Would you behave differently if you thought people were always watching you?  Would you get used to it after a while? I find that I do behave differently, but maybe that’s not always bad.  On the whole, self-consciousness is the enemy of spontaneity and delight. It breeds pretension and pride. But it also keeps you in line.

The fact is, people are always watching you, but you are probably not aware of it.  And if you are, it probably makes you intensely uncomfortable.  We are in a unique situation down on our dock. We have a pier-end because the boat is so wide (26’ beam), and our main cabin sits about four feet above the floating dock. We have 360˚ of windows, so we are at eye-level for neighbors and our lives are an open book. Sometimes we feel like pet fish.

On the one hand, we have the best view possible: we’re surrounded by sea and sky, we look out at all the boats and their occupants, we can see everything that goes on. The party is usually happening near our stern end, and all I have to do is look up from the dish I’m cooking and some friendly face has wandered by to smile and say hi. On the other hand, we have very little privacy in the main cabin. And I’m sure we are loud. Loud when happy, sad or angry. I try to keep it under control because we are in full view and in such close quarters with neighbors, but who knows what people hear and see, and how they interpret it?  Are we a lighthouse or an eyesore?

We have been living on the boat for exactly a year’s worth of weekends. I think we’ve integrated nicely. It’s like living in a very friendly neighborhood. The power-boaters and sailors all get along like family, with the occasional playful banter, but no real rivalry. Any time someone needs help, there’s a crew to come to the rescue. The folks are mostly older than Jay and me, but it doesn’t seem to matter. When we first arrived, we were uncertain how the kids would fit in. We got a few glances that seemed to say, “Oh, great, here comes a bunch of brats. Party’s over.” But with time, we have (hopefully) proven ourselves to be parents who do not let the children run the show, and at least make the children disappear if they are misbehaving. The kids have charmed and befriended those around them, and don’t seem to notice the age difference any more than we do. And the other boaters have proven that they can wait until bedtime to bring out the coarse jokes!

All told, we are happy at the marina. However, there is nothing like a quiet night in a familiar anchorage where you may have only one or two neighbors just out of earshot. It’s a relief to get away and have privacy. Sometimes even the pet fish dream of swimming in the sea.

I am not a feminist. I have no desire to be liberated, thank you very much. But who said that fishing was only for men?  I don’t mind being called a fisherman, but the term is somewhat exclusive. Before we bought the boat, my fishing experience consisted of one trip about 18 years ago with my then-boyfriend Jay, and our mutual friends, all boys. I sort of snuck in and ruined their boys’ fishing trip. Actually, I had a great time—better than Jay, who was hot and seasick the whole day.  And as a bonus, I caught a yellowtail snapper that we fried up for dinner. That was the first and last fish I caught. Until this past Sunday.

People will do a lot of things for love. For example, I have no great love for Lego bricks—I stink at building, and my clumsy hands are always breaking the cool things the boys bring to show me—but I love my boys, so now I love Lego. I think ponies are dumb and I hate painting toe-nails pink (don’t tell Sarah), but sign me up if it means spending some sweet time with my daughter. And fish are slimy, strange, wriggling creatures that taste nice but are more interesting at the local aquarium than on a hook. But we are a boating family, and my kids love to fish. Even Sam, now two, has a pole and a hook-less jig which he casts and reels for hours at a time. So far, we’ve had pretty bad luck with fishing. Jay caught a Spanish Mackerel once, Eli caught a really neat shark, and Sarah caught a tiny Red Snapper, but it’s been mostly catfish. The oldest child is keeping a tally in his notebook, and I am losing badly. So in addition to loving my kids, my competitive drive led me to accept an offer to take a “Ladies, Let’s Go Fishing!” seminar with Mary and Lisa.

As it turns out, fishing is a lot of fun.  After a half-day of classroom instruction and an afternoon of skill practice stations (everything from knot-tying to casting, gaffing and de-hooking), we went out with a guide for a morning of inshore fishing. By lunchtime, we had caught a dozen fish at least, many of them keepers, including Sheep’s Head, Sea Bass, Ladyfish, Jack, and Florida Pompano. The guide was an old salt with all the sweet spots and fishing secrets, many of which he happily shared with we three novices, and by the end of the day, we were all fast friends and not bad fishermen, either.

I can’t wait to get back out on the water and try out some of the new techniques and pass the newfound secrets on to my children.  Eli can add a half dozen tally marks to my name, and maybe we’ll even catch dinner! 

Do you ever wish you could end a day while it was going well? Five minutes before disaster strikes, just push “pause”? Of course, that only works when you can see it coming. It would be safe to stop everything just when it gets good.

Sam got his two middle fingers smashed in a door hinge tonight, at the end of a glorious day.  We had sailed out of the river and under the Skyway Bridge, enjoying a sunny and brisk afternoon in the blue-green waters of Tampa Bay. We came back at dusk and walked to the little Italian place on Main Street, enjoying some very sweet family time together. It was as near a perfect day as they come this side of heaven…until that wild hour right before bed, when Mom’s doing interior and Dad exterior boat clean-up and kids are supposed to be jammying and brushing teeth, etc. Which brings me to another question: why do humans always have to learn their lessons the hard way?

I want to preach, “How many times have we told you not to play with doors? Now just look what has happened!”  Okay, I actually do preach, but I feel a tad-bit hypocritical doing so.  (I also sound alarmingly like my parents!) “How many times,” I must ask myself, “have I told me not to say every little thing that pops into my head?” Pain is a very good teacher, but not the only one.  Why must we wait until something terrible happens to become wise?

Here, in fact, are some lessons that we have learned on our boat—the hard way—and these are only the first of many, I’m sure.  Investigate every suspicious smell until you find out exactly what’s causing it, as quickly as possible, since it could be something flammable or already beginning to burn, like electrical wire or fuel.  Check to make sure that the dingy you are towing is not only attached to your boat, but also untied from the dock, before you depart. If you do forget to untie your dingy and begin to depart, just untie it from your boat’s stern cleat, or stop the boat, instead of standing there freaking out.  At the very least, make sure the dingy is the Porta-Bote and not the Walker Bay, because at least the Porta-Bote is flexible and won’t be (completely) destroyed. If you decide to make turkey noodle soup for lunch, check to make sure that the electric skillet has little rubber feet so that it can’t slide off the counter when the random super-wave hits the boat. Better yet, put the leftovers away completely, no matter how much the boat is rocking and you don’t feel like it. Last, but not least, when departing on the first day of your voyage, choose a route with which you are somewhat familiar. If it is especially windy and you are going really fast, don’t risk running hard aground or dismasting by taking an unfamiliar shortcut when a familiar, safe one is just a bit out of the way. If the visual cues don’t match up with the chart, do be suspicious and rethink your plan.

I wish I could say that the mistakes we learn the painful way stay with us and prevent further mishaps, but even the ones I’ve learned really well (like, don’t talk to your friend while using the meat slicer…ouch!), don’t seem to apply to a new situation, like, don’t talk to your friend while you’re trying to find your way onto the interstate. I hope that my children will not pinch any more fingers in door hinges, but danger is all around and the lessons are often non-transferrable. It is by God’s grace and no small amount of training and/or preaching that no one in our family has fallen out of a tree or run into the street after a ball. 

There’s no pithy moral at the end here, unfortunately, just an observation that it seems to be man’s fate to learn the hard way.  Occasionally, we might learn from other’s mistakes, but that seems to be the exception and not the rule. If only we could stop ourselves while things are going well!

I've been reading through the Bible with the children, a chapter each morning. We’re in Exodus now, just leaving Egypt. The Israelites have just raised their first complaint. They establish their whining pattern: “Why did you bring us out here to die? We were better off as slaves in Egypt.”  The application to my own life did not occur to me until I listened to these lyrics sung by Sara Groves:

I’ve been painting pictures of Egypt leaving out what it lacks
The future feels so hard and I want to go back
But the places that used to fit me cannot hold the things I‘ve learned
And those roads were closed off to me while my back was turned

She sings about wanting freedom, but feeling afraid to go forward once the opportunity presents itself. Hmmmm. Sounds familiar.

I don’t want to leave here
I don’t want to stay
It feels like pinching to me either way.

Big things are at our doorstep. We have some big projects to do before we can go very far (keep your eyes peeled for Jay’s repair updates), but a long trip is in store for 2009, Lord willing, and I feel change in the air. Even the ever-patient Jay is saying that packing up and coming down every weekend is getting old. 

As far as I can figure, as in swimming, there are two ways to approach major life change: jump in, ignoring water temperature, or ease in one body part at a time until you’re used to it.  With the first, you leave yourself no exit option. There is no in-between place; you are either dry or you are treading water. You still have to adjust, but you do it and get it over with all at once.  With the latter approach, you can back out at the first sign of goosebumps or sharks. You might decide you didn’t really want to go swimming after all and miss out on a great adventure.

In the beginning, a slow transition seems like the best way to get used to major change. But the in-between place has its own dangers—there is a point at which transitioning becomes stalling, and the longer you wait, the harder it gets. We’ve gotten pretty comfortable with the discomforts of going between two places. The warm shower and all its related land-based comforts wait at the end of every trip. And sea-faring adventure waits at the end of every regularly-scheduled week. Sometimes I think it would be better just to jump in, sharks or not.

As I stood at the galley sink washing dishes this morning, I happened to look down and read the bottom of the plate I was placing in the drying rack. Today’s Home, Made in China, it said. I’ve looked at the bottom of that dish dozens of times and never thought about that phrase. But it struck me today that even the bottom of a plate can have meaning if you’re in the right frame of mind. Several meanings, actually.

First, today’s home in America is just full of stuff made in China. Our land house is in a neighborhood built in the 1960’s, sherbet-colored ranch homes with white tile roofs. They look a little bit like they were stamped out in a factory. Made in China is not a compliment. Stuff made in China doesn’t last. It makes me pause and ask myself: am I building a home, a legacy with my family, that will last? Or am I still so obsessed with taking care of my things—buying things, cleaning things, or putting things away, that I forget to focus on the people around me? How upset do I get when the small person assigned to dish duty accidentally breaks my favorite coffee cup (which was probably made in China)? I usually catch myself before I shout something mean or stupid—and say instead, “It’s just a cup. It’s just a cup. It’s okay. It’s just a cup.” But I still have to remind myself, so what does that say about me?  I don’t want a home made in China. I want a home that can handle some wear and tear without crumbling. A little wisdom from King Solomon says a wise woman builds her home, but a foolish one tears it down with her own hands.  O, Lord, let me be wise!

Second, Today’s Home is a reminder to be content. Wherever home is, be it on land or on the water, I must remember home is where I am right now. That question, What is a home? has taken on a lot of meaning for me as I go between places. It’s easy to feel fractured, homeless even, as we pack and unpack and then pack again. The only definition that fits: home is where my family is. Home is enjoying a book on tape together in the truck on the way to Bradenton. Home is a day working or playing on the boat. Home is tucking everyone into their beds and spending some quiet time in the evening with Jay. It doesn’t really matter where these things happen. The love we share and the burdens we bear together are what make us a family and wherever we are together is home. Today’s home might be in Clearwater, or it might be the Gulf of Mexico. Home is wherever we are today.

Lastly, I must find my home in today: today is home. It is easy to live in tomorrow, its uncertainty gives me endless things to ponder or worry about, imagine, question, or dream up. It’s also easy to live in yesterday. There, too, are things to regret, remember, and wonder: What would have happened if…? I wish I had… I wish I had not…What would I do differently next time? But living in those two places keeps me from living in today. Today is where the youngest child is learning to talk, where the children run in the grass and laugh about silly things, where the sun is shining or the rain is falling, or the cinnamon smell of oatmeal-raisin cookies fills the house. I must enjoy the gift of today, devour it and revel in it, and not waste a minute. I find it interesting that God is called by the name “I AM”—although He was, is, and is to come, his name is given in the present. It is crystal clear: today’s home. Not tomorrow. Not yesterday. Today.

As we get ready to kiss the old year good-bye and greet a new one with hopeful faces upturned, may we refuse to worry about tomorrow or regret yesterday. May we be content with whatever blessings we have. May we build things that last. May we spend more time laughing and singing and admiring the view and less time searching for meaning in the bottom of the kitchen sink.

Everyone knows that the first year of marriage is the hardest: you are unbelievably happy and in love and at the same time you are becoming intimately acquainted with all the cute quirks and irksome idiosyncrasies of your spouse. It didn’t matter that Jay and I had known each other for five years before we got married—there was still a period of giddiness followed by a reality check and then acceptance and finally a deeper and abiding happiness.

It’s been a year since we drove to Fort Lauderdale to look at Take Two, and as I look back over the whirlwind romance, I see that we’re having a bit of a newlywed experience with her as well as with each other.  We still have moments of complete and total silliness as we realize we are living the dream, and that we actually found the boat we always wanted, acquired her and are learning (little by little) to live with her. But reality is also setting in. Sometimes the project list is so daunting and it feels like we’re never going to make it. At other times, living half on land and half on the water makes me feel like I’m disintegrating. We recently met a couple who have lived aboard their boat with two kids the same age as our middle two for the last three years. It was at the same time inspiring and intimidating to hang out with them and see what life aboard is like. We’ve got a ways to go…

During our first out-of-the-backyard voyage we discovered that learning to sail together and live on the boat as a family is also a newlywed experience—at times exhilarating and others awkward as we feel our way through new, and sometimes frustrating, situations. Jay and I had the cliché anchoring argument (how embarrassing), and we had a day of sloppy seas and no wind which wasn’t a lot of fun, but wasn’t terrible, either, and we had a toilet malfunction which meant using a bucket until we could repair the head. There were other small misadventures, but there were also successes: Jay repaired the watermaker, I was able to do a week’s worth of laundry using very little water and a good wind, the kids behaved beautifully, and we docked successfully in a stiff breeze (thanks to a docking class with Captain Josie of Adventure Cruising and Sailing).

I find that I am still in love with Take Two, but I also see all the ways she needs to improve to be a good long-term home for us and a vehicle to take us further from the familiar. Sometimes I still feel the gripping fear of the unknown and want to run home to my hot, high-pressure shower to reassess my life’s goals. Mostly, I want to keep going and learning and working toward our life aboard, even if it is uncomfortable and difficult sometimes. I feel a new appreciation for Jay because he is so steady and realistic—he is the compass that points to true North when I am wobbling all over the map. We are still learning “the dance” on the boat, but because we have an established partnership based on good communication, the steps come quickly. Be it slow or quick, better or worse, we are in it for the long haul.

I have much to be thankful for, large and small. Mentally, I make lists like this pretty often. If I feel grumpy, or have some real complaint, I find something to be thankful for and it usually fixes my wagon.  Although cliché, it is an appropriate time of year to actually write down the thankful list.

Item #1: I write afloat in Charlotte Harbor for our First Annual Turkey Day Cruise.  This is a popular spot this time of year. Some folks come every year—Jay’s parents, for example. They’re in transit to meet us, assuming their engine woes have been resolved, in time for Thanksgiving. I have a turkey and all the trimmings, the kids made holiday decorations, and all that is missing is family. On the one hand, it is strange to be here and not be going to my family’s or be at home preparing for visitors. On the other hand, this is the first Thanksgiving we will be able to spend with Jay’s dad, since they’re always on a cruise during the fourth Thursday of November. The fact that we are here in peaceful Pelican Bay off of Cayo Costa State Park is near-miraculous for at least a couple of reasons.  I mean, we sailed here, in a gorgeous breeze, in our boat. And we didn’t run aground or break anything major. There are sunrises and sunsets to write home about
every day. It still seems like a dream. (That was dumb. It is a dream. Our dream. And we’re in the middle of it. Don’t wake me.)

Item #2: We have water. That may not seem like much. And it doesn’t exactly come gushing out of the tap, and showers are buckets of warmish water you pour over your head by the cupful. But for a few hours, it looked like we wouldn’t have any. And nothing can rain on a parade more than not having water. Or, rather, having nothing but salty. (Water, water, every where, nor any drop to drink…) Jay, in his infinite cleverness, figured out what was wrong with the water maker and got it going again.  Have I mentioned that there is no one with whom I would rather sail around the world? He is definitely on the thankful list.

Item #3: Jay bought me a Dyna-Jet wringer just in time for our trip. Most women would be insulted, but I was thrilled. It made the laundry so much easier this week.  Washing has to be done at least twice this trip, and takes about six hours, not counting drying time (which depends on wind and sun). I just love that thing.

Item #4: The Dead Guys. This may seem a bit irreverent, but I really am thankful. Every time we take the kids on a fishing expedition or go exploring on the islands around here, we owe it to the unfulfilled dreams of two guys. The Porta-Bote, or Stretch Limo as I jokingly call it (after a small mishap a few weeks ago put it to the test), was to be strapped to the RV of one of the guys, and he and his wife were going to travel across this great land of ours and unfold the boat periodically to fish or explore waterways. His widow listed the 14’ boat on Craig’s list and it was still in the box when we went to pick it up. The 8hp motor Jay got for it has a similar story. It’s several years old, but was hardly used. Although I feel a bit sad about their unfulfilled dreams, there is no better way to honor The Dead Guys than to enjoy the heck out of the things they left behind and recognize them for their contribution to our dream. On a side note, The Dead Guys also remind us to be thankful that we are able to do this now, since tomorrow is not guaranteed.

Item #5: The chance to live like a pioneer.  We look around us, and even the folks anchored near us aren’t really like us. I know there are other people out there with little kids who live on boats, make their own bread and do laundry by hand, but so far we only know one other family, and they moved back to land a couple years ago. The kids’ chores at home are a bit disconnected from reality, but here they are learning that there is a direct link between doing their chores and contributing to the family’s well-being. If you don’t help grind the grain, there won’t be any bread, and if you don’t help with laundry, where are clean clothes going to come from? This is one of our goals in becoming more self-sufficient—that our children would learn true responsibility, and have a sense of satisfaction as they see how their contribution is real and valued.

While we still have many luxuries aboard TakeTwo, I am beginning to appreciate what pioneer women went through in America’s early days. I am also appreciating, though not yet missing, the comforts of home.  How very seldom I was thankful for the little things that make life easier and more pleasant, and how quick to complain if I didn’t get what I wanted at the moment I wanted it.  I’m a more grateful person because of this strange and good floating life. Happy Thanksgiving.

Out of the corner of my eye
A child running—
Ah! Just pajama pants on the line.

The port side of our boat looks like it is strung with Tibetan prayer flags—towels praying for fair winds and a sunny afternoon. After her house burned down and she had to carry the laundry for a family of seven to and from a laundromat, my friend Tina told us all to be thankful for our washers and dryers.  If I may boast for a moment, I did a large load of whites today by hand, so I guess we should now be thankful for laundromats. Believe it or not, it was fun. At least the first hour, after which my back began complain about the unfamiliar strain. To further stretch credibility, I actually enjoy everything more when I choose to do it by hand. The examples are too many to name, but my favorite household tasks are, in order of pleasure derived:  kneading bread, home-schooling the kids, and doing the dishes.

My classmate Alexander Lee began a movement during our years at Middlebury which turned into the non-profit Project Laundry List (laundrylist.org). At the time, I thought the whole thing a bit fruity. (It started with some pants hanging in a tree by the dining hall.) He said we could reduce the electrical demand on the grid so much by hanging our laundry instead of using our dryers that we could render nuclear power unnecessary. It sounded good, but who wants to hang their wash in a dorm room? And later on, it just seemed impractical: I mean, really, am I going to hang six-to-eight loads of laundry in my backyard—especially when it rains every afternoon in South Florida for six months? Never-mind about those pioneer women with ten children. Now the cloth diapers I hung. And yes, it did give me a Zen-ish peace to hang wet diapers in the cool morning air. It gave me an opportunity to actually breathe and relax and be “in the moment.” But the wash for six people? Project Laundry List exists not only as an environmental movement, but also as an advocacy group to ensure that people are allowed to hang their laundry if they wish. It’s a free country (or was), but these days you can face hefty fines for hanging laundry in the wrong place!  

My, how things change: faced with the choice of going back home to do laundry or staying one more day at a pleasant anchorage, I opted to break out the Wonder Wash (hand-crank agitator) and buy some more time at sea. Our time-limiting factors are: fresh water (we hold +/-200 gallons), food (the boat is only provisioned for long weekends), and clothing. We carry enough fuel (for engines and power generation) to last at least six months, so that doesn’t factor in. After about three days, the fresh food gets used up, the water runs low, and the clothes are all dirty. But we were having a nice time, and Jay didn’t have any pressing work at home, so why not stay another day? That simply requires creative menu planning, breaking out the watermaker/desalinator (Yay! It works!) and, you got it, washing laundry by hand. Strangely enough, it is not only rewarding, but also comforting to see the small shirts and shorts and undies hanging on the lifelines. It makes me thankful for the one large and four little people in my care. We don’t have any neighbors, so there’s no one complaining. I have decided that while it would be nice to have a compact electric washer on the boat long-term, for now I can easily use the Wonder Wash to agitate the soapy clothes, a five-gallon bucket for rinsing, and a roller for wringing (that’s now on my birthday list), and the lovely fall-and-winter breezes for drying. It’s a fun family activity that affords some much needed one-on-one time for me and one of the children. Eli used the Wonder Wash for awhile, Aaron rinsed and squeezed, Sarah hung, and even the youngest got into the act and helped with clothespins.

In our old neighborhood, I once saw a Mexican woman washing laundry the old-country way: using a bucket and a rock in the front yard. That struck me as out-of-place in suburban Atlanta, something that said “property values are about to plummet.” I never considered that she knew no other way to do laundry. It may arguably be a better way. Hey, maybe she even liked it.