Michelle Segrest's Blog, page 5

What is Geocaching? Free Adventures Off the Beaten Path

By Michelle Segrest

It’s all about the hunt.

We are not in search of the Holy Grail or some ridiculously expensive historic stash of golden artifacts. Geocaching is a virtual treasure hunt that meets somewhere at the corner of Indiana Jones and National Treasure. It is free entertainment and totally addictive!

People still ask me, “What did you find?” They always think we find diamonds or money or gold or something.

What geocachers find is much more valuable. An amazing view. A hidden landmark. Insight into a piece of history. An unexpected surprise that is not on the tourist map. The greatest treasures are found in the adventure, and the rewards are measured in the lasting memories.

I try to find at least one geocache everywhere I travel in the world and it always provides me with a great story to tell. It is a fun way to explore a new city and venture off the beaten tourist path. Geocaching always leads to something amazing that you would not have seen or experienced otherwise.

No matter where you are, these little hidden boxes are lurking all around you. They are disguised as bison tubes, film cannisters, plastic boxes, ammo boxes and tiny magnets. Some look like tree bark, or mushrooms, or tree stumps, or fake rocks. Some are disguised as metal bolts or outlet covers…some even look like dog poo.

They are hidden in the trees—at the highest branches, in the roots and inside the knotholes. You can find them in bushes, in the pavement cracks, underneath window seals and park benches. Geocaches can be found at the bottom of the ocean or at the highest peak of a large mountain.

They can be found at every major landmark in the world. Some require special tools to retrieve, like a screwdriver or tweezers. There are increasing levels of difficulty and some require diving equipment, or a boat, or climbing tools. For mystery caches, you must solve some sort of puzzle or riddle. For multi-caches, the first find will leave a clue to the next one...and so on…and so on.

Some are super easy and great for kids. Others can take all day to hunt down and are specially designed and crafted for hardcore adventurers.

There are currently more than 6 million geocachers who right now are hunting for 2,687,072 active geocaches all over the globe. Each one offers a unique and special experience.

All you need to join the sport is a Geocaching account (www.geocaching.com), a cell phone app with GPS or other GPS device, and an adventurous spirit.

The hiders of the geocache will leave clues and hints and provide the GPS coordinates to get you to “ground zero.” Then it’s up to you to find the cache, sign the log, and perhaps leave another clue to help the next treasure hunter.

I found my first geocache in July 2013 in Forest Park in Queens, N.Y. After a long hike through the woods, we found it at the end of a fallen tree, guarded by an active hornet nest. It was in the form of an old mason jar wrapped with camouflage duct tape. In it is the logbook where I first signed “TennisAces,” my geocaching handle.

It was just a jar containing a piece of paper with hundreds of names from around the world. And yet it’s difficult to describe the thrill of finding it. We found 10 other geocaches that day, and I was officially hooked!

I travel often for business and for fun, and now geocaching is the first thing on my “to-do” list, especially when I visit a new place. I have found geocaches in more than 40 countries on six continents. I’ve also found many great ones less than 10 miles from my home in Alabama.

These are three of my favorite geocaching adventures! Please share some of your most incredible geocaching experiences.

An Amazing View

Stolberg Blick | Stolberg, Sachsen-Anhalt, Germany | January 13, 2014

I had a full day to explore the quaint little town of Stolberg, Germany. I strolled briefly through the city center and then decided to search for a geocache. The GPS led me quickly to a back alley, something I would never have explored without the geocache compass leading the way.

Around a small bend there were stone steps that began an incline up a small mountain. I could see where this was leading and welcomed the exercise as well as the adventure. Up, up, up more and more stairs and steep hills I climbed.

At the top, I quickly spotted the glass tube hidden within a tree root. I was expecting to simply sign the log and then climb back down. Inside the cache was a note. “Turn around and take a photo of what you see.”

What an amazing surprise! From this spot, I could see a spectacular aerial view of the entire city of Stolberg. It was such a treat. There was a bench, so I sat and enjoyed the beautiful scenery and clear mountain air. It was incredible - something I would have missed had I not been chasing the geocache.

Searching for Camels in the Dubai Desert

Sharjah’s Jungle | Sharjah, United Arab Emirates | April 19, 2015

For business, I have visited the U.A.E. four times. Each time, I stayed inside the large metropolitan cities of Dubai and Abu Dhabi.

These cities are incredibly glitzy and are famous for superlatives. The biggest, the most expensive, the most ornate, the fastest, the tallest, the most everything is found there. I think of Dubai as the “Las Vegas of the Middle East” because it is very shiny and bedazzled and man-made. Yet the well-developed city sits in the middle of a gorgeous desert.

We had a free day, so my best friend and favorite co-cacher decided to take me away from all the sparkle and shine and show me what Dubai looked like 20 years ago. And I wanted to see wild camels roaming the desert.

We rented a car and headed out in search of a traditional cache hidden in a Ghaf tree “forest” in the Emirate of Sharjah.

Between Falaj al Moalla and the Rafee'a area there runs an underground water stream which can be recognized by the copses of Ghaf trees amidst the sand dunes. Many farms have been established in this broad swath of land.

We drove as close as we could, then parked and took off on foot through the beautiful soft sand dunes. Some say there are seven colors of sand in this part of the world, each attributed to one of the seven Emirates of the United Arab Emirates. But in fact, there are around 30 colors of sand throughout these deserts. It is truly breathtakingly natural beauty.

We hiked about a mile up and down the sand dunes, and then quickly found the cache.

It was a standard plastic lunchbox camouflaged by a brown sock. It was hidden in a particularly dense copse of trees.

We signed the log, replaced the cache and then enjoyed an amazing desert sunset that we will never forget. Again, an unexpected surprise.

We went back to the car, and I realized we had not yet found any camels. We drove a little and saw a “Camel Crossing” sign.

We looked to the right and there they were! A bonus treasure that we would never have found inside the glitzy city limits!

Read about The Cost of Clean Water
























Standing in Two Countries at Once

Zugspitze Top of Germany | Bayern, Germany | January 11, 2014

At 2,962 meters above sea level, Zugspitze is the highest mountain in Germany, home to three glaciers and Germany’s highest ski resort. At the top is an impressive 360-degree panoramic view over 400 mountain peaks and four countries.

Zugspitze also marks the border between Germany and Austria. Before Europe united, you had to show your passport just to walk across the mountaintop. Today, lifts from both countries meet at the top.

I had always wanted to be in two places at once, and the hunt for this cool mystery cache put us directly on that spot. So we straddled the border, and I was able to check the seemingly impossible feat off my bucket list.

Restaurants, shops, and telescopes are available for tourists at the summit. The day we were there it was incredibly cold and foggy, so we didn’t get to see much of the view. But what we could see was fantastic!

There are two separate terraces—Bavarian and Tirolian—connected by a narrow walk, which was previously the border station. At one time, crossing was a big deal—you would get your passport stamped at the little blue house and shift your currency from shillings to marks. The border formalities are long gone, but the unique history remains.

The mountain railways of Bayerische Zugspitzbahn make it possible for anyone to enjoy the snow covered Zugspitze. You can take the cog wheel train from Zugspitze station Garmisch-Partenkirchen to the idyllic Lake Eibsee. The ascent with the Eibsee cable car offers spectacular views down to the lake, and more spectacular views can be seen from Zugspitze Peak.

Zugspitze is part of Wettersteingebirge, a small but important group of limestone mountains on the Austrian-German border, immediately South of the ski resort of Garmish-Partenkirchen.

The German side has the oldest building—the rustic, tin-and-wood weather tower, erected by the Deutscher Wetterdienst (German weather service) in 1900. The first mountaineers’ hut was built in 1897, but it didn’t last. The existing one dates from 1914. In 1985, observers clocked 200 mph winds up there.

The German side still features a golden cross that marks the country’s highest point. The historic original was destroyed by American soldiers who used it for target practice in the late 1940s. A modern replacement resides there today.

World War II left its mark on the summit as well. The Austrian side was higher until the Germans blew its top off during the war (to make a flak tower that targeted Allied airplanes).

Both Germany and Austria use this rocky pinnacle for communication purposes. A square box on the Tirolean Terrace provides data for Innsbruck Airport’s air traffic control system. A tower nearby is for the Katastrophenfunk (civil defense network), dating back to the Cold War.

Post Script: For a very cool account of the History of Geocaching, follow this link: https://www.geocaching.com/about/history.aspx 

Geocaching - Free Adventures Off the Beaten Path

By Michelle Segrest

It’s all about the hunt.

We are not in search of the Holy Grail or some ridiculously expensive historic stash of golden artifacts. Geocaching is a virtual treasure hunt that meets somewhere at the corner of Indiana Jones and National Treasure. It is free entertainment and totally addictive!

People still ask me, “What did you find?” They always think we find diamonds or money or gold or something.

What geocachers find is much more valuable. An amazing view. A hidden landmark. Insight into a piece of history. An unexpected surprise that is not on the tourist map. The greatest treasures are found in the adventure, and the rewards are measured in the lasting memories.

I try to find at least one geocache everywhere I travel in the world and it always provides me with a great story to tell. It is a fun way to explore a new city and venture off the beaten tourist path. Geocaching always leads to something amazing that you would not have seen or experienced otherwise.

No matter where you are, these little hidden boxes are lurking all around you. They are disguised as bison tubes, film cannisters, plastic boxes, ammo boxes and tiny magnets. Some look like tree bark, or mushrooms, or tree stumps, or fake rocks. Some are disguised as metal bolts or outlet covers…some even look like dog poo.

They are hidden in the trees—at the highest branches, in the roots and inside the knotholes. You can find them in bushes, in the pavement cracks, underneath window seals and park benches. Geocaches can be found at the bottom of the ocean or at the highest peak of a large mountain.

They can be found at every major landmark in the world. Some require special tools to retrieve, like a screwdriver or tweezers. There are increasing levels of difficulty and some require diving equipment, or a boat, or climbing tools. For mystery caches, you must solve some sort of puzzle or riddle. For multi-caches, the first find will leave a clue to the next one...and so on…and so on.

Some are super easy and great for kids. Others can take all day to hunt down and are specially designed and crafted for hardcore adventurers.

There are currently more than 6 million geocachers who right now are hunting for 2,687,072 active geocaches all over the globe. Each one offers a unique and special experience.

All you need to join the sport is a Geocaching account (www.geocaching.com), a cell phone app with GPS or other GPS device, and an adventurous spirit.

The hiders of the geocache will leave clues and hints and provide the GPS coordinates to get you to “ground zero.” Then it’s up to you to find the cache, sign the log, and perhaps leave another clue to help the next treasure hunter.

I found my first geocache in July 2013 in Forest Park in Queens, N.Y. After a long hike through the woods, we found it at the end of a fallen tree, guarded by an active hornet nest. It was in the form of an old mason jar wrapped with camouflage duct tape. In it is the logbook where I first signed “TennisAces,” my geocaching handle.

It was just a jar containing a piece of paper with hundreds of names from around the world. And yet it’s difficult to describe the thrill of finding it. We found 10 other geocaches that day, and I was officially hooked!

I travel often for business and for fun, and now geocaching is the first thing on my “to-do” list, especially when I visit a new place. I have found geocaches in more than 40 countries on six continents. I’ve also found many great ones less than 10 miles from my home in Alabama.

These are three of my favorite geocaching adventures! Please share some of your most incredible geocaching experiences.

An Amazing View

Stolberg Blick | Stolberg, Sachsen-Anhalt, Germany | January 13, 2014

I had a full day to explore the quaint little town of Stolberg, Germany. I strolled briefly through the city center and then decided to search for a geocache. The GPS led me quickly to a back alley, something I would never have explored without the geocache compass leading the way.

Around a small bend there were stone steps that began an incline up a small mountain. I could see where this was leading and welcomed the exercise as well as the adventure. Up, up, up more and more stairs and steep hills I climbed.

At the top, I quickly spotted the glass tube hidden within a tree root. I was expecting to simply sign the log and then climb back down. Inside the cache was a note. “Turn around and take a photo of what you see.”

What an amazing surprise! From this spot, I could see a spectacular aerial view of the entire city of Stolberg. It was such a treat. There was a bench, so I sat and enjoyed the beautiful scenery and clear mountain air. It was incredible - something I would have missed had I not been chasing the geocache.

Searching for Camels in the Dubai Desert

Sharjah’s Jungle | Sharjah, United Arab Emirates | April 19, 2015

For business, I have visited the U.A.E. four times. Each time, I stayed inside the large metropolitan cities of Dubai and Abu Dhabi.

These cities are incredibly glitzy and are famous for superlatives. The biggest, the most expensive, the most ornate, the fastest, the tallest, the most everything is found there. I think of Dubai as the “Las Vegas of the Middle East” because it is very shiny and bedazzled and man-made. Yet the well-developed city sits in the middle of a gorgeous desert.

We had a free day, so my best friend and favorite co-cacher decided to take me away from all the sparkle and shine and show me what Dubai looked like 20 years ago. And I wanted to see wild camels roaming the desert.

We rented a car and headed out in search of a traditional cache hidden in a Ghaf tree “forest” in the Emirate of Sharjah.

Between Falaj al Moalla and the Rafee'a area there runs an underground water stream which can be recognized by the copses of Ghaf trees amidst the sand dunes. Many farms have been established in this broad swath of land.

We drove as close as we could, then parked and took off on foot through the beautiful soft sand dunes. Some say there are seven colors of sand in this part of the world, each attributed to one of the seven Emirates of the United Arab Emirates. But in fact, there are around 30 colors of sand throughout these deserts. It is truly breathtakingly natural beauty.

We hiked about a mile up and down the sand dunes, and then quickly found the cache.

It was a standard plastic lunchbox camouflaged by a brown sock. It was hidden in a particularly dense copse of trees.

We signed the log, replaced the cache and then enjoyed an amazing desert sunset that we will never forget. Again, an unexpected surprise.

We went back to the car, and I realized we had not yet found any camels. We drove a little and saw a “Camel Crossing” sign.

We looked to the right and there they were! A bonus treasure that we would never have found inside the glitzy city limits!

Read about The Cost of Clean Water
























Standing in Two Countries at Once

Zugspitze Top of Germany | Bayern, Germany | January 11, 2014

At 2,962 meters above sea level, Zugspitze is the highest mountain in Germany, home to three glaciers and Germany’s highest ski resort. At the top is an impressive 360-degree panoramic view over 400 mountain peaks and four countries.

Zugspitze also marks the border between Germany and Austria. Before Europe united, you had to show your passport just to walk across the mountaintop. Today, lifts from both countries meet at the top.

I had always wanted to be in two places at once, and the hunt for this cool mystery cache put us directly on that spot. So we straddled the border, and I was able to check the seemingly impossible feat off my bucket list.

Restaurants, shops, and telescopes are available for tourists at the summit. The day we were there it was incredibly cold and foggy, so we didn’t get to see much of the view. But what we could see was fantastic!

There are two separate terraces—Bavarian and Tirolian—connected by a narrow walk, which was previously the border station. At one time, crossing was a big deal—you would get your passport stamped at the little blue house and shift your currency from shillings to marks. The border formalities are long gone, but the unique history remains.

The mountain railways of Bayerische Zugspitzbahn make it possible for anyone to enjoy the snow covered Zugspitze. You can take the cog wheel train from Zugspitze station Garmisch-Partenkirchen to the idyllic Lake Eibsee. The ascent with the Eibsee cable car offers spectacular views down to the lake, and more spectacular views can be seen from Zugspitze Peak.

Zugspitze is part of Wettersteingebirge, a small but important group of limestone mountains on the Austrian-German border, immediately South of the ski resort of Garmish-Partenkirchen.

The German side has the oldest building—the rustic, tin-and-wood weather tower, erected by the Deutscher Wetterdienst (German weather service) in 1900. The first mountaineers’ hut was built in 1897, but it didn’t last. The existing one dates from 1914. In 1985, observers clocked 200 mph winds up there.

The German side still features a golden cross that marks the country’s highest point. The historic original was destroyed by American soldiers who used it for target practice in the late 1940s. A modern replacement resides there today.

World War II left its mark on the summit as well. The Austrian side was higher until the Germans blew its top off during the war (to make a flak tower that targeted Allied airplanes).

Both Germany and Austria use this rocky pinnacle for communication purposes. A square box on the Tirolean Terrace provides data for Innsbruck Airport’s air traffic control system. A tower nearby is for the Katastrophenfunk (civil defense network), dating back to the Cold War.

Post Script: For a very cool account of the History of Geocaching, follow this link: https://www.geocaching.com/about/history.aspx 

Freetown Christiana - Copenhagen, Denmark

Copenhagen's Hidden Gem Can Be Found in Christiana's Hippie Commune

By Michelle Segrest

COPENHAGEN, Denmark (26 May 2013) – It was a simple misunderstanding.

Traveling with my friend and work colleague, Terri, it was my responsibility to handle all the business details on the 15-day European tour that would take us to 12 cities in three countries. Copenhagen was the first stop.

It was Terri’s responsibility to take care of the fun—a perfect job for my free-spirited, adventurous friend.

We arrived in Denmark's capital city, navigated the subway, talked our way out of a steep fine for not knowing about stamping our ticket (we played the we’re-from-Alabama-and-don’t-know-any-better card) and then quickly settled in to our teeny, tiny little hotel room. I got busy answering emails and confirming work appointments. Terri was busy researching, talking, studying the travel guides—excited about exploring the city and planning the fun.

But I must admit, I was distracted with work details and wasn’t paying close attention to what she was saying. It was okay. I trusted her. “You are in charge of the fun,” I reminded her. “I will just follow you wherever you want to go.”

I vaguely remember that she mentioned Copenhagen, Crown Jewels, Christiana, Castles, King Christian, Christiansborg Palace…a lot of “C” words.

“Whatever you want to do is fine with me. You are the fun expert!”

We bolted out of the hotel room and took a quick two-block walk to the gorgeous harbor at Nyhavn. We quickly fell in love with Copenhagen!

The lifestyle is cool—relaxed and carefree. The locals are completely engaged in the city and each other. It was a beautiful, sunny day. We took a quick boat tour to see the traditional city sites and then enjoyed just sitting in a sweet little café by the water, watching the big ships and talking to the friendly Danes.

Most of the locals travel throughout the city on bicycles, and cyclists have the right of way. It is common to see men in business suits on their way to work…on bicycles with their briefcase sitting securely in the wicker basket attached to the handlebars. Women ride bikes in pencil skirts and high heels. It’s impressive.

There is only one way to appropriately tour Copenhagen, we agreed—on a bicycle!

We found a rental place just around the corner from our hotel. For the bargain price of about 80 U.S. dollars, we had two bikes, about 10 hours of daylight, and a whole new world to explore!

Terri had the maps memorized and a complete fun agenda. As promised, I followed her lead.

Now, remember, there were a lot of “C” words thrown around when Terri was planning and I wasn’t listening.

She said, “Let’s go to Christiana!”

Ok. Great! I’m right behind you!

For some reason, in my distracted, jet-lagged brain, I was thinking this was the name of the castle where the crown jewels are stored and guarded. So in my mind, we were off to have tea with the Queen.

Like I said…a simple misunderstanding.

We peddled and peddled and peddled—enjoyed the sights and scenery and stopped at a few tourist spots along the way. But Terri was on a mission with a definite destination. She kept saying, “We are getting close.” But I noticed we were seemingly getting further and further from the city center.

I was a bit confused.

“If we are close, shouldn’t we be seeing a castle? Castles are big and tall! If we are close, we should be able to see it by now. Right?”

We went through several off-the-beaten-path, cobblestone streets that were no longer packed with locals or tourists. Terri was confidently peddling in front of me and looked like she knew what she was doing. So I continued to follow her. She’s in charge of fun!

We finally stopped in a back alley near an abandoned mobile home covered in graffiti. Terri jumped off her bike, grabbed her bag and announced, “This is it! We’re here!”

Huh? What?

We parked our bikes and set out on foot. I was in a state of dazed confusion. A simple misunderstanding.

Within a block or so, we seemingly stepped back in time and entered a whole new world. And through a figurative and literal fog, everything became clear.

We were in Christiana!

Christiania is a self-proclaimed autonomous neighborhood of about 84 acres and some 850 residents in the borough of Christianshavn. Civic authorities in Copenhagen regard Christiania as a large commune, but the area has a unique status in that it is regulated by a special law—the Christiania Law of 1989—which transfers parts of the supervision of the area from the municipality of Copenhagen to the state.

Colorfully dressed characters sporting dreadlocks and torn jeans casually roam the commune in a happy, content, foggy haze. Every building, hut, warehouse, fence, old military barrack, mobile home and even the dumpsters are decorated in colorful murals and often-controversial graffiti.

Did we somehow step into a time machine and get dropped in the middle of the 1969 Woodstock Festival? No, this is modern-day Freetown Christiana.

There is no crime. There are no cars, so no traffic. No one yells or fights or screams. Everyone is happy. Seriously. Everyone. Happy. Really happy. It is pure serenity!

We later would learn that the people in Christiania have developed their own set of rules, independent of the Danish government. The rules forbid stealing, violence, guns, knives, bulletproof vests, hard drugs and biker’s colors.

Jacob Ludvigsen, a well-known journalist, was co-author of Christiania's mission statement, written in 1971 when a group of hippies founded Freetown Christiana. He wrote:

The objective of Christiania is to create a self-governing society whereby each and every individual holds themselves responsible over the wellbeing of the entire community. Our society is to be economically self-sustaining and, as such, our aspiration is to be steadfast in our conviction that psychological and physical destitution can be averted.

In deep contrast to the site’s previous use as a military base, the spirit of Christiania is peaceful, communal and calm. It is a modern-day adaptation of the hippie movement and the squatter movement. It is governed by collectivism and anarchism. It’s just cool!

Many Danes consider Christiania a successful social experiment. For many years, the legal status of the region has been in limbo due to different Danish governments attempting to remove the Christianites. The attempts at removal have all been unsuccessful so far.

I was wearing a preppy tennis skirt with coordinated top, a Northface jacket, color-coordinated tennis shoes and visor with neatly combed ponytail dangling from the back of my head. Terri was sporting a carefully coordinated Nike running set, very fancy camera around her neck and a typical-touristy Pacsafe travel bag strapped across her chest.

Without saying a word, we looked at each other and telepathically agreed that perhaps we were a bit overdressed and out of place. We looked like a couple of country club socialites trying to fit in at a Grateful Dead concert.

Even though we didn’t quite blend in, we proceeded.

But honestly, I don’t think anyone noticed us. Not one person gave us a second glance. They were content in their own little world—their own little piece of tranquil heaven tucked away on the outskirts of Copenhagen.

One more block, one right turn, and we were on Pusher Street.

Little stands were set up, kind of like a trade show, and the vendors were displaying all types of handmade jewelry, hashish and skunk weed. There are rules in Christiana forbidding “hard” drugs. The hash commerce is controversial, but since the rules require a consensus they cannot be removed unless everybody agrees. This is probably not going to happen.

There were pots of green leafy plants decorating the doorstops and street corners. I don’t think it was poison ivy.

We worked our way through Pusher Street in our preppy uniforms, self-conscious that we would be judged, but barely even warranting a simple glance from any of the Freetown citizens. We stumbled upon an open-air food stand and ordered two beers with leafy plants on the label. We shared a brownie.

We sat down at one of the many picnic tables in the commune-style eating area, relaxed and enjoyed the view—amazingly admiring the free lifestyle and the beautiful people who call Christiana home.

Music was playing. I think it might have been The Eagles. There was most definitely a peaceful, easy feeling. Christianites played chess and strummed guitars. No one was staring at a cell phone, and I doubt anyone could have told us the time of day. It didn’t matter. Amid the definite fog in the air, our minds were clear and free.

It reminded me that I often work too hard, take life too seriously and rarely find time to stop and enjoy life’s simple pleasures. 

We would later discover Christiana is the fourth largest tourist attraction in Copenhagen (about half a million visitors annually) and has an international “brand” which boasts a progressive, liberated, culturally diverse Danish lifestyle.

This special place can spark the wanderlust in us all through its sweet, warm, inviting simplicity. It is the antithesis of touristy.

We could quickly see that Christiana is home to Greenlanders, musicians, street people, vagabonds, artists, intellectuals and academics. Anyone from any race, religion, creed, country, sexual orientation or socioeconomic background can find sanctuary and comfort in Freetown Christiana—even a couple of preppy Southern American girls bewildered by the beauty can find acceptance here.

Yes, it was just a simple misunderstanding. I thought we were going to see the crown jewels. Instead, we took an unexpected turn onto Pusher Street and discovered a completely different kind of gem!

Post script: Denmark’s crown jewels are kept in the treasure chamber in the cellar of Rosenborg Castle and in the ¨Gold Cage¨ at Amalienborg Museum. The crown jewels in Denmark are the only ones in the world that are shown as museum pieces and also worn by the country’s Queen.

The Greenest Hotel in the World

Living Life Sideways

I wrote this article while we were sailing across the Atlantic in February 2019 for a contest with SisterShip Magazine. I’m thrilled to announce that it was selected to be included in the SisterShip Press anthology of stories about Women on the Water and their struggles with Changing Places (from land to sea and from sea to land). I’m proud to share this article with you, even though some of the information is outdated now. The anthology that includes all the winning stories will be available soon.

By Michelle Segrest (20 February 2019)

I began to notice all the many bruises and cuts and scrapes that had tattooed my limbs—early battle scars that were telling the story of my new reality.

We hadn’t even left the dock yet and already our bright orange, steel ship, Seefalke, was beating me black and blue. 

The main cabin became an obstacle course as I tried to maneuver my way through a new version of everyday life that could not have been further away from anything I had considered normal for the past 51 years. 

Seefalke was moored at her home port in Stralsund, Germany. We were in the final stages of preparing her for a 6,000 nautical mile voyage that would take us across the Atlantic and back to our home in Gulf Shores, Alabama, USA. 

Every time I climbed the four stairs that led from the main saloon to the cockpit, I banged my head on the companionway opening. My captain just chuckled and reminded me, “That’s still there. One day you will learn to duck.” 

My legs and arms looked like Rocky Balboa’s face after a few rounds with Apollo Creed. But I soon learned that if you nurse every wound you get while living on a sailboat, you will spend all your time nursing wounds. I realized it’s best to just blurt a four-letter word and move on. 

Our entire 43-foot ship is smaller than my spacious living room in Gulf Shores. The narrow walls of her steel hull were closing in on me as we littered the deck and cluttered the cabins with equipment and provisions. 

My body and my mind were trying to make the adjustment. 

This had been a dream for the past five years. We had been carefully and strategically planning the voyage for more than a year. I was there by choice and without regret. But some days were pure torture. 

I didn’t know it at the time, but Seefalke wasn’t beating me. She was preparing me to work my way through the obstacle course that would become even more difficult to maneuver as we sailed our way through formidable bodies of water. I would soon learn that life on land ,or even life in port, is nothing compared with life at sea. Once in motion, we would be sailing at 5 to 6 knots with 20-plus force winds and 3-to-4 meter swells pounding us in all directions. 

I needed to be battle ready. 

We sat in port with our two Beagle pups, Cap’n Jack and Scout, for almost three weeks before we set sail on August 19, 2018. We had planned to depart on August 1, but I soon learned that a schedule is the most dangerous thing a sailor can have on board.

I was frustrated that we were continuously delayed. I have lived my life with strict deadlines and organized schedules. Traveling often for work, every airplane has a distinct departure date and time that you can count on. I would strategically schedule every meeting, every phone call, even casual lunches with girlfriends. At sea, departures, routes, and destinations depend on things out of your control—the weather, the conditions, and sometimes the fitness of the boat and the crew. 

I needed some sort of order to balance the chaos and newness and soon began to long for some of the small creature comforts that I had taken for granted for half a century. 

I missed the good strong Internet signal I enjoy while on land. My reality of sailing includes continuing to work a full-time job. I am a journalist, so this should be easy enough. I can work from anywhere—all I need is a laptop, a phone, and access to the World Wide Web. Finding that third component became a daily quest as I ventured to any cafe that would let me sit and work for several hours each day with the pups leashed at my feet. 

Working while underway is impossible for the most part, so I must work double-time while in port. Each stop becomes a game of catch-up-then-get-ahead. This also can delay departures and affect the schedule, as I would soon learn. 

I missed taking a shower every day with an unlimited supply of hot water. Instead, I was either rushing through a deck shower with rationed amounts of cold water—usually about 2 liters per shower—or I was going into the marine shop after hours to use the mechanics’ shower. The walls and floor were covered with a thick layer of oil and grease, but at least the water was hot. 

I missed ice. We only have a small cooler for refrigeration. I’ve seen beer coolers on the beach in Gulf Shores that are larger than our cooling system, which is only big enough to store milk, eggs, butter, and cheese. There is no freezer for meat, ice cream, or ice. 

The pups also had to make a transition. The leisurely daily walks we enjoyed while on shore would be eliminated on long offshore passages. We began the onboard potty-training experiment and tried to find a routine that would incorporate some form of onboard exercise for our energetic two-year-old Beagles. 

I think the pups’ transition was easier than mine. After a few days of roaming the cabins, sniffing every corner, and maneuvering the onboard obstacle course, one day they just looked up at me and kind of shrugged their shoulders as if saying, “I guess we live here now.” I’m convinced now more than ever that dogs just want to be with their humans. It doesn’t matter where. 

It was a bright, sunny Sunday morning when we finally untied the lines and set sail into the amazing Baltic Sea—waters we know well. 

In just a few short hours, the Baltic made us pay for our rushed departure with choppy waves and gale-force winds that left me over the side of the rail for six hours and then hugging the head for another three. I was paralyzed on the cabin floor—too weak with queasiness and dehydration to make my way back to the cockpit. 

I was starting to reconsider my dream of living onboard and sailing forever. I didn’t want to quit, but I didn’t want to move forward either. The desire to not give up and to continue to pursue the dream won that emotional battle. 

We made our way through the Baltic, through the Kiel Canal, across The North Sea and The English Channel and into Camaret sur Mer on the northwestern coast of France, at the entrance of the Atlantic Ocean. 

As I wrestled with my fear, seasickness, excitement and every other possible emotion, I also noticed that I began to glide through the cabin like a monkey swinging from tree to tree in the jungle. 

When you live at sea on a sailboat, you learn to live on at least a 20-degree tilt. You sleep on a tilt. You cook on a tilt. You walk on a tilt. You pee on a tilt. It’s a constant balancing act. 

You are just sideways—all the time. 

At times I feel like I’m in one of those old black and white movies where the room is rotating while the actors dance on the walls and the ceiling. 

It can be uncomfortable and frustrating, but just like with anything else you do every day, muscle memory begins to take over. Your body and your mind begin to make the adjustment until walking sideways just becomes the way you walk. 

On land, your house is optimized and standardized for human use. It sits still as you perform daily tasks that seem simple. Humans were not meant to live at sea. It’s a very hostile environment for people. Your floating home is what keeps you alive. You must adapt to the boat’s movements and its tight layout. 

On land, you are stabilized. At sea, the boat is moving, the air is moving, the water beneath you is moving, and the direction of the movement can shift at any time. To accommodate the motion, your movements become more calculated. I often feel like I’m moving in slow motion just to keep the balance. This must be what astronauts feel like when they walk on the moon.

You have to remember the general rule of safety at sea—one hand for the ship and one hand for yourself—and you have to apply it with every task you perform. For example, this means you can’t carry two plates of food to the table at once. You must make two trips, a lesson I learned the hard way. 

Once we had made our way across the dreaded Bay of Biscay and into A Caruña, Spain, I looked down at my battered limbs. Even though I had been continuously tossed around the cabin like a martini for two months, most of the bruises and scrapes on my limbs had begun to heal and fade away, along with the memories of how they got there. 

I could only remember the amazing sunsets and the dolphins playing on Seefalke’s bow. I soaked in the fresh salt air and the freedom that comes with living with no schedules. I no longer missed long, hot showers, or ice, or Internet. 

Mostly I missed my family and friends. That’s the transition I don’t think I will ever completely make. I’ve learned that you can make a new home somewhere, and still be homesick.

It can be isolating out there at times.

With a two-person crew, we spend one or two weeks at sea at a time and will often sail on these passages without ever seeing any other ships or any other human beings except each other. The lack of daily human contact is one of the biggest transitions a sailor must make. 

On land, we are all surrounded by other humans. We may not speak to any of them, and sometimes we probably don’t even notice them because seeing other humans is just part of our everyday fabric. You step outside and see people walking around or passing in cars. You venture into your routine and are surrounded by people while standing in lines or in shops or restaurants or offices. 

As we sailed along the Spanish Atlantic Coast, around the coast of Portugal, and into Morocco, we still had our sights set on Alabama. But we began to realize that another form of home was pulling us in many directions. Alabama had now become a brief stop we will make on our way to somewhere else—destinations yet undetermined. 

We settled into life on Seefalke—our bright orange floating home away from home. 

As I write this, we are sitting in the middle of the Atlantic. We just crossed the Equator and entered the waters of the Southern Hemisphere. We are on our way to Ihla Fernando de Noronha—a remote island I had never heard of until two weeks ago. Then we sail into Cabedelo, Brazil—another destination that was not on our original route. 

Our well-organized, carefully-planned course from Stralsund to Gulf Shores has been cast away with the wind. We will get there eventually, but there is too much to see and explore along the way. I no longer feel crippled by a schedule. 

While in the Canary Islands, we met a couple of Swedish sailors who were headed to Greece but wanted to sail through Norway on the way. I suppose they inspired us to toss aside any kind of route that makes geographical sense. They will eventually get to Greece, perhaps around the time we get to Alabama. 

Seefalke still tosses me around the cabin at times. I still blurt four-letter words daily, but I no longer become distracted by the bruises. I still battle seasickness with every passage, but it’s just another part of my new normal of living life sideways. 

Most days are mundane and uneventful. Some are filled with engine trouble at sea or filthy maintenance chores. Other days are downright scary, difficult, and uncomfortable. But it’s worth it. 

It’s like riding the most terrifying, fast, swirly roller coaster that makes your heart pound and your stomach drop. You hang on for dear life and can’t wait until it’s over. 

Then you get right back in line to ride it again. 

Sailors are blessed with short memories. When you see landfall after a Bay of Biscay passage, you don’t even remember the past four grueling days of gut-wrenching seasickness. 

When a whale swims to the side of your boat, turns on his side and looks you right in the eye, you don’t even remember the hard, scary, difficult or mundane days. You just treasure those special moments. 

Every day I marvel at the fact that we’ve been to all these places all over the world, covering more than 5,400 nautical miles so far, with many more interesting places yet to discover. 

And we never left home. 

How to Get Your Sea Legs - Read More

15 Things I Would Rather Do Than Attend Carnival in Brazil

By Michelle Segrest

OLINDA, BRAZIL (March 3, 2019) It’s official. Not everyone loves a parade. 

As I walked through the streets of the quaint Brazilian city of Olinda during its historic, annual carnival, I began to feel claustrophobic. I was outside, but the walls were closing in on me. 

Trapped in a mob of literally tens of thousands of colorfully costumed, more-than-slightly-inebriated people, I was being stampeded from all directions. 

It was as if Mardi Gras in New Orleans increased to five times its size and exploded in the middle of Comicon, but without the reward of Cajun food, colorful beads, or cool video games. 

Street vendors were passing out free fans, free bandanas, and free condoms. I took two of the three. 

I was only there about 20 minutes and my head was already throbbing in sync with the ridiculously loud, never-ending banging drums. 

As I was getting drenched in booze and sweat thanks to playing bumper cars with thousands of drunk Brazilians, I began to think of about 4,000 places where I would rather be at that moment:

A Turkish Prison

Navy Seal Boot Camp

Wading through a swamp full of crocodiles

A Trojan battlefield

Wrestling with polar bears

Big crowds and loud banging drums are just not my thing, I suppose. It was important to me to experience carnival in Brazil, so while my mind was racing with activities I would consider more fun, I looked around and realized that I was probably the only sober person in the dense crowd. 

“Maybe I need to be drunk to enjoy this,” I thought to myself. “Everyone else seems to be having a blast.” I began a very quick hunt for anything containing alcohol. I looked around at the hundreds of street vendors selling booze and worked my way through the maze of bodies to the closest one. 

A piña colada served from a real coconut. Perfect! 

About that time, the sky opened and began to pour onto the maddening crowd. No one seemed to notice. I was happy to wash all the splashed booze out of my hair and clothes. As I stood in the rain, getting pushed and pulled by the crowd, I held tightly to the belt loop of my friend’s jeans as we muscled our way through the pack. He was like the offensive guard running block for his tailback while I clutched my purse tightly in my right arm like a football.

I kept trying to convince myself that I could enjoy the experience. 

But my mind began wondering again as I thought of other activities that seemed like more fun: 

6. Washing the dishes.

7. Doing laundry.

8. Scrubbing the deck. 

9. Cleaning a toilet. 

10. Poking myself in the eyeball with a sharp stick. 

Maybe it’s just me. These people were having the time of their lives. Through the masses of glittery Wonder Womans, sequined tutus, mermaids, and togas, I caught glimpses of the beautiful colonial architecture. Olinda is an UNESCO World Heritage Site and a hub for local artists and musicians. I longed for the opportunity to explore the city that was hidden somewhere in the sardine can I found myself stuffed inside. 

Around every corner, another parade came barreling down each street with masses of partiers joining in what became 10 or 12 conga lines of people dancing and jostling their way through the narrow streets along with the costumed dancers and banging drums. 

This street party made Mardi Gras in New Orleans look like an afternoon of tea with the Queen. 

Carnival in Olinda is mostly free, except for private parties. It is centered on folk traditions. Rather than the large samba parades, huge figurines are paraded throughout the town representing saints and spirits, known as mamulengos. One of the most famous of these huge dolls is the 10-foot tall Homem da Meia Noite (Midnight Man) who is carried through the streets at midnight to symbolize the beginning of Carnival.

The street parties (known as blocos) are large crowds of people that follow a slow-moving truck that meanders through the streets blasting music. The first official Carnival street party is Sábado de Zé Pereira. It begins with a huge parade of street puppets and live music, and is represented by a large rooster figurine on the city’s bridge. It attracts a crowd of about two million people. 

I get it. This is fun for most people. I could still think of things I could be doing that would be more fun. For example: 

11. Doing math. 

12. Hard labor. 

13. Watching paint dry. 

14. Childbirth. 

15. Chinese water torture.

I’m happy to have experienced carnival in Brazil. I can’t really recommend it, but I am clearly in the minority. There are millions of other people who feel differently. 

As for me, I miss the Bay of Biscay. 

Read about more sailing adventures

The Night Watch Video Game - Taming the North Sea Bully

The night watch video game is scary and dangerous when sailing on the high-traffic North Sea with little experience.

 By Michelle Segrest

When it comes to sailing, the North Sea is like the schoolyard bully. Maybe she will accept you onto her turf. Maybe. Most likely, however, she will punch you right in the face and send you home bleeding and bawling.

With a multi-day passage and only a two-person crew, I prepared myself for my first meeting with the North Sea. I had no idea what to expect. All I knew for certain was the legend among sailors about the power of the North Sea tides…

There is a monster living beneath the North Sea, and it is forcefully breathing in an out. Each breath lasts six hours. The deep breath in is the low tide. The deep breath out is the high tide. Sometimes the monster has a hiccup, and this is called a spring tide. Rungholt was a harbor city in medieval times that in 1634 became the Atlantis of the North Sea. It was totally sucked away and now sits at the sea’s bottom thanks to these powerful and unforgiving tides.

I feared the monster. But even more, I dreaded coming face to face with the North Sea bully.

Onboard Sailing Vessel Seefalke, Maik is the skipper—the calm, matter-of-fact German with more than 20 years of experience sailing challenging waters. I am the over-emotional, highly-excitable American girl from Sweet Home Alabama who has been sailing for only six years. My sailing mentality ranges from I-can-conquer-the-world, superhuman powers on a good day to confidence-crushing fear on a bad day.

Searching for a strategy, I asked myself, “How do you tame a bully?” The answer was clear. You stand up to her and face her—head on.

Or . . . you catch her in a good mood.

Of course, it doesn’t hurt if have a big orange bodyguard with an iron fist and a steel jaw to protect you. Our bright orange, 43-foot, steel ship, Seefalke, was built in the North Sea by Dutch designers who carefully constructed her specifically for these brutal conditions. She spent 43 years of her 45-year life sailing the North Sea.

Let me assure you, Seefalke and the North Sea are old friends. They get along just fine.

In the early fall of 2018, we caught the bully in a good mood. The North Sea gave her old friend, Seefalke, a hearty welcome home with rare easterly winds that lasted for 82 straight hours—long enough to push us 317 nautical miles over four straight days, without stopping, from Helgoland, Germany to Dunkirk, France. 

Even with these favorable conditions, a voyage across the North Sea is never easy. Ours didn’t happen without some drama, danger, and a fierce battle with not only the North Sea bully, but with the monster that lies within us all.

DAY 1 – 31 AUGUST, 2018

Our original plan was to sail a short first leg from the island of Helgoland to Den Helder in The Netherlands. It would require sailing through the night and deep into the next day. This meant I would experience my first night watch—double anxiety when combined with my first-ever North Sea passage. I was terrified, but I didn’t tell my skipper. I prepared the boat for departure, then walked the four-legged members of our crew—our two beagles, Cap’n Jack and Scout—and put on a not-too-convincing brave face.

Since there are only two of us, the watch schedule required that we would rotate from the helm to the bunk every four hours.

When we departed Helgoland at 05:00—90 minutes into high tide—it was cold and dark, and there was a slight drizzling rain. Lighting our way were only the white lights on the masts of the other ships slowly leaving the marina—one by one—at high tide. It felt like we were in an Alfred Hitchcock movie. As we creeped into the black opening of the North Sea, Maik took the first watch as the pups and I took cover in the cabin below.

My internal clock woke me at 08:45–a good 15 minutes before my shift. I emptied my bladder, washed my face, brushed my teeth, and made some coffee. I could see the huge waves crashing against the small porthole windows from the cabin below.

We were already being pushed by the heavy current along with about 15- to 20-knot winds and were on a nice 25-degree tilt. We were sailing smoothly at 4.5 to 5 knots. This is nowhere near as fast as many sailboats move in these conditions, but it was a respectable speed for our heavy, 11-ton, steel battleship. 

Maik had carefully briefed me on what to expect. My main objective was to stay on course, dodge any traffic or buoys, and adjust the sails if the wind shifted. But we also had to deal with a traffic separation scheme (TSS).

Traffic separation schemes are common along busy waterways, especially in areas like the North Sea where there are gigantic ports with hundreds of huge oil tankers and container ships passing through.

A TSS works kind of like driving on a highway or expressway. There is an invisible “median,” which is a no-go zone. On the navigation chart, it is indicated in pink. Unlike driving on a highway, there are no lines in the middle of the road, and no grass in the median. These sections can only be identified on the charts. The idea is to separate the huge ships from the smaller leisure craft, like Seefalke. If you need to cross the TSS, then you must cross it at a 90-degree angle and only if all traffic is clear.

All was smooth, at first. The waves were HUGE—about three meters high. Occasionally, a high wave would splash against Seefalke’s beam and give me a shocking, cold, saltwater shower.

I was facing the bully head on, and all was well. I was enjoying the ride and began to bury my fear under a thin blanket of nervous anxiety. A couple hours into my shift, I looked down into the cabin to see that Maik was sleeping, all nestled with the pups. This meant he was relaxed and had confidence in me, which gave me confidence in myself.  

Sometimes, confidence is a bad thing.

About 30 minutes later, something suddenly awakened Maik. Sometimes experienced sailors like Maik feel things that simply don’t trigger the senses of novice sailors like me. He sprinted to the cockpit in his underpants and stocking feet, pushed me out of the way, and took the wheel.

Somehow, I had managed to drift over into the TSS. We were flanked by three gigantic ships. 

I couldn’t understand what I did wrong. I was on the correct heading.

Maik explained to me that the current had pushed us over into the no-go zone. Even though I was on the right heading I had still managed to drift into the TSS. It’s so easy to underestimate the force of these currents. Perhaps, the bully was playing a mean game with me. This was an extremely dangerous mistake, and it’s also illegal. Maik turned the ship around, dodging the massive freighters, and got us back on track.

I was beating myself up over this mistake. The thought of taking the helm again paralyzed me with fear. I tucked my tail between my legs and moped into the far corner of the cabin, trying unsuccessfully to repair my wounded pride.

We had dinner around sunset. Maik briefed me about the night shift. I was still dealing with my confidence crisis after the TSS fiasco. Not only did I have to think about all the watch responsibilities, but I now had to do this in the black of night. Maik took the first shift–20:00 to midnight.

At 23:30, with barely any sleep and filled with a mix of anxiety and determination, I strapped on my life vest and slowly climbed the four wooden steps to the cockpit. Maik was exhausted from maneuvering through the heavy traffic the past four hours. He briefed me, and then went down to sleep.

For some reason, looking through binoculars has always given me a headache. At night, I have even more trouble seeing through the lenses. I could see all the lights around me, but I was having trouble determining if that blob of lights is a ship or a buoy or an offshore rig. Ok, that’s a ship, but is it moving, or is it anchored? 

I was also having trouble with depth perception. Is that ship right in front of me or is it two nautical miles away? I simply couldn’t tell the difference.

This was frustrating me, and it was also making me more nervous. All I knew for certain was that I was failing miserably at what I call “the night watch video game.”

This is how the video game works. It’s totally black and all you see are lights in various shapes and sizes. All the objects are coming at you or going away from you from various directions and at various distances. You are moving. The water beneath you is moving. Most of the lighted objects are moving. Some of the lights are blinking in sequences that are significant. You have no ammunition, and you cannot fire at a target. You can only play defense. You must dodge all the lights, avoid slamming into anything, and manage to also avoid shallow water areas.

Most important, in the night watch video game, you only have one life. Literally. 

All the stationary objects are identified on the paper charts. The plotter screen shows the ships that are within one or two nautical miles, but only if they are connected to the Automated Identification System (AIS). When they are in your path within a certain range, their icons start blinking and an alarm starts screeching. On the screen, it looks like the other ship is right on top of you, even though it may be half a mile away. It shows where the ship will be in six minutes, but it doesn’t show you where Seefalke will be in six minutes.

I look behind me. I look to the right. I look to the left. I try to focus on the various objects through the binoculars and through my own eyes. Lights keep blinking on the screen. The alarm begins to squeal. There is a ship on the screen, but I don’t see it in real life. Where is it? On the screen, it looks like it’s sitting on my stern. Arrrrgggghhhhhhhhh. Help!!!!

Why is this so hard? Why can’t I do this?

Suddenly, the lights in front of me were getting bigger and brighter. They were moving but in no particular direction that I could interpret clearly. There was nothing on my screen that told me what these lights were, nothing I could see clearly through the binoculars, and nothing on the chart.

What seemed like only an instant later, the shapes of two ships came into form. I was close enough to them now to identify them as ships and not just lights.

By the way, steering an 11-ton sailboat is nothing at all like driving a car. You can’t just swerve out of the way at a moment’s notice to avoid a collision. It is not possible to slam on the breaks and stop instantly. You must maneuver long before you are about to hit something. I tried to steer Seefalke away from these boats, but the strong current kept pushing us directly toward them.

I panicked and screamed for Maik. He bolted to the cockpit, again in is underpants and stocking feet, and steered us clear just as we were about to slam into the two fishing boats.

When we were clear of danger, he asked me how this happened. “I really don’t know,” I told him. He asked if I was using the binoculars. I told him I was, but I was having a hard time seeing through them. I wasn’t trying to make excuses.

Then I realized something to myself as I said it out loud, “Even if I see the danger, it doesn’t mean I know what to do about it.” 

He stayed with me for a little while longer until we were out of the heavy traffic zone. By this time the sun was rising, and I could see better. Maik went back to bed, and I just held my breath and gripped the wheel with clenched fists, trying with all my might to mentally make it through the rest of my shift. 

While I was feeling battered and beaten by the beastly bully, Maik returned to the cockpit at 05:00 and calmly took the wheel as if nothing had happened the night before. I waited for him to scold me or lecture me on the two near-fatal mistakes of the previous day. He said nothing.

My disappointment in myself bubbled to the surface, and I burst into tears.

I felt completely defeated and incompetent. I didn’t think I deserved to be sailing this magnificent ship on such a formidable body of water.

I tried to look at him, but my eyes could only find the cockpit floor as I hung my head in shame. “I think we need to have a serious conversation about whether I’m ready for this,” I told him.

Then, without letting him respond, I went below, collapsed on the bunk, and cried myself to sleep.

DAY 2 – 1 SEPTEMBER 2018

I awoke two hours later, made breakfast, and joined Maik in the cockpit.

The air was crisp, cold, and refreshing. The sapphire sea was spectacular. The water looked as though 50 shades of blue had melted together to form one brilliant hue that was created for our eyes only. I don’t think I’ve ever seen that color blue before or since.

Maik said the weather was so good we should just keep on going and skip Den Helder. He wanted to take advantage of the easterly winds that are so rare for the North Sea.

The bully was tame. She was in a good mood. She and her buddy, Seefalke, were having a great time, and we should let them keep playing.

This time my eyes found his as I reminded him of my last words before going to bed. “I may just not be ready for this,” I repeated, this time more emphatically. My confidence was totally shot. Maik needed a more capable sailor to help him. He can’t do everything. And I can’t do anything.

Then Maik looked at me the way only he can. It’s a look that makes me feel safe. He admitted he had done a poor job of teaching me and preparing me. It's difficult to transfer half a lifetime of knowledge and experience to someone else. I can understand that when something comes so naturally for you, sometimes it's difficult to break it down into details and teach someone else how to do it. 

Maik doesn't have to think about how to sail. He draws from more than 20 years of experience and just sails.

He reminded me that he makes mistakes, too. Then he touched my face, glared his aquamarine eyes directly into mine, and said something I’ll never forget.

“You just need experience, baby, and this is how you get it.”

Then he said, “I have confidence in you. If I was going to battle, I would want you with me. You would be the first person I would pick to be on my team. You can do this.”

He’s always had the ability to talk me down from the ledge.

In that moment, I thought about Yvi Habermann, a lifelong friend and experienced, badass German sailor. She once told me a story about when she was on an 18-month sailing trip with her husband. He was seasick for three straight days while they were sailing the North Sea. They didn’t have the conditions we were having. The bully was in full force and knocking them all over the playground. She took the helm of their 7-meter boat for three straight days and nights without a break. She told me that it’s in times like this that you find out what you are truly capable of doing.

I snapped out of my pity party and asked Maik to teach me. I focused on asking good questions and not relying on him to remember to teach me every detail. I took responsibility for my own education.

I was on a mission. I practiced for my night watch all day long. He challenged me and quizzed me with each oncoming vessel. He showed me how to measure the distance and how to tell if the ship was coming or going. I was determined.

A smart and strategic skipper, Maik then re-organized the watch schedule. He no longer based it on time intervals. Rather, he based it on the situation. He would take the difficult, high-traffic shifts. I would take the longer, easy, open-ocean slots while he rested. Instead of switching at a certain time, I would wake him when I got to a certain waypoint, and we would assess the situation together to determine whether I should keep going or if he should take over.

That night, Maik took an early shift and got through another TSS. Then he woke me and spent about half an hour briefing me. “There are two key contacts right now,” he said. “Tell me what they are.”  I looked through the binoculars and did a perimeter check. I identified every light. “That’s a buoy. That’s a ship that’s not moving, so it’s anchored. That’s a huge wind park,” I began to see things clearly. “That’s a sailing boat under motor that’s going away from me. I know this because there is a white light on the mast, and I see the green navigation light. Green is on the starboard side and it’s moving to the right of me. It’s going away.”

I did this with every single light in the perimeter. Then I identified the two key contacts.

I felt confident. Maik went down to sleep. I carefully did my checks every 10 minutes. I would check my eyesight against what I saw through the binocular lens, then I would check the paper chart to see if the object was already identified.

At 04:00, everything was clear. I was so wide awake I don’t think I was even blinking. I realized I had safely made it through dozens of obstacles, but now there were none. Not one. Seefalke and I were all alone on open water.

I looked down into the cabin. Maik was all cuddled with four velvety beagle ears in his face, sleeping soundly. I let him sleep and extended my shift. Around 05:30, the North Sea began to wake up, so I woke Maik.

He told me he finally got some deep sleep. I was proud. I had done my job. I kept us safe, and I let my skipper sleep.

DAY 3 – 2 SEPTEMBER 2018

We decided to continue to take advantage of the weather and favorable winds and kept going. I continued to practice for my night watch, trying not to exhaust Maik too badly with my barrage of questions. I was beginning to feel like a real sailor and not just a random first mate tagging along for the ride.

We passed some of the largest shipping ports in the world—Amsterdam, Rodderdam, and Antwerp. It was so cool to see all the gigantic container ships and oil cargo ships. Our course was now set for Dunkirk, France, the last port in the North Sea right at the entrance of The English Channel.

The remainder of the passage would be complicated. We needed to maneuver through traffic separation schemes, tons of buoys, large busy ports, and as a bonus, some areas with low water levels. This would be a long night for Maik if he took all of the heavy load.

I took my shift at 18:00 and continued through to the first waypoint.

Rather than fear the night watch, this time I decided to embrace it.

There is something special about that moment when the sun disappears behind the horizon. It’s not yet dark, but it’s not daylight any more either. Some of the anchored ships begin to light up like Christmas trees and others look like ghostly shadows in the distance. The only sound is the waves.

I performed my checks, surveying the perimeter every 10 minutes. I identified every light. Most of the time I would go clockwise, but just to be sure, sometimes I would switch it up and go counterclockwise. It’s an old editor’s trick. Sometimes when you read an article so many times you just don’t see the words any more. If you edit the article backward, starting at the end, this is where you can see things in a different way and can catch the mistakes.

Soon, everything was black.

When you are floating on the water, you don’t really see the world around you fade to black. For a while, you see all the colors left over from the sunset—orange, pink, red, yellow. The water changes color, too. At first, it’s a brilliant blue. Then it softly fades to a silvery grey.

At some point it becomes black as coal—like the sky. It is so black that sometimes it’s difficult to see where the sky stops, and the water begins. But you can still hear the waves. On this night, there were millions of stars lighting the way. I saw a formation I recognized. I think it was the Big Dipper. Or, perhaps, it was the Little Dipper. Anyway, I’m pretty sure it was one of the Dippers.

It was so quiet and peaceful I could barely remember why I had been so afraid. 

At times, Seefalke would talk to me. A sail would flap. Her bones would creak a little, a sound kind of like when someone steps on a loose, wooden floorboard. I could hear the waves splashing against her body and echoing throughout her steel hull. I like to think she was letting me know I wasn’t alone. She is here to protect us—our bright orange bodyguard. I felt as safe as a baby in her mother’s womb.

“Don’t be afraid,” she tells me. “I’ve got this.”

In return for her protection, we keep her in deep waters. We steer her away from obstacles. We show her the way home, and she takes us there—safely and securely.

DAY 4 – 3 SEPTEMBER 2018

Maik took over at midnight and brought us into the morning. He had a tough night with hundreds of obstacles to maneuver around. I wished I could help more. But this was the plan, and it was working.

As the sun began to rise after our last night shift in the North Sea, we made our approach and safely moored at Dunkirk. Then I understood what Maik had told me about earning this experience. To get it, you must face the bully head on.

I didn’t know it at the time, but the beating I took from the North Sea bully would later help me through even tougher battles in the Bay of Biscay and on a three-week Atlantic Ocean crossing. I can look back now and thank her for the lessons, the experience, and the scars that will stay with me forever.

You just need experience, baby, and this is how you get it.

Read more Sailing Adventures

How to Get Your Sea Legs - Sailing Adventure Blog

How to Get Your Sea Legs is the official logbook of Michelle Segrest chronicling her travels sailing the world in a 43-foot sailboat for a year. It reveals all the good, the bad, and the ugly details about the planning stages, stories about living on a sailboat, sailing with dogs, the reality of working while sailing, impressions of her many interesting destinations along the way, nitty-gritty details about each sailing passage, and the entire experience from the first mate's point of view.

Read How to Get Your Sea Legs

How to Survive the Wimbledon Queue in the Rain

By Michelle Segrest

LONDON, England (28 June, 2014)—Simply put, trying to navigate the Wimbledon ticket system is a pain in the arse. And even if you are lucky enough to score the elusive tickets, they cost a bloody fortune!

But an opportunity presented itself in the summer of 2014. I realized that I would happen to be in London during the time when The Championships Wimbledon was in progress. I could smell the grass and taste the strawberries and cream all the way from Alabama. I had to be there!

Since my travel companions would rather eat a big bowl of terre battue than spend a day watching tennis, I only needed one ticket for one day. How hard could it be?

About four months before the trip, I began the hunt.

I went to the Wimbledon website—sold out. Ticketmaster—nothing. Stub hub—a total bust. It was pretty painless to get tickets to the U.S. and French Opens, so I was a bit bewildered. A little panic set in, but I fancy a good challenge so I got on the phone and began dialing like a maniac.

I went through my mental rolodex like the scene from Jerry Maguire when Tom Cruise tells Bob Sugar he’s going to steal all his clients. In a few frantic hours, I think I called every human being I know who ever played tennis, watched tennis, heard of tennis, lived or worked in or around London…and well, I called everyone I knew. No luck. Come on…SHOW ME THE TICKETS!!!

Through much painstaking research I discovered there are only a few ways to score Wimbledon tickets. But there are so many rules, regulations and scenarios, reading the Wimbledon website is like reading stereo instructions in Japanese. Perhaps I can spare you a small portion of this fine-print torture that practically made my head explode. Here are a few options.

1. Debenture Tickets are purchased five years in advance. Five years! Who has five years to plan a day at Wimbledon? And they are not for the average tennis fan on a budget. The 2016-2020 Centre Court debentures were priced at £50,000. Crickey!!! The 2012-2016 No.1 Court debentures were priced at £13,700. Debenture holders can sell tickets for individual days and they get between £2,500 and £4,500 a pop. That price should include afternoon tea with the Queen. Strike one.

2.  Official hospitality packages are available, but only from two brokers, Keith Prowse and Sportsworld. Other than Ticketmaster, the AELTC does not have any authorized ticket-only agents who sell tickets on the Internet. Already sold out. Strike two.

3. The Public Ballot has been around since 1924 and is still regarded as the fairest way to distribute Show Court tickets. It is open to everyone, but because of huge demand, it remains “substantially oversubscribed.” These are registered for a year in advance and are like a lottery. Too late for me. Strike three.

4. Several hundred Centre Court and No.3 Court daily tickets are sold online on the day before play via Ticketmaster. Details are communicated to registrants of the regular Wimbledon e-newsletters. I was not a subscriber and these tickets often sell out immediately once available. Strike four.

5. An easy way to score tickets is to be a tennis star, movie star, soccer star or British royalty. Strike five. Strike six. Strike seven. Strike eight.

How many strikes do I get before I’m out? 

Then my luck took a turn. I got a hit from my frantic Jerry Maguire calling spree. A work colleague from New York told me he took his daughters to Wimbledon the previous year and recommended a special experience—The Queue.

He explained it to me simply. Stand in line for a little while, wait your turn, take your chances on admission and spend somewhere between 8 and 50 pounds (as long as you didn’t want to be on Centre Court, any of the show courts or attend the last four days of the tournament). More fine print. These grounds admission passes allow access to unreserved seating and standing on Courts 3-19.

Ok, so I won’t get to see Roger Federer play on the Centre Court lawn. But, I can stand. I can wait. I can afford between 8 and 50 pounds. We have a winner!

I woke up at the crack of dawn, navigated the Tube, minded the gap and made my way to the historic All England Lawn & Tennis Club.

I found Turnstile 3 and entered the famous Queue. Yay!! I’m here!

A very polite, distinguished British gentleman handed me a piece of paper and told me to not lose it. No worries! I got this.

I held the piece of paper like an egg—afraid it would break if I gripped it too tightly. I glanced down and realized it actually was not a ticket. Wait a minute... It was just a piece of paper—a piece of paper with a number on it—number 7,125. And of course, more fine print.

Huh?  What?

That’s a long line!

“How many people will get in today to see live tennis?” I asked the British gentleman in my sweetest Southern drawl. “About 8,000 Queue tickets could be distributed today,” he replied.

“So, I’m in, right? I’m number 7,125. That’s less than 8,000. I will get to watch tennis and eat strawberries and cream and smell the grass! Right?”

“Perhaps. Kindly move forward and be sure to stay with your Queue Steward.”

My what???

“Ok, so I may not get in?”

“Move forward. You are holding up the Queue.”

I wouldn’t want to do that.

Let me make one thing clear. The English love to queue. And let me assure you, they are experts. This system was like a well-oiled machine of carefully organized straight lines containing 8,000 tennis fans perfectly coordinated across a massive yard the size of about four American football fields. I imagine an aerial view looks like a very advanced Excel spreadsheet.

And there I was….only 7,125th in line just outside another queue that leads to the airport-like security check that leads to another queue to actually purchase the ticket (IF any are left when you get there) that leads inside the grounds of the historic All England Lawn & Tennis Club to actual live tennis.

On one corner of the huge field there was another Queue. This was a line of camping tents with thousands of other people. These guys were not part of my little club of 8,000. These guys had been camping for a while and still had eight days left before their Queue would begin to move. They were in the Queue for the Championship Match. This means at least eight days of camping in the queue, most likely in the rain, and still no guarantee of getting a ticket.

So, I obediently followed my Queue Steward and the other tennis fans in the 7,100 range to a stopping point where we were no longer moving. The Queue Steward politely but firmly told us to sit. So we did. In perfect unison. This must be what it feels like to be in the British military.

Once all 8,000 lucky tennis fans were in the yard and in perfectly coordinated lines, the party started! A few vendors opened along the far edge of the yard (opposite end of the camping tent Queue) selling coffee and tea, biscuits and burgers. Frisbees started flying through the air, and mini soccer matches broke out. And of course, the people who knew what they were doing opened their picnic baskets and coolers and pulled out their books, magazines and computers.

They were prepared because they knew something I didn’t…We are going to be here for a while.

All I had was my piece of paper with number 7,125 printed on it.

People were leaving their spots to join the party, but I was afraid to move. I didn’t have a Queue companion and was afraid the Queue Steward mafia would kick me out if I abandoned my post.

The four 20-something college students behind me were from the Czech Republic. I asked them if they would hold my spot so I could visit the Porto-Loo, but they didn’t understand English and just smiled and handed me a beer.  Cool!

The group in front of me were from New Zealand, France, Essex, Spain and London. They spoke English and offered to save my spot. But they warned me to keep an eye on our Queue because it might move. You see, the Queue Stewards get bored sometimes and decide to play musical chairs with their lines. They would randomly make us get up and march in a single file line into another row. “Does this mean we are closer to getting in?” I would ask. “No, settle in,” the seasoned Queue’ers told me. “We are going to be here for a while.”

I efficiently visited the Porto-loo, grabbed a quick geocache just off the walking trail that circled the huge field, and obediently returned to my post.

About two hours in Queue, in typical London fashion, it started to rain. The Queue Stewards passed out ponchos. They were prepared. I was so grateful…I didn’t want my precious, valuable piece of paper with number 7,125 to get wet.

By hour three, I was well involved in the Queue party. The Czechs continued to share beer from their bottomless cooler, and the Stewards kept passing out little gifts like blow up beach balls and coffee samples. About once every 30 minutes it would rain for about 10 minutes and we would all stand up. When it stopped and the ground dried a little, we would all sit back down. The whole thing was very well choreographed.

We all talked about tennis and told stories of our work, our travels, our children, our lives. Each story would begin with, “It’s a long story….but…. we have time, so…” That joke never stopped being funny.

Meanwhile, my travel companions were having a blast. They sent me photos from Stonehenge, then Oxford, then, well, everywhere else in London. I was still in my same little spot, but it was ok. I was surrounded by tennis fans and on the precipice of seeing the most famous and historical grass in the world. Hopefully.

After six hours and 12 minutes of Queue party, the line actually started to move. It was exhilarating! Our Queue Steward informed us all show court tickets were already sold out, and even though there were many rain delays, tennis was being played. Game on!

The moving Queue went on for about another hour and we were finally approaching the security checkpoint.

Along the way, vendors handed out little goodies with their logos. I felt right at home—like I was at a trade show. One vendor gave us a deck of cards. I thought to myself, “This would have come in handy six hours ago when we were sitting on the wet grass in the Queue yard.” Maybe I could have made some money playing Texas Hold ‘Em with my new Czech mates.

My favorite giveaway was a sticker that reads, “I’ve Queued in the Rain, Wimbledon 2014.” It features a cartoon image of green English country wellies. A badge of honor.

Ok, another hour goes by, but we got through security and then through the Queue to the ticket gate. I enthusiastically purchased my ticket for 20 pounds. I was in!!! 

The sun was shining. First thing’s first. Strawberries and Cream! 

Wow! I really am here! At Wimbledon! And it only took four months of ticket searching and about eight hours in the Queue!

I took it all in.

I went to the first court I could find. Court 15. That’ll work! 

Of course, another Queue was needed to wait for my turn to score a seat. Now, the deal on these open seat outer-court ground passes is simple. Seats are first come, first served. Someone gets up to go to the loo or move to another court, and the Court Steward will promptly escort the next person in line to that seat. You get up, you lose your seat.

Since I was a Party of One, it quickly became my turn. They put me on Row 2! I could finally smell the grass, and I could almost touch it! I was practically on the court, and it didn’t matter to me who was playing! Finally, live tennis! A ladies doubles match was in progress between teams from Japan and Russia. American John Isner from Georgia was up next on Court 15. Perfect!

All I have to do is enjoy the ladies doubles match, not get up, and I can keep this seat and cheer on my fellow Southerner.

I snapped a selfie with the court in the background for proof that I finally made it, and then I settled in for tennis heaven!

After 20 minutes and five games (not five sets, not five matches…five GAMES), the sky turned black and it began to pour! It was not the polite little English spatterings we had experienced all day in the Queue. This was a monsoon!

The courts were efficiently covered in about 2.5 seconds, and tennis on the outer courts was officially cancelled for the day.

So I slipped into a little gift shop and loaded up on purple and green Wimbledon souvenirs, including a purple and green umbrella.

Then I went to the edge of the grounds to legendary Henman Hill. My favorite player, Rafa Nadal, was playing on Centre Court—the only court at Wimbledon with a closed roof. The match was being broadcast live on a ginormous screen. I watched the rest of his match in the rain with thousands of other drenched tennis fans and had a blast!

Yes, it would have been great to see more live tennis, but I wasn’t disappointed or sad. For the bargain price of 20 pounds, the Wimbledon Queue experience was totally blooming worth it!!!

Post script: The Wimbledon website includes pages and pages of rules with endless fine print about what you cannot do on the grounds during the most polite sporting event in the world. In a nutshell, some of the highlights include…you cannot use foul or abusive language, clap above a normal noise level, use obscene gestures, remove your shirt, speak above a whisper, use cellular devices or flash photography, display posters or signs, listen to a radio without ear plugs, bring in more than the minimum amount of alcohol (explained in more fine print), climb onto any building on the grounds, use wheeled footwear, display “barmy” or “beastly” behavior…the rules go on and on.

It is such a different experience from the rock concert that is the U.S Open. Please read my blog about my two trips to Flushing Meadows for a completely fun adventure!

Read about the London Tunnel Super Pumps

Read about US OPEN Tennis Adventures

US Open - Tennis Adventures from Row X

For two Southern tennis fans, exploring the U.S. Open was like being in an episode of I Love Lucy!

By Michelle Segrest

FLUSHING MEADOWS, New York (29 August 2010)—It was a whim.

It was girls’ night out with my tennis partner, Rhonda, and I don’t know…somewhere between her third beer and my second apple martini, we just decided to go. Let’s go to the U.S. Open!

It was a week away.

I have frequent flyer miles. I have Hilton Honors points. I have a passionate and ridiculously innate urge to watch tennis, play tennis and drool over handsome, sweaty men in shorts thrashing a tennis ball with all their might.

I jumped on Ticketmaster and quickly found two tickets for Labor Day weekend. Section 317, Row X, Arthur Ashe stadium. Hmmm. This shouldn’t be too bad.

My first experience at the U.S. Open was three years before. I went with my mother, Patti, also a tennis fan. But that was different. My sportswriter ex-husband had scored us tickets in the Sports Illustrated box, which put us basically in the players box. We literally sat with the Serbian tennis posse and watched Novak Djokovic win his breakout, marathon, five-hour, five-set match over Radek Stepanek in Louis Armstrong stadium. We were so close to Rafa Nadal in Arthur Ashe stadium, I could have reached down and picked the panties out of his perfect bum for him. I could literally hear an Andy Roddick serve screech past my ears and felt the wind almost knock my head off.

This would be a different experience. Section 317, Row X. Fine. Let’s go!

We arrived in Queens, dumped our luggage at the local Hilton Garden Inn and caught the shuttle directly to the Billie Jean King National Tennis Center.

One caviat. We had tickets for the evening session that day, and for every session throughout the weekend. But we didn’t have tickets for that afternoon. And we couldn’t wait.

We worked our way across the bridge to the ticket counter. Just in case. But of course, all tickets for the afternoon session were sold out. Everywhere on the grounds were signs about the punishments and penalties for scalping tickets anywhere near the Tennis Center. We began walking back across the bridge toward Citi Field where the New York Mets play.

Police officers were patrolling the grounds with intent to arrest. We are talking about tickets to a tennis match, not a conspiracy to take over a small country. How could getting tickets to a tennis match be considered a crime?

We are sweet Southern girls who just want to watch a little tennis, so we decided to play the “We’re-from-Alabama-and-don’t-know-any-better” card. We walked straight up to two friendly police officers and asked them directly. “How can we get tickets for this afternoon’s session?”

“Everything is sold out,” they told us without blinking an eye or cracking a smile. They were completely immune to our most sugary Southern drawl. “And if we see you solicit tickets from a scalper, we will take you directly to jail.”

We were not convinced. “So…if we head that way (pointing toward a gang of skateboarders who were obviously scalpers), we could possibly get tickets?”

“I think you need to walk away,” the bigger one said. But then he winked and looked the other way.

I think I will choose to interpret that as go ahead and we won’t arrest you. Let’s go to the U.S. Open!

We walked down to the skateboarder scalpers, but they only had tickets for that evening. We already had those tickets covered. Section 317, Row X. We passed a lot of people asking for tickets but no others selling them.

Time for Plan B.

We went back to the same police officers. Yes. The same ones.

“We weren’t able to get any tickets,” we told them. “Do you have any suggestions?”

“I think you should give up on this,” they warned. “Go to a bar and watch The Open on TV until you can get into the night session.”

Hmmm. Good idea. 

One of the officers actually broke a little smile, finally succumbing to our Southern charm. “Ok, there is a Ruby Tuesday that way (he pointed), and it’s a pretty good neighborhood. That way (he pointed the other way) is downtown Queens and maybe not the safest place for two girls from Alabama. I would not recommend going that way without an escort and perhaps a weapon.”

I don’t think Rhonda heard him. Her answer was simple and quick. “I’m not a fan of Ruby Tuesday.”

So off we went in the direction of danger.

We roamed a bit, then found a sweet elderly lady and asked for directions. She was blind. Maybe not our best resource. So we winged it.

We finally found a bar and instantly made friends with other tennis fans, stayed a couple hours and then headed back to the tennis center with our legitimate tickets. Section 317, Row X.

At the U.S. Open, there are three different kinds of tickets you can purchase and in deep contrast to Wimbledon and the French Open, these tickets are easy to score.

Tickets to Arthur Ashe Stadium (center court) range anywhere from $50 to $500-plus. This buys you a reserved seat, but you can also use this ticket for unreserved seating on any other court. This is the greatest bargain and unless you just have hundreds of dollars to burn, there is no real need to get the expensive tickets. More explanation about this later.

Tickets to Louis Armstrong range from $50 to about $350-plus and give you a reserved seat at the second largest court with access to any other unreserved seat on any court except Arthur Ashe.

A grounds pass can be purchased for a song. This gives you first-come, first-served seating on any court except Arthur Ashe or Louis Armstrong. You can see some fantastic matches from the front row of the Grandstand and any outer court. You just have to get there first, park and stay seated. If you get up, you can lose your seat to the next guy. So you should eat, drink and pee before you sit down.

Finally, we had made it to the tennis center with our legit tickets, and we were in luck. Two Americans were playing at Arthur Ashe—veteran Andy Roddick and newcomer Jack Sock.

But first thing’s first…we needed to snap a photo to prove we were there.

We ran to an outer court that was between matches and practically empty. We strolled in and walked straight to the court. This was before cell phones were the camera of choice and I don’t think “selfies” had been invented yet. So I was walking around with my huge Nikon SLR D70 strapped around my neck and my two extra lenses and extra battery in my very heavy bag.

There was only one other person on the court. He looked really official with a lanyard and credential around his neck. He must work here, we thought. We walked up to him and asked if he would take a picture for us. This seemed like a usual request for him, but I wondered why he looked confused when I handed him the camera.

So Rhonda and I stood by the court and smiled like stupid Southern tourists in the big bad city. He took several pics, and I checked each one for approval. Then, still confused, he handed us back the camera. “That’s all you need?” he asked, still puzzled.

“Yep. We’re good!”

Meanwhile, the court seats were beginning to fill, so we thought, hey, we have a front seat, let’s watch a little. We were in tennis heaven!

We started to notice that our photographer was getting a lot of attention. Masses of people were asking for his autograph and taking pictures WITH him. This must be the most popular court official on the grounds. Now, we were confused.

We asked a random fan who was completely thrilled with her autograph, “Who is that?”

“That’s Patrik Kühnen, the German tennis player and coach,” she told us. “He’s pretty famous!” He was Boris Becker’s doubles partner and the current Germany Davis Cup Captain.

We felt so stupid…like we were in an I Love Lucy episode. Remember when Lucy and Ethel asked John Wayne to take their picture? But John Wayne wasn’t in it. The super famous guy was the one operating the camera.

Yes, it was just like that.

We will forever be able to tell our friends, “Look at this great picture of Michelle and Rhonda that a famous celebrity took for us.” It didn’t occur to us to ask him to get in the picture WITH us. Nope, we were the celebrities that day!

I guess I can brag that a famous tennis celebrity touched my camera.

I bit embarrassed and humiliated, but still excited, we made our way to center court.

Arthur Ashe stadium is massive! It’s the largest tennis venue in the world, accommodating more than 22,500 people. And every match is like a rock concert! Loud music plays on the changeovers and tennis fans dance in the aisles. Fans display posters and drink alcohol. Lots of it! They loudly and proudly cheer for their favorite players and are not afraid to boo and hiss at the opponent. It is the antithesis of the ultimately polite Wimbledon experience.

Unlike Wimbledon, which has pages and pages and pages of rules and regulations, the U.S. Open is the ultimate tennis party. The energy is electric—especially for night matches, which can often last into the early morning hours.

We easily found Section 317. It was in the top tier of three levels. We then began to climb the steep stairs up to Row X. Think about the alphabet. Only Y and Z come after X. This means our seats were three rows from the top (some 518 feet into the clouds).

Our sweaty, travel worn, crime-escaping bodies had finally made it. We sat down and then looked down. Now this is not an exaggeration…we were looking DOWN at the TOP of the Goodyear Blimp. Yes, we were higher than the Goodyear Blimp.

Andy Roddick and Jack Sock looked like little ants running around on the electric blue court. We could hear the ping, ping, ping, so we knew that they were most likely hitting a fuzzy, yellow ball. But we couldn’t see it.

We sat in our assigned seats for about five minutes. That was about enough. It was time to find better seats.

So the deal at the U.S. Open is that if you have a ticket into a main court, it is your reserved seat no matter what. However, if others do not show up, or they move, or for whatever reason simply are not there, you can sit in their seat. A better seat than the one you purchased. Of course, if the ticket holder of that seat shows up with the reserved ticket, you have to move.

Fair enough.

We ventured down, a few rows at a time. We would sit and then look around and over our shoulder as if we were invisible and the other 22,000 people couldn’t see us stealing the empty seats.

We got away with it.

We became a little more comfortable and a little more clever. We made it down to the first row of the top tier. Now we could see some tennis! It was awesome! It wasn’t as close as my mom and I were three years before in the luxury box, but it was still pretty extraordinary!

We still had to move a few times as ticket holders began to show up, but the musical chair game was fun. Ticket holders were very understanding when they arrived, and we would kindly move to another empty seat. And we got to make even more new friends!

This would have been close enough to make most tennis fans happy. But not Lucy and Ethel.

We decided to be brave.

And . . . perhaps a little greedy.

We decided we had gotten fairly expert at this game and wanted to get even closer—the bottom tier.

Now the bottom tier has guards on every aisle. But sometimes they abandon their post. It’s all a matter of timing.

We were able to sneak past one of them and found two empty seats on Row 5. We looked up at our lonely little seats in the upper level, Section 317, Row X. It seemed like a mile away and we were feeling good about ourselves.

“Now, this is the way to go to the U.S. Open,” we were bragging on ourselves and proud of this accomplishment. We were no longer paranoid about getting caught. No longer looking over our shoulder because we were now pros at attending the U.S. Open. I mean, let’s face it. We have this whole thing figured out. Buy a $50 ticket and then work your way into the expensive seats.

I was so proud! I boldly said, “We should write a book about this.”

The words had barely left my lips and were still hanging in the air. Just hanging there like a bubble quote on a cartoon strip.

Not even one second later… a tap on the shoulder. It was the aisle guard. “This is not your seat. You need to move.”

Book deal over. Back to Row X.

How to Survive the Wimbledon Queue

SEC vs. BIG TEN

Rivalries Run Deep for College Football Loyalists

The Iron Bowl or Big Ten Shootout? Which is the most intense college football rivalry? Loyal fans from Auburn, Alabama, Ohio State and Michigan duke it out. (A version of this article was originally published by LindysSports.com on Friday, November 17, 2006.)

By Michelle Segrest

I was introduced to the Iron Bowl in 1982. My dad scored two tickets, and my mom never forgave him for taking me instead of her. The game was dramatic, to say the least.

Bo Jackson went over the top. Auburn snapped Alabama's nine-year domination with a 23-22 win. And to the shock of everyone, Paul "Bear" Bryant coached his penultimate game.

It wasn't just a game. It was an experience.

As we left Legion Field, people danced in the streets in celebration. And I watched grown men cry in agony. College football doesn't get more intense than that—at least that's been my sacred belief for nearly four decades.

I was raised in Iron Bowl country. All my life I knew Auburn and Alabama hated each other, but for many years I didn’t even realize other rivalries existed. Loyal fans in the Midwest probably grew up thinking the same thing,

Now my faith is in question, and I'm led to wonder . . . Is the Iron Bowl really the rivalry to beat all rivalries? Is it possible that Ohio State and Michigan fans could even compete with the intense hatred?

Longtime Buckeye fan Ryen Valentine moved from Ohio to Birmingham to play tennis at UAB. He's lived in Alabama for a decade, but his loyalties remain up north. He insists the Big Ten rivalry is more intense.

"I think it's a bigger rivalry because year to year the teams are better," says Valentine, who has been known to make the 7 1⁄2-hour drive just to be in the stadium parking lot for the Ohio State-Michigan game. "Every year, the game means something important to one or both of the teams. There's always something on the line.

"I've lived in both places, and it just seems to me that there is more hate with the Ohio State-Michigan rivalry. You're just raised to hate the other team. And you don't come in contact with them every day . . .you don't live among them. There is a state line that divides us. And you don't just hate the school, you hate the whole state of Michigan. I don't even want to go over there. I just get a funny feeling whenever I cross over that line and realize I'm in Michigan."

The actions of legendary OSU coach Woody Hayes might have inspired that sentiment. He once admitted that he would have his team buses pull over just before the state line to top off the tanks so he wouldn't have to spend any money in Michigan.

College football fans in Alabama make a passionate plea for the importance of their own rivalry.

Alabama fan Sherry Shealy went into labor at the 1992 Iron Bowl and refused to leave Legion Field until the game was decided. Her daughter was born early the next morning and a week later she was back in the stands watching her team win the inaugural SEC Championship Game. And even a 5-week-old baby couldn't stop her from getting to New Orleans to see Alabama bring in the New Year with a national title.

"Our seats were in the second to the top row of the upper deck, and it was not easy carrying 30 extra pounds up all those steps. But I just couldn't miss the Iron Bowl," she says. "I love being part of the crowd and part of the history. There is just no way that I would miss that game. I can remember after that game we were all cheering and laughing, and all the Auburn fans were crying. It was great!"

After recounting the story, about five minutes passed before Shealy called back. "I may have sounded too nice," she said. "The truth is, I really hate Auburn. Whenever we win, I just want to rub it in their faces. When Auburn plays someone else, I pull for the other team. I mean, I really hate them. Make sure you print that!"

Don Lambert is a 1972 Auburn graduate and has attended 48 consecutive Iron Bowls.

"It's a mission for me," says the Florence, Ala., architect, who once owned burnt-orange Irish setters named Sullivan and Beasley. Auburn fans will understand the significance of this.

"I just can't miss it. In this state, you are almost forced to choose one side or another and then it's just who you are. I can understand the Ohio State-Michigan dynamic, but there's just no way it can be as big a rivalry for them.

"We truly have this issue of bragging rights. The next day we go to church with our rivals, and then see them at work on Monday morning. And if you're on the losing end you have to hear it for an entire year.

"They have a bigger fan base because it's just more people. But our rivalry transcends all that because usually we're not playing for anything of national circumstance. The bragging rights are a real thing and that one game can make or break your recruiting for the next year."

Lambert's son, Christopher, was an Auburn fan before he could walk. Like his dad, he finds it hard to miss an Iron Bowl. The 32-year-old Birmingham accountant has been to 25 of them. His first was in 1989, the first year the game was played in Auburn.

"I'll never forget that day," the younger Lambert, a 2004 Auburn graduate, says, "Alabama came into that game 10-0, but I never thought we would lose it. The Auburn fans just refused to let that happen at Jordan- Hare. I remember the haze over the stadium at dusk and all the paper shakers.

"As an Auburn fan, you really take this game personally. When we lose, I feel physically sick. I feel like I just got sucker punched in the stomach. Other games I really look forward to, but when we play Alabama I almost can't even enjoy the game. . . it just means so much. I'm not on the field, and I have nothing to do with whether we win or lose, but as an Auburn fan I still take ownership of the game and of the outcome."

Big Ten enthusiasts contend their biggest rivalry carries the emotional element, as well.

"I think that because it's state against state, it just makes it bigger," says Paul Beaudry, a Birmingham-based journalist, who covered the Wolverines for Michigan newspapers for 10 years. "There is so much hatred among those fans. I mean there is legitimate hate between them. I've gone to two games in Columbus, and I always get a rental car without Michigan tags because those Ohio State fans are intense.

"Ohio Stadium is probably the most electric place to watch a football game. In many ways, Ohio State is Columbus' pro franchise. I've been in Alabama for many years now, and all I can say about the Auburn- Alabama game is, 'It's a fun little game.' "

As with most Alabama and Auburn loyalists, it's not just about a love for your own team, but a venomous hatred for the other team.

"Put it this way," explains 1982 graduate and Tide enthusiast Larry Filippini. "If Auburn was playing the Russians, I'd cheer for Russia. I just hate them. I always have. It's culture versus agriculture."

Filippini rarely misses an Alabama-Auburn matchup, but has also witnessed an Ohio State-Michigan game live. "It was awesome. I think those guys have an equal passion for winning, but because the Iron Bowl is an instate rivalry, you just have to go one way or the other. You have to choose an allegiance, so you may as well choose a good one and pick Alabama."

Jerry Smith was born and reared in Ohio and graduated from Ohio State in 1980. Even though he has lived and worked in Alabama for almost 30 years, he believes nothing can match the Midwest rivalry.

"I guess the biggest difference I've noticed between the rivalries is that the Alabama-Auburn game is talked about more all year long," Smith says. "But during game week, I think the intensity is greater with Ohio State-Michigan. When I was in school I was a resident in the athletic dorms and the security had to be seriously increased when it was time for the Michigan game. These two teams really hate each other, and the fans hate each other.

"We've always said that the only sign of intelligent life in Michigan is the sign that says 'Columbus 187 miles.'"

Mike Chase grew up in Ohio, but became a Wolverine fan when family friends gave his parents Michigan season tickets. He now lives in Alabama.

"Around here you teach your kids to say 'Roll Tide' or 'War Eagle' really young," he says. "It's the same with Michigan and Ohio State fans. You have to establish an allegiance. It is definitely a heated rivalry. Michigan goes down to Ohio to recruit a lot of high school kids. And once those guys cross that line, they are considered defectors and can never go back."

Win or lose, fans from all three states agree the memories of the epic battles leave imprints that last a lifetime.

"I remember my first Michigan-OSU game," Smith says. "I was 7 years old and it was 10 degrees, or it seemed like it. I remember how cold it was, and Woody Hayes was wearing a short-sleeve shirt—just like my dad said he would. OSU lost, and I thought the world would end."

So I'm convinced. The Midwest rivalry is perhaps as intense as the one I grew up with. Maybe there's no fair way to truly compare rivalries when so much heart and soul are invested.

Let’s find out. What do you consider to be the most intense college football rivalry?

Michelle Segrest has been a professional journalist for 30 years. In the early 1990s, she covered the SEC for three Alabama daily newspapers. Her beat coverage included the University of Alabama's 1992 national title run. She is a graduate of Auburn University. A version of Segrest’s article on these college football rivalries was originally published by LindysSports.com on Friday, November 17, 2006. It has been rewritten and updated using her original interviews and permission has been granted for repurposed publication.