On our last evening in Elizabeth Harbor, there was a music jam at the St. Francis resort on Stocking Island. The atmosphere was relaxed, the music an eclectic mix provided by cruising musicians, and the crowd encouraging. I have never let lack of talent stop me where enthusiasm can compensate, and this was no exception. After a gin-and-tonic and a kick in the seat by Kimberly from Ally Cat and Julie from High 5 (who offered to accompany me and lend moral support), I played my ukulele and sang in public. I played a parody I wrote on our last passage (Rudder Cay to George Town), using America’s I’ve Been through the Desert on a Horse with No Name. I may never be as popular as Al Yankovic, but the crowd seemed to like it and even sang along on the la-la-las. Afterward, Eli and Aaron brought the house down with their face-melting rendition of Black Sabbath’s Iron Man. They have real talent on bass and guitar, respectively, and it makes a mom proud to see them play in public for the first time.

For those who would like to try it out, my parody can be played using only two ukulele chords, E minor and D6.

I’ve Been on the Ocean on a Boat with Five Kids

FIRST VERSE:
On the first part of the voyage
I was looking at all the life
There were fish and birds and waves and things
There was wind and sea and sky
The first thing I did was to say a prayer
For a journey safe and sound
The kids were hot and the water was cold
But the sails were full of wind

CHORUS:
I’ve been on the ocean on a boat with five kids
And I’ll never be quite the same
On the ocean, you should try not to complain
I just hope I don’t go insane
La La La La La La La La La La La La La
La La La La La La La La La La La La La

SECOND VERSE:
At first things went along swimmingly
We read our books, kindles, and magazines
We ate olives, crackers, and snack-y things
We played music, movies, and video games
But a few of the kids were turning green
And the clouds began to rain
It was the first day of our passage
And the crew began to complain

BRIDGE:
After two days on the ocean, we started to get bored
After three days of the motion, we just wanted to go ashore
And the thoughts of land and villages made us dream of an ice-cream store

CHORUS

THIRD VERSE:
After a week at sea, I let the kids run free,
‘Cause I’d started to lose my mind
I was tired of fish and birds and waves
I was tired of sea and sky
Now, the ocean is a special place
Where you learn who you really are
You’ll be tested and if you pass the test
My friend, you will go far

CHORUS

People have always left their mark on the world. It seems to be part of our nature, to try to leave something behind that lasts longer than our own lifetimes. It’s why we write, paint, invent, and raise children. We have cave paintings and tools from the earliest civilizations, pyramids, burial mounds, marble columns, statues, and pottery. And trash. Lots of trash. The reality of life among “civilized” humans is that our hunt for food, comfort, shelter, and recreation leaves a trail of debris thousands of years long. I was struck by this recently in two juxtaposed images on the same hike: ruins on Hawksbill Cay in the Exuma Land and Sea Park that date from the 1700s and piles of wind-and-wave-strewn plastic garbage on the ocean side of that same island. The difference, of course, is that in one case, all that is left of the hilltop village is a few rock-and-mortar walls, a pile of conch shells, some cloudy glass bottles, and rusty implements, all returning slowly to the land; while on the beach, one finds hard hats, shoes, baskets, water bottles, oil jugs, fishing nets—the plastic detritus of a civilization that has figured out how to make things last!

To view a pristine environment and then to see it destroyed over time by litter gives one pause. Now, I am not guiltless in the manufacture of garbage, but neither am I thoughtless about waste. I am proud to say that I was using cloth bags at the grocery store before it was cool to do so, that we had stainless steel water bottles while everyone else we knew was using plastic. My babies wore cloth diapers and played with wooden toys. I refuse to shop at dollar stores (where everything is destined for the landfill), and I try to buy whole raw foods and foods that use minimal or biodegradable packaging. I use glass jars and containers for food storage and leftovers. But still—as we travel, sorting our garbage into biodegradables to be chopped and thrown overboard, paper items to be burned if an opportunity presents itself, glass to be recycled or broken over deep water, and plastics to be disposed of when we get ashore, I notice that we are still making plastic waste. Meat comes wrapped in plastic, as do chips, crackers, and some vegetables, condiments come in plastic bottles, and the list goes on. The more I make from scratch, the less garbage there seems to be. But some compromise is hard to avoid. It makes me complicit.’

The first time I saw a garbage-strewn ocean beach, I felt such profound disappointment. I had been picking up small pieces of trash as we walked the trail (as I habitually do when going for a walk), but when I came over the dune and saw what looked like the town dump—on an island with no town—I nearly cried. Who could clean all this up? Certainly not me. A few months later, back in Florida, where there are trash and recycle bins every few meters, I was going for a walk with Sarah, who was 5 at the time. I walked by a Coke can on the sidewalk. Apathy had set in. Like Holden Caulfield, I had grown disillusioned with the attempt to erase all the foul things in the world.

A few steps later, Sarah said, “Mommy, you didn’t pick up that trash!”
“What’s the point?” I responded. “I can’t pick up all the trash in the world.”
“Yeah,” she replied, “But you could pick up that piece of trash.”
I receive such profound instruction often from my children. Needless to say, we picked up the can.

And this is why I take pictures of trash, bag it, burn it, recycle it, and write about it. Because there is something we can do about it. Until we view ourselves as responsible for it, we can walk by and say, “that’s such a shame.” But we made the mess, and we can clean it up. Of course, I personally didn’t throw a laundry basket or a pair of flip-flops into the ocean, but I have bought a plastic basket, and shoes with plastic parts. If you have not seen “The Story of Stuff,” go on YouTube and watch it. It might just change your buying habits. Plastics, the chief offenders, last nearly forever, end up in our oceans, and eventually break down into microplastics, which enter the food chain as endocrine disruptors, cancer-causers, and reproductive havoc-wreakers. We must use less of it, and try to remove larger pieces before they break down.

Aside from buying less stuff, one of the things we can do is leave things better than we find them. The old adage, “Take only pictures. Leave only footprints,” is outmoded and underwhelming. I say instead, “Take responsibility! Leave less of a mess than you found!” If you are part of the human race, you are responsible. Take as much trash as you can carry—when you go to a park or a beach, on a walk or a paddle or a hike or a camping trip. And though the complicated question remains where exactly to put it once you pick it up, you can help keep it out of the ocean and out of the few wild and beautiful places we have left.

Bread is emblematic of our way of life. It is simple and self-sufficing, but not easy. It is flexible, can be made in many different ways, and is affected by environmental changes, more art than science. It is warm and welcoming, and, broken together, forms the center of a table of friends. In short, it is good for the body and the soul.

I love eating bread, kneading bread, baking bread, buttering the hot-from-the-oven heel of the bread. People sometimes ask how we feed this large family of ours. The truth is that we bake a lot of bread. Banana bread, pumpkin bread, whole wheat bread, multi-grain bread, raisin bread, zucchini bread, coconut bread, apple-oatmeal bread, pita bread, pizza crust, pancakes, biscuits, muffins, waffles, tortillas—you name it and we have probably made it. I have spent a lot of time reading both sides of the bread debate (about whether it’s good or bad for you) and I have decided that home-made, from-scratch breads are fine for our family.

In order to do this kind of baking, you have to have the right ingredients and the right tools. We carry about 200 pounds of grain under the starboard aft berth (either in vacuum-sealed THRIVE containers or in 5-gallon pails with Gamma-Seal lids to keep moisture out). About once a month, I go rummaging under the bed and refill my quart-size mason jars with red and white hard wheat (for yeast breads), spelt (for quick breads/pastries), 9-grain mix (for cereal or multi-grain bread), and oat groats (for cereal, oatmeal bread, and pancakes). I then use my Vita-mix dry pitcher to grind the desired amount of grain into flour. It takes about a minute, and produces a fine flour with some texture left—not the super-fine you get in store-bought varieties. If you run it for less than a minute, you get a coarser grind, which I might want for porridge, for example. For pizza dough or burger buns, I usually go with a half-and-half dough, using white and wheat flour in equal amounts to get a fluffier, lighter bread. So I carry some white flour, as well. I use honey to lightly sweeten, and sea salt, as well as yeast, buttermilk or yogurt (which I can culture from fresh or powdered milk), and butter or olive oil. And that’s it. No long lists of ingredients with dough conditioners and preservatives to keep the bread from molding. I hand-knead, and bake in cast-iron pans which are non-toxic and non-stick and produce a great crust.

Note for those interested in milling their own flour: we have both a Vita-Mix (2 hp blender) and a Family Grain Mill from Pleasant Hill Grain (hand grinder). The Whisper Mill is another good brand. Whole grains can be ordered from online purveyors (I use THRIVE or Tropical Traditions) or co-ops like Wheat Montana or Bread Beckers, and purchased or ordered in bulk from health food stores. Grinding, then soaking the grain in an acidic solution (like yogurt or buttermilk) increases the availability of nutrients in the bread, and also gives whole-wheat bread a really good texture. I order yeast by the pound online. My recipe follows, with the quick version following the slow one!

Tanya’s Whole-Wheat Yogurt Bread
Prep time: 24+ hours*     Makes: 2 8” loaves

Ingredients:
2 cups hard red wheat berries + 2 cups hard white wheat berries OR 5 cups whole wheat flour
3/4 cup yogurt OR buttermilk OR kefir
3/4 cup water
1/2 cup butter
1/4 cup lukewarm water
1/4 cup honey
1 tablespoon yeast
2 teaspoons sea salt

Instructions:
Grind 2 cups of hard red and 2 cups of hard white wheat berries and combine in a glass bowl, setting aside about a cup of flour (4 cups of berries should make about 5 cups of flour). Melt butter and add to flours. Add yogurt and water and mix until a soft dough forms. Cover the bowl and leave on the counter (at room temperature) overnight, or for 6-8 hours. After soaking, add yeast and honey to warm water in a glass measuring cup and stir. Add salt and 1/2 cup of reserved flour to dough. Add yeast mixture and knead on floured surface until smooth ball forms, about 10 minutes, adding water or flour as necessary until the texture is “right” (not too wet, not too dry, tacky but not sticky). Place dough in covered bowl to rise. Rise until doubled, about an hour. Knead again, briefly, and divide dough in half. Shape each half into a loaf and sprinkle with/roll in flour and place in oiled 8×4” loaf pan (ceramic, glass, or cast iron work well). Rise, covered lightly with a towel, until loaves reach top of pans, about 30 minutes, then bake side by side for 35 minutes in a 350˚ oven. Remove from pans immediately and cool on cooling racks, covering loaves with a towel. Use within 3 days (or use one loaf and freeze the other).

Hints and tricks:
Brick-like bread results from a dough that is too dry, from under-kneading, and from old yeast. Yeast should be stored in the fridge, and not for more than six months. Dough should be soft enough to stick to your hands, but not so sticky that it leaves residue on your fingers. Knead the dough until it is stretchy—one test is to take a small ball of dough and stretch it into a “window” of dough. If you can stretch it thin enough to see light through, without it tearing, then you have kneaded enough. Bread that is done baking will sound hollow when thumped.

*If you’re short on time: If you don’t have time for an overnight soak, you can do this in a few hours. You can also use a combination of commercial whole wheat and white flour (I recommend Bob’s Red Mill or King Arthur Organic flours). Mix all dry ingredients and then add wet ingredients. Stir together until a ball forms and then knead, rise, and bake according to the instructions.
 

I bought a little red ukulele with my birthday fun money two months ago. I had wanted one for a long time, most recently being inspired by a boatful of fearless twenty-somethings getting ready to sail the seven seas. They would stay up late into the night, talking and laughing and singing ballads to ukulele accompaniment. These tunes would drift into my hatch and set me to dreaming of palm tree-fringed lagoons on Pacific atolls.

Now the merits of this instrument are many. It is small and portable, making it perfect for life on a sailboat. It has a mellow, sweet sound; even when played inexpertly it sounds nice. It is easy to learn—figuring out a few chords on its four strings sets you up to play dozens of songs from the beginning, a reward that I find addictive. Its recent growth in popularity, probably due to the ubiquitous Iz rendition of “Over the Rainbow,” means that is easy to find chord diagrams and songs and Youtube lessons online. At $30-50, an entry-level soprano ukulele is inexpensive and easy to acquire. And they’re so cute. I know you’re not supposed to select an instrument based on its appearance, but when I saw that little red ukulele with the shark-shaped bridge, I couldn’t resist.

And it has not disappointed me. My constant companion, it has transformed the tedious dinghy rides to and from shore into practice sessions. Hours at the park with kids who play basketball or ride skateboards are now opportunities to learn a new song. And the quiet hour after everyone has gone to bed and the dishes are done is my equivalent to singing in the shower. Granted, the time I spend playing the ukulele is time I used to spend doing other things, some of them arguably more productive. The novelty may wear off and I’ll go back to doing those things, but the gift of music is one you get to keep. Long passages when we’re just sitting in the cockpit, starlit night watches when my eyes tire of reading, beach days under an umbrella: these are idle hours transformed by music into entertainment, creativity, and hopefully, beauty.

Recently, I gathered a group of friends at Dockside Tropical Café for the monthly Ukulele Night sponsored by the Florida Ukulele Society. A ukulele band with a bass, tenor, and soprano ukulele plays onstage and the audience plays along on their own instruments. At our table, ukuleles appeared out of nowhere. In addition to my red one, we produced a yellow, green, blue and natural wood ukulele. In that setting, it doesn’t matter that no one plays well. That sound system can drown out any mistake! The band does covers of classic rock to pop hits, from the Rolling Stones, Beatles, Chuck Berry, and Bob Dylan to Gnarles Barkley. Anything seems possible with this adorable, versatile little instrument.

After so many years of homeschooling and with its relative popularity, I didn’t think I would need to address this question. Evidently, our special situation “boatschooling” the children, or the fact that we now have high-school-age kids, arouses curiosity (and sometimes criticism) in people who have misconceptions about our life.

Some might think that being on a boat means that we are raising our children in an isolated, remote environment, with limited outside interaction, but they would be mistaken. At our current rate of offshore travel, we spend mere days each year out of sight of land, enjoying that peaceful state of solitude one only finds when crossing an ocean or a desert, far from human habitation, under a sky lit only with heavenly bodies. The rest of the time, we are living in a marina, cruising along the coast, or island hopping, where we run into lots and lots of interesting people, many of them with children of various ages. We are not trapped at home, but out and about in stores, museums, parks, and libraries.

Perhaps a clarification of terms is necessary. If what they mean by “socialization” is the process by which children learn to be sociable, carry on a conversation, make eye contact, resolve conflict, and enjoy the company of other humans, then we have no problem. Our kids have opportunities to mix and mingle with people of all ages and from all walks of life. Some of our kids are outgoing, and others shy, but all of them are expected to be polite, cordial, and respectful. And when we are out on our own, traveling with just the seven of us, they are forced to deal with people in close proximity, to get along with people that are sometimes difficult, and to form strong and lasting family bonds. What more could we want for their social lives?

If by “socialization” they mean the process by which children are placed in a homogeneous group like you find only in schools, prisons, and the military, and induced to suppress their individuality and reduce their performance to the lowest common denominator, becoming “normal” like their peers, then perhaps we should examine this paradigm, and maybe even question it. What has become the accepted norm in the average public school is not acceptable to us. Here are some uncomfortable truths about these norms: it is accepted practice to drug small, wiggly boys so that they can focus on academic tasks instead of sending them outside (where there is arguably lots to learn), to have armed police officers and “lockdowns” in schools where there is a perceived threat so that even parents are denied access to their children, to test children as young as six and to teach nothing but the test, and to have “zero tolerance policies” that flout common sense and yet fail to prevent bullying.

If kids are average, they’ll probably learn what is necessary to pass the tests and have a “normal” life, but if they are special or gifted, God help them! They will never receive the individualized attention they need to either catch up or to excel, and will receive plenty of social pressure to hide their exceptional traits (or be the victim of bullying). To become socialized is to learn to hide who you really are and imitate the others. And what are the others like? Look around: kids of all ages are staring at screens instead of socializing with people in their physical vicinity, politeness and common courtesy are things of the past, and good character has been replaced by the pecking order of popularity. Who would want this kind of “normal?”

There is one remaining question. How will our children integrate into society as adults? They may be non-conformists like their parents, people who don’t just follow without question the mandates of others, people who are unhappy “plugged in” to a system, square pegs that can’t be put in round holes. Our children may turn out to be quirky, odd, different, or exceptional; they might not be like everyone else, and that’s a risk we’re willing to take. Of course, the opposite may be true as well; since they’re being raised by non-conformists, the only way to rebel will be to become normal—to go into debt, live in a neighborhood of cookie-cutter houses, and drop their kids off at school on their way to an office where they work in a cubicle! I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.