Today marks several anniversaries for our family. Jay and I were married 13 years ago today (my brother and his wife were married 12 years yesterday—happy anniversary T&T!). They have been, quite honestly, blissful years for which I am very grateful.

Our cats, Sugar and Spice, also turn 13, as they were acquired as 8-week-old kittens about 2 months after we were married. I am not sure if their years have been blissful, but they have been eventful. Every time we brought home a new addition, they seemed to roll their bright green eyes and retreat further under the bed. They have, since we moved aboard, become much more outgoing, and our kids seem to have calmed down enough to even befriend the cats. Or maybe the cats can’t avoid interaction in such a small space; who knows?

Last, but not least, today marks the one-year anniversary of our having moved aboard Take Two. In this year, we have learned what difficulties we can live with and what luxuries we can live without, how to coexist in a small, moving space, and how to laugh together more often. We have definitely become more flexible, and as time goes by, we care less about making a plan happen and more willing to let the plan happen to us. We have transitioned from being dirt-dwellers to live-aboard cruisers, which is no small feat for a family of six in the span of a year.

I propose a toast—to the two people who made this family what it is, and who, despite their fears, followed a dream. And to two intrepid sailing cats, who miraculously “made the cut” and seem to be thriving. And, of course, to Take Two and her adventurous crew. Happy anniversary!

Every journey starts somewhere. Our hailing port is Clearwater, but our journey really started in Bradenton, at the end of "G" Dock at Twin Dolphin Marina, where we were lovingly referred to as “the Robinsons” (as in Swiss Family).

A rebellious and fun-loving lot to whom the normal rules do not apply, our friends there on "G" named the dock-end “H” and proceeded to put up a tent for shade (with twinkly lights for holidays), fans, grills, football games on TVs, Corn Hole, water balloon launchers, robotic dinosaurs, wading pools for dogs, fishing poles, and tables replete with everything from Low Country Boil to Sunday morning Bloody Mary makings. There is only one way to describe the mayhem that happened there every weekend: fun.

At a time when Jay and I had tired of the suburbs and were ready to try something new, we bought a boat, found a place to dock it and were immediately introduced to the ringleader, Pete, and fun commenced. We were in dire need of lightening up and it was impossible to be serious around the Moe-Larry-and-Curly types we found hanging around on any given Saturday on H Dock.

More importantly, our children, who might have been summarily rejected, shushed, or looked down upon on any other dock in any other marina, were welcomed, if not with open arms, then with a got-yer-nose and a high five. Our kids consider these thoughtful and fun-loving adults as, well, peers, and friends to boot. And the dogs! Our kids were in heaven: fishing with Jack, taking Rosie for a walk, petting Bella, getting kissed by Savannah, or being herded by Patches.

This is a special group of people—Pete and Joe, Mike and Jean, Rob and Nancy, Don and Susan, Dave and Julie, Doug and Judy, Dick and Jane, Wayne and Terry, Mike and Marilyn (and others who come and go)—people who make dramatic and daring rescues in the Manatee River, who are always available to grab a line or, at the very least, offer “helpful” suggestions while you are docking, sailors and power boaters alike who are able to set aside differences in the name of Margaritas and SPAM bake-offs.

When we walked down the dock that first evening when Jay delivered the boat, I was sure we got the sidelong glances that said, “Oh, no—here come the kids that will ruin the party!” And when we saw the weekend crew, we were thinking, “Oh, no—here come the adults that will ruin our kids!”  Instead, our kids proved themselves able to interact with the grown-ups without being too obnoxious (and we could always send them back into the boat if they were), and the grown-ups proved that they could keep their mouths (and conduct) relatively clean until 8:30 p.m. After that, of course, all bets were off, but then Jay and I would often come out and join in.

Lest one think we received all the benefits of the H Dock fun, I’m sure we provided plenty of free entertainment—Sam grew up before our eyes during the two years at Twin Dolphin, and his antics (including going for frequent dips in the drink) kept us all on our toes. Our kids’ climbing and swinging were like a weekend circus act, their treasures from the sea were frequently on display, and Jay’s constant tinkering with boat projects provided subject matter for plenty of conversations and a few jokes.

As for me, I will never forget my 34th birthday. My friend Heather was down from Maine, and we had gone outside on the dock to hang out while I filled the water tanks. An hour later, I heard a trickle of water, telling me that the tanks were overflowing. Of course, that was back when an overflowed tank resulted in floating floorboards inside the boat. The H Dock rescue team sprang into action, able men with pumps in hand to help me clean up at midnight! I have never laughed so hard at my own negligence.

There are so many good memories of our two years there that it makes it really hard for me to say goodbye. But it’s time to clean out our dock box, get out there and do the things we’ve been planning all along, and make new friends.  But no matter where we go in the world, no harbor, no dock, no yacht club, will ever compare to the friends we made at HDYC. We will proudly fly the H Dock Yacht Club burgee, and remain members even if we don’t make it to the meetings any more.

To all our friends at Twin Dolphin—we miss you very much and will come by for a visit whenever we’re in town!

Ever the one to make mountains out of molehills, I may have slightly exaggerated the dilemma in which we find ourselves. But why don’t you take my informal poll, anyway—it’ll only take a second.

1) Would you rather be hot or bug-eaten?

If you answered bug-eaten, you would be subjecting yourself to possible attacks of malaria or West Nile Virus. Where we are in the keys, malaria isn’t really a problem, but someday, we will be places where we must try at all costs to protect ourselves from mosquito bites. Here in Boot Key Harbor, we are merely irritated to the point of insanity by what we call the “ninja” mosquitoes. They are not the graceful and relatively harmless things we are used to. They are BIG, black, and sneaky. We resorted to breaking out the DEET-laden Backwoods OFF. But after a few days, the itching was a 24-hour-a-day irritation, even with the soothing salves and lotions we have on board. (Caladryl seems to work the best.)

Perhaps you, like me, are the sweet-blooded type, and are tormented by biting insects, and would rather be anything than bug-eaten. The option for us, then, is to put screens on all our windows, which pretty much kills all air flow through the boat. I know most of you are sitting in an air-conditioned room as you read this, so try to imagine, for just a moment, what would happen if the power went off on the hottest, stillest, most humid day of the year. You might open the window to get some air, but outside (you can actually see them throwing their little bodies against the glass to try to get in) are a hundred ninja mosquitoes, waiting to eat you alive. Now then, you have a better picture of our predicament.

After trying bug-eaten, we have opted for hot. Jay lovingly sewed Velcro on square after square of screen material so we could cover hatches and blockade the front door. The first night we did our lockdown at sunset, we trapped dozens of mosquitoes inside—they had been resting there during the day and came out at dusk to feed on human flesh. I painstakingly (and somewhat gleefully) smashed mosquito after mosquito until we were down to the last, sneakiest ninja killers, which I got once they landed on me and inserted their little hypodermic needles. The second night, we killed only three or four, but we could see their cousins swarming outside the door and trying to sneak in at the edges of the screen. Very determined, but unsuccessful.

We are much happier without the constant itching and scratching. However, with airflow greatly hampered, we are really roasting. You may be asking, “Why don’t you run the air conditioning?” The air requires so much power that we would have to run our 12kW generator 24-7 to stay cool.  We’ve tried charging the batteries at night, so we could run the air for a few hours, but the generator also generates its own heat; that with the residual heat from the day which is stored in the boat itself begins to warm up the cabins the moment we switch off the air.

Anyway, sailors don’t need air conditioning—all the places we want to go are not air conditioned. Mountains and waterfalls and other scenic locales are definitely not air conditioned. When there is a breeze, and we aren’t required to put up screens, the boat stays cool and comfortable during the day, mostly thanks to the Windscoops which look like little spinnakers and funnel air into hatches. In the afternoon, we can sit out on the trampolines under the shade of the awning and rest and relax (or, in some places, go for a swim in the front yard). At night, we all take quick, cold showers right before bed and turn on the fans in our cabins, which make sleeping possible. The only time we really feel uncomfortable is when it’s raining, but we are working on hatch covers that would shield us from water but still allow air in.

Are you ready for the second question in my little poll?

2) Would you rather be comfortable or have an adventure?

We have chosen a lifestyle that denies us many of the comforts we used to take for granted.  We now realize that we did not fully appreciate our cushy life ashore, and we have become more thankful people.  Shame on us if we complain now about being hot or itchy!  If we had wanted comfort, we would have stayed at home. The tradeoff is a life afloat—a spontaneous, fun, adventure-filled life.  We were pretty spoiled, so we are having to learn to remain cheerful despite discomfort. (And we are well aware that we still live better than 90% of the world’s population.) We are also learning to mitigate the risks before we get into hazardous territory, and for all of that valuable knowledge we pay in blood, sweat and tears.

It weighs heavily on all of our minds, but perhaps most especially those of us who live on or near the Gulf.  Some are having flashbacks from Katrina—only this nightmare, unlike a hurricane, has no end in sight, and using the word “recovery” is euphemistic at this point.

The cap has, literally, been knocked off of Pandora’s ubiquitous jar. All the horrors of the world—fear, destruction, ugliness, poverty, greed, deception, and death, in addition to a rainbow sheen and poisonous gas have been unleashed. Even if BP can manage to stop the flow of oil, the damage is done. The earth’s black blood is all over their hands—and ours. While many would like to demonize BP for its risky business practices, the truth of our own greed also stares back at us in the mirror. I am not one to chant Death To America for her “oil dependence,” but I acknowledge the ways in which we are all like Pandora. We open the forbidden jar, we eat the fruit from the tree because we feel we must have more, always more, but we rarely count the cost. BP’s shareholders want a return on their investment, everyone wants to drive their own personal vehicle wherever they desire and fill it with reasonably-priced gasoline, we want the convenience of disposable plastics, and we want to fly all over God’s green earth at a moment’s notice. Perhaps we cannot count the cost ahead of time, but from time to time, we get a foul taste of the consequences of our own pride and greed.

The questions run on without answer: when will the oil stop gushing? What will happen if a hurricane comes and stirs it all up and flings the disaster far and wide? Will the oil enter the Gulf Stream and ruin two coastlines? Will it end up on BP's own doorstep? Will there be anything left of the beautiful reefs we just visited in the Tortugas? Will the fishing industry ever recover? What will happen to all the people whose livelihoods depend upon the Gulf’s waters? Whole states, already teetering on the edge—will they fall into the abyss, never to recover? Will we ever call the Gulf Coast home again?

Of these thoughts I have spent many a night despairing. Foolish the one who reads the news before going to bed—it does not make for a peaceful night’s sleep. After one such night of gloom and doom that left me weepy, my only solace was to pray (what I usually do as a last resort instead of a first response) and so I prayed, sensing the enormity and irreversibility of this man-made disaster.  As is often the case, opening my Bible before going to bed eased my mind (and made me sleepy) and revealed an answer, though not the one I expected.  The first half of Isaiah 9, to which I first opened, addresses the distressed (that would be me and several million others):

Nevertheless, there will be no more gloom for those who were in distress. In the past [God] humbled the land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali, but in the future he will honor Galilee of the Gentiles, by the way of the sea, along the Jordan-
 The people walking in darkness
       have seen a great light;
       on those living in the land of the shadow of death
       a light has dawned.
 
The rest of the chapter goes on to talk about God’s future blessings on Israel (you can read it yourself if so inclined), but, as Isaiah often does, he then speaks of the Messiah—“to us a child is born” who will be called “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the increase of his government and peace there will be no end.” Furthermore, it is foretold that he will “reign on David's throne and over his kingdom, establishing and upholding it with justice and righteousness from that time on and forever.” That word “forever” puts everything in perspective. It may seem that I take these words out of context—but the promise for God’s chosen people is extended, by His grace, to those who accept his Messiah. And the message of a messiah is always a message of hope.

Our problems often seem insurmountable; this oil spill is no exception. It may have far-reaching and unforeseen consequences. My grandchildren will still be feeling the residual effects of this spill. But is it hopeless? No. When Pandora finally claws her way back to the jar and gets the lid clamped back on, there is yet one thing left inside: hope.

The earth holds her secrets tightly—creatures we have not yet discovered nor categorized, plants that contain pharmaceutical miracle cures, precious stones and useful fuels stored miles below her surface.  We have drilled down beneath even the Deep, tapped into something we don’t fully understand and meddled where perhaps it was better we had left things alone. But if she is anything, the earth is resilient. Life finds a way—even though things shift constantly, and sometimes suddenly, the earth renews itself. It may take time (certainly more time than we mortals have), and the landscape will look drastically different than it did before, but eventually, there will be recovery. The coral reefs that are destroyed will be replaced by something else. Oceans give way to deserts and become oceans again. And let me not neglect to mention the promise that someday, after the cleansing fire, there will be a new heaven and a new earth, and a Garden to replace the first. For those with faith to believe it, this is a comfort indeed.

“This motor has never given us any problem,” said the overconfident captain of our ship.  The next day, I stood in waist-deep water, dinghy full of children, and tried to call him because the darn thing wouldn’t start. The irony, of course, is that he had fiddled with something that morning, but had given her a good test run to make sure everything was fine before the kids and I made our trek to the beach.

About halfway up Sister’s Creek, I sensed the motor wasn’t getting the fuel it needed. My response was to speed up a bit so we didn’t get stranded in the mangroves. If we could get to the beach, it would be something, because on a holiday weekend, there would be someone there who could lend a hand if it came to that.  Well, we made it, the engine dying as I brought the boat into the beach. Jay didn’t answer his cell phone, and I knew the VHF was switched off, so we decided to stay and enjoy the water and sand and sun while we had a few hours, then figure out how to get home. Surely, by then, Jay would get the message I had left and would know what we should do.

This time, when I parked the dinghy, I made sure she wasn’t going to get stuck on the beach. We checked her every half hour and let out a little slack in the rope keeping her comfortably afloat, but secured to the beach. When it was time to go, everyone was loaded in, lifejackets on, hats on, arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times, push the start button and…nothing. I am not the problem-solver of this family. I am the problem-discoverer (and, occasionally, the problem-causer), but that skill is not very helpful when someone doesn’t hear the cell-phone ringing. I tried to trouble-shoot, but I’m not mechanically inclined, so that made things difficult. I tried asking nicely, but the motor doesn’t speak my language. Finally, I decided we could just manually pump fuel into the darn thing. It started. It ran—hallelujah! We drove home as quickly as was advisable.

If Jay had answered my frantic calls, I would not have had the glorious honor of saying that I had figured it out on my own and gotten us home.  Of course, if he had answered my calls, he would have said, “try tightening the hose clamp” and I would have had to admit that I left my multi-tool at home. Guess what’s going straight into the dinghy emergency bag!  But, of course, the same mishap won’t happen next time. It will be something else. If this keeps up, I’m going to have to write a parody called “50 Ways to Strand Your Dinghy.”

Many of our adventures (if you’ve read any previous entries, you’ll know adventure is simply a euphemism for mishap) begin with Tanya doing something dumb. I have told the following story before, but it is worth repeating in this context.

When I first spent time on a sailboat, I broke something important, by accident, of course, and the result was a forced overnight sail from Key West to Naples. This night sail, full of stars above and phosphorescence in the water below, was so beautiful that I became convinced that I wanted to do this for the rest of my life. So, you could say that a mishap started it all for me. It was the first, but certainly not the last.

My sister would agree with me when I say I wasn’t dealt a great hand in the common sense department. I try to compensate for it with book learning, but no amount of books and articles on sailing and boat-handling compares with common sense to give one the know-how they need on the water. A person, like my husband, with a solid dose of common sense, runs into only a fraction of the embarrassing situations in which I frequently find myself. As for the rest of us, we learn by experience (which is simply a euphemism for pain). My only saving grace is that I am an extrovert, so I usually have a friend around to help me in my distress.

The latest adventure (mishap) involved me and the dinghy. I have learned from previous experience (pain) that you should really secure the dinghy well so that it doesn’t try to drift back out to sea while you’re having an outing on shore. I’ve gotten good at really dragging it up onto the beach and either anchoring it or tying it off to something secure. I took the small ones to the nearby sandy beach on Saturday to enjoy some well-deserved swimming and relaxation, making sure to secure the dinghy well on shore. It was just out of sight, so after about an hour, I had one of the children check it to make sure it was where we had left it. It was.

We then proceeded to have a lovely afternoon, swimming and finding interesting sea life, losing track of time in our enjoyment. We swam, snacked, and made new friends. I forgot entirely about the dinghy, and was blissfully oblivious to the tide. When we were becoming overcooked, I packed everyone up and we headed around the dune to the dinghy. Our newfound friends came along to wish us well and carry some of our things (very kind of them). As we approached, I knew immediately that we were in trouble. The tide, instead of trying to pry our dinghy loose and strand us ashore, had simply crept out and stranded us by leaving our dinghy high and dry. Thankfully, the newfound friends were gracious amid my embarrassment and helped me and the kids drag the darn thing down the beach and through the mud to water deep enough to float her. From there, I continued to wade out (losing both flip flops in the muck—and retrieving them when they floated to the surface) until I could start the motor.

A favorite saying in our home has become “all’s well that ends well,” so that’s where I’ll end it. We made it back safely, and will probably not have to do that again…especially since I just checked the tide tables so I can time the next outing a little bit better!

We are beginning to get used to the new normal.  For anyone interested, our routine goes something like this:

-Coffee and some kind of reading first thing in the morning
-Jay starts the generator and watermaker, Tanya rotates ice bottles from freezer to cooler/auxiliary refrigeration
-Breakfast
-Jay goes downstairs to work, or to fix something that has suddenly broken
-Tanya and kids do school (Grammar, Bible, History, Read Aloud)
-Chores
-More school (Writing, Math, Drawing, Independent Projects)
-Lunch
-Outing/Free Time
-Read and Rest (out on the trampolines “under the tent” –in the shade of an awning)
-Smoothie Time, Tidy Up, Dinner Prep
-Games, Swimming, Free Time
-Dinner, Read aloud, Geography “I Spy” or Crossword Puzzle
-Quick cool-down shower in the cockpit
-Bedtime for kids
-Galley Clean-up for Tanya, Project for Jay
-Writing/Reading and Bedtime for grownups
-Fire Drill at 2 a.m. when it starts to rain (grown-ups run around naked on deck
closing all the hatches)

When we are traveling, all bets are off. No matter whether it’s a weekend or weekday, while underway, my job is to keep the good snackies coming while kids entertain themselves by playing, reading, napping, watching movies, building with Legos, etc. I also help with sailing, keeping watch, tidying up and playing gopher. We usually end up playing dominoes for many hours in the cockpit. We tried cards, but they blow around. Dominoes seem to stay put in a stiff breeze!

The cats have their own routines. When underway, they find a comfy spot and stay there until we arrive at an anchorage. That may mean 24 hours of staying put. They seem to be very patient, especially when the children give them extra attention. After we arrive, they come out of hiding and behave normally. During the workday, Spice naps in a secret location, while Sugar keeps Jay company, fills his workspace with cat hair, and tries to eat his lunch. At night, they prowl around and meow at us if we don’t pet them enough. 

The week rotates around finding food (a dinghy ride to the dock, a walk to the store and a taxi and dinghy ride back to the boat), doing laundry (some things washed by hand, some taken by dinghy to laundry facilities), and keeping the bread baked and boat clean. Weekends are set aside for slow breakfasts, family “church,” resting and finding fun things to do. We go to bed exhausted every night, but with a real sense of satisfaction. That’s life afloat in a nutshell!

Seeing a place first from the water is a lot like coming in through the back door. We arrived at Boot Key Harbor on Sunday and began to get situated in our new “yard.” The City of Marathon Marina consists of maybe a hundred moorings, a few spots along the wall near the marina office, laundry facilities, concrete block showers/bathrooms, and a large space called the “lounge” with a book trading library, TVs, wireless internet and several comfortable tables (where we did school this morning while I washed clothes). This is a very cruiser-friendly place, with many folks calling the harbor home all year long. I haven’t been shopping yet, but things like Publix and West Marine are within a mile or so—walking distance. There is a park next to the marina, and the public library is just a few blocks away.

But I haven’t been up the road yet. We’ve explored by dinghy, and that gives us a pretty good behind-the-scenes picture of this community. There’s a lovely little white-sand beach ten minutes away up Sister’s Creek. Along the serpentine route, there are large, beautiful houses with private beaches and docks.  In the other direction, there is a bridge, a few marinas and a network of small canals. We saw a seafood place and lots of fishing boats, but the residential part looked fairly shabby. Only in the Florida Keys does a mobile home come with waterfront property! Near where we are moored, there are also homes on the water, more like middle-class cement-block and stucco dwellings. So it looks like a pretty typical American town, with all socio-economic groups represented. I don’t know what I was expecting—I guess I had no idea what it would be like. I’ve only been a tourist in the keys, and that was when I was a kid. I’ve left expectation behind and am just trying to take things as they are and enjoy every day.  

Tonight we find ourselves in a place called Newfound Harbor, about half-way between Key West and our next destination, Boot Key Harbor (near Marathon).  It is just a quiet place to anchor for the night, but I am once again amazed at the starlight out here, away from the lights of civilization.
 
I made an attempt last year to memorize Psalm 19, partly because it is a lovely poem from the Bible, and also because I need the spiritual reminder of  the last lines, which read, “Let the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be acceptable in your sight, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.” But the first lines of the Psalm are thus:
 
   The heavens declare the glory of God;
       the skies proclaim the work of his hands.
   Day after day they pour forth speech;
       night after night they display knowledge.
   There is no speech or language
       where their voice is not heard.
   Their voice goes out into all the earth,
       their words to the ends of the world.
 
Now, I know if my friend Howard reads this, astronomer that he is, he will think that’s just drivel, especially since it’s poetry, written to make simple things confusing. But we have this in common: a crick in the neck from staring and staring and staring at the sky. On the night sail to the Tortugas, I couldn’t get enough. I have a little red flashlight, a star chart and a great pair of binoculars, and I used them to find all sorts of things I’ve never been able to see before. There was no land anywhere, no light pollution, just the glowing band of the Milky Way like I’ve never seen it before. Perhaps Howard and I are awed for different reasons but even when we do not speak the same metaphysical language, the stars still speak to both of us.
 
Unfortunately, unless there’s a massive blackout, or one likes to go camping in Vermont or out to sea, the average person is not going to get to hear the voices of all the stars explaining what glory is because they’ve been drowned out by Edison’s wonderful invention. I hope Howard and Kristin get to take their daughters (given starry names, of course—Mira, Stella, and Lyra) out to the desert someday and follow their dreams as we have pursued ours, with this in common: to go where one can see—and hear—the stars without interruption.  It is a worthy pursuit and I wish them well.