Staying Put

With Jax, Titusville, FL 2015

I got out my thesaurus and looked up “bon voyage” today.

There are oodles of synonyms. “Farewell,” “Godspeed,” “Fair winds and following seas.” Aren’t those lovely send-offs? “Have a safe trip.” “Good sailing.” They sound so full of hope and great expectation. So…desirable. So full of fresh wind and salty sea. Ahh, yes.

But coming back to land to stay? When a sailor says, ‘well, I’ve had enough exploring by water. I’m going to plant roots on land and become terrestrial again.’ Then how will we be greeted? Will people say, “Well, my my…Happy…Staying Put.” How does one make that sound like an appealing and wonderful thing to do, to stay put?

New York City

The thesaurus, apparently, harbors bad feelings toward sailors returning to live on dry land. Here are some of the antonyms that I found for bon voyage.  “Stay in place. Stand still. Immobility. Indolence. Stagnation. (gasp) Torpidity. Motionlessness. Idleness. Dormancy. Laziness. Blockage (seriously?) Diminishment. Failure. Worsening.” Jeez. I feel despondent already. I particularly worry about the “Stagnation” and the “Blockage.” Both conjure up images of getting stuck in stinky muck. They all make me nervous to think about the future. A little scared about what to expect next.

Maine, 2016

I remember quite well my anxiety 5 years ago, about moving from land onto the water. We’d sold the house and gotten rid of so much stuff. Lots of stuff! We retired early and I wondered ‘what do I do if I don’t like life on the water?’ There’s nothing to go back to. No home on land. I worried about leaving a life that I was perfectly content with for something quite different. Afraid I would miss the familiarity of a house and driving a car. Worried that my husband and I would find it intolerable to be alone with each other 24/7. Husbands and wives just do not spend all their time together…at least none of the couples that I knew on land did that. Surely it would be a recipe for disaster.

And then we were met with the anxiety of our families. “You know you’re going to die out there on the water, don’t you?” “What if you get caught in a storm?” “But you’re going to stay in a hotel when you get there, right?”

But it turned out that our boat has become our home. When we’ve been gone for a few days, it feels so welcoming to return to our home. It IS home. Our home. It’s not very big and we don’t have room for much of anything that’s not essential, but it’s comfy and I’ve never had any anxiety about being out on the ocean. I feel as safe in this home of ours as I do riding in a car. And much more relaxed.

The boat takes care of us. At anchor, she points into the wind, so that we get the benefit of the breezes to cool us. Sitting in the cockpit to watch the sky change colors at sunset and listen to the water and birds is a daily luxury. It’s hard to imagine not being able to do that when we move off the boat for the last time.

When I step off this boat for the very last time, it’ll be the end of a very good chunk of my life. The end of a way of living. A kind of life that we’ve never been able to adequately describe to anyone who has not lived a cruising life.  So, when it’s gone, there won’t be many people, at least in our near environment, that we can reminisce with about it.  Will that feel lonely?

I know who I am when I live on the boat. What do I mean by that? Not sure I can explain it, but I’ll try.

I know that I am someone who tolerates a change of plans. Weather makes lots of decisions for us.

2017

I can tolerate discomfort; it is ordinary and often quite necessary. When we hit rough water and the wind is stronger than we anticipated, we’ll be bouncing and crashing into waves abruptly and we might be heeled hard, perhaps all day and throughout a long night.

When it’s really hot and still, the only respite comes from fans. We can’t run the A/C away from a dock. If we’re moving, it’s the drone of the engine all day. Sailboat now turned trawler.

I’ve become accustomed to showering less frequently than I did while living on land. Fresh water is something that takes time and energy to make, and anyway, when my spouse and I are equally sweaty and ripe, it doesn’t matter as much.

Marsh Harbor, Abacos 2017
Destroyed by Hurricane 2019

Things stop working sometimes and need to be fixed on the water. That happens on land too, but less often, I believe. They’re mostly small things, but sometimes major issues, too. We discover that the way we are doing something, is causing a different problem for us. The way I’ve been attaching a line is showing hard wear in one spot.  I replace it or make a cover to protect the vulnerable spot.

Oriental, NC 2017

There are places on the boat that need special attention, frequently. I find mildew developing on the ceiling in the head. Need more vinegar and bleach. The isinglass windows in the canvas dodger become smudgy and thick with salt accumulation. I forget to lock a drawer before we’re underway and a knife takes a nose-dive into our nice new teak and juniper sole. We aim for a mooring ball to attach up at our bow and find, not surprisingly, that the rope pendant is slimy and gross.  It’s not uncommon to find my hands in something that is unpleasant. Keeping a manicure has never been in the cards on the water.

I admit there are things on the boat, that I have never liked doing. Putting the fitted sheet on the Pullman bed is one. This usually takes place when I’m tired; crawling over the bed to reach the far two corners, bracing the top of my head against the wall in order to leverage the strength to lift up the mattress while stuffing the sheet underneath, all without wrenching my back.

Maybe my least favorite thing is this scenario. We desperately need some part or tool or some THING that we know is on the boat somewhere. Where is that thing? I remember seeing it. When? Not sure. Was it under the aft bed? Maybe. Was it under the Pullman bed? Did we shove it up into the anchor locker at the bow...because we thought we’d never need it? 

Annapolis 2019

So we tear apart the entire boat. Methodically of course. First one area. Put it back together. On to the next mess. Not there. Groan. The above routine has been repeated several times since we moved aboard 4 ½ years ago. At all times of the day or night. One memorable occasion was at 4:00 AM when we smelled smoke.

So, okay, those are two things I will not miss when we live terrestrially. We’ll still have to remember where we put things, but maybe won’t have to tear everything apart to lay our hands on it. Maybe?

Tangier Island, Chesapeake Bay 2019

When I live on the water, I understand the rules. Rules of the waterways. Rules about safety. Rules about using the VHF radio. Energy and water conservation. Rules determined by the size of our boat. We can’t go there…too shallow. We can’t anchor there…no protection, strong current. We can’t stockpile too much food…not enough room.  It may not work to do laundry and to walk to get groceries all in one day, if the two locations are far apart and both require a long walk back to the boat with our loads. These are practical “rules” that come with boat life.

Hopetown, Abacos 2017
Destroyed by Hurricane 2019

But there are so many wonderful “rules,” norms and mores.  When we see a boat on the horizon or next to us at anchor that we know, we will radio them or dinghy over to say “hi.” We were friendly last time we met them; now we are instant friends. “How long are you gonna be here?” “Wanna come over for sundowners?” “Hey, do you need help with that job tomorrow?” “I can come over and catch your lines for you.” “I know electronics…want me to take a look at that for you?”

And when we meet someone new, “Hey, didn’t we see you at the last port?” “Where are you guys from?” “How long you been living on your boat?” “Where are you going next?”

"Stay 500 yds from submarine"

I know my role in this life. I know what’s important. Taking care of each other. Eating healthy. Meeting people we enjoy. Helping others. Watching the weather. Seeing the sunrise and the sunsets. Relishing in the beauty around us whether in the islands or on the East coast.

Philadelphia, 2019

I’ve never been a retired person living on land. Somehow I feel uneasy about that. Living in one place. Every day, going back to the same place.  Our view at sunset, the same every day. The building we live in will not turn to face into the wind in order to catch every breeze. We will become dependent upon air conditioning. We will live indoors, primarily, rather than in and outdoors in the sun and breeze. Will we have anything in common with the neighbors? Will we be invited over for sundowners?

2019

When we meet new people, and we’re asked where we’re from, or where we live, our answer will not receive the same response that we have become accustomed to. This is shallow of me, but I admit that I’ve come to like it when people respond, “Oh, you live on a sailboat…that is the coolest thing!” or some such response.  We will have to become accustomed to a different kind of conversation. It will never be like this. “We live in that building over there.” “Oh, a building! How cool is that?” See what I mean? I will miss that other conversation.

Washington D.C., 2019

So, here we are, currently in Washington D.C. On a mooring ball 200 yards away from our friends who live on their boat at Capitol Yacht Club. They became Jax’s parents until his death this last spring. We’ve met their new rescue dog, Mabel. She’s a sweetie.  Maybe someday we can adopt a rescue dog again when we live on dry land.

Tomorrow we will begin the sail back down the Potomac and up to Annapolis, a four-day journey in all, on our slow home. It will be our last sail. 

New Orleans, 2019

We will spend the next month getting the boat ready to sell in the same place where we bought her 5 ½ years ago.  Then Northern Star will come out of the water and sit on the hard, looking shiny and promising, waiting for new owners. People excited to sail her. Maybe she will get to Colombia yet. Maybe she’ll go through the Panama Canal. Maybe she’ll circumnavigate. I hope the new people take good care of her. She deserves it.

Returning from Caribbean, 2019