keep looking up. Because whether the ex is there or not, there’s always something worth seeing.