Things are breaking faster than we can fix them at this point. You might think we would be daunted as we are just setting out on this adventure, but that is not the case. Of course, part of any adventure is flirtation with danger and willingness to confront the unknown.  (As in, “What will break next? Who knows?”) That takes a bit of pluck, not to mention a hearty dose of optimism.

I’m what you might call an apocalyptic optimist, with an outlook that goes something like this: the world is going to hell in a hand-basket, but in the meantime, I’m sure everything will be just fine!  I can also be a bit moody, swinging between the extremes: from “this is so exciting!” to “this is the stupidest thing we have ever done!” (I often experience the two simultaneously which makes me feel really crazy.) My husband is very steady—things are what they are, and will continue to be that way so there’s no reason to get excited.  That means, in my opinion, he can’t truly enjoy something, but then he is somewhat impervious to disappointment.  Not that he doesn’t get frustrated sometimes, only that he doesn’t freak out. I, however, do freak out—freak out happy, freak out scared, freak out mad, take your pick. 

So when things break, Jay calmly looks at it as an opportunity to learn something new, like plumbing or electrical engineering. That’s his brand of optimism. I, on the other hand, will feel like freaking out, but attempt to talk myself out of it by playing Pollyanna and finding something to be grateful for. Like, “At least it broke now, while we’re tied to a dock only an hour from our house and not in the South Pacific!” I said as much to one of our G-dock neighbors who was privy to our electrical troubles this past weekend. He said, “Boy, you sure see the glass half-full, huh?” And a few moments later, “You’re gonna need a LOT of that glass-half-full…” I think he’s right. Keeping our attitudes in check and keeping our sense of humor and sense of adventure is going to be our key to survival—both here at the dock and when we actually leave someday. We’ll have to have the kind of optimism that says, “All this trouble is worth it!”

Of course, for those of us who believe that all things work together for the good of those who love God and are in sync with His plan (loose paraphrase of Romans 8:28), there is no choice but optimism. It doesn’t matter if we go broke fixing this boat, or if we are hot, tired, hungry, or in trouble—all of that, all the hardship will ultimately be for our good. We’re not doing this because we thought it would be easy.  And God doesn’t really care about our comfort as much as He does our character. So it may be hard and uncomfortable and we may experience growing (or shrinking) pains as we try this new mode of living, but, in the end, according to the written guarantee above, it will all be worth it.   There might even be some pleasant surprises to enjoy along the way! I’m feeling optimistic.

Jay brought our new baby home on Wednesday night. She was a little worse for the wear, but she sure does look good sitting at the dock. We cleaned her off and out and spent the night on Thursday. I watched the sun go down over the heads of the four children sitting in the cockpit having their first dinner on the boat.  We fell asleep to mysterious new sounds. We woke to the calls of water birds and to cool, moist air on our faces from the open hatches. I did my first day of boat-schooling and we divvied up boat chores. I mopped my galley and salon and hosed down the cockpit. In short, I was happy as a clam. I felt more at home on the boat than I do at home.

When Eli, Aaron, Sarah, and Sam got on the boat for the first time (they hadn’t laid eyes on it since December when we first looked at it) they were bouncing off the walls with excitement. This is the rundown on the boat tour Jay subsequently gave the kids: “This is the engine kill switch. Don’t touch it.  This is a fire extinguisher. Don’t touch it. This is a sea cock. Don’t touch it. See these switches? And these buttons? Don’t touch them.” And so forth, and so on. The children looked a little confused; they had the mistaken notion that this thing was their new toy. But the rules that are so important for an orderly household now become even more important in the floating house, in some cases for safety and survival. They seemed to catch on pretty quickly.

I have spent so much time imagining what it will be like—the daily life, at least—that actually doing it seemed easy and natural. What will be strange will be waking up to make pancakes on a Saturday morning and finding that the view has changed since yesterday. I can’t really imagine what the voyaging and exploring will be like, so I just don’t spend any time thinking about it.  But when Jay talks about romping around on the island and sending Eli up a tree for a coconut, I get a little thrill of excitement. What will it be like? If our first day aboard is any indicator, it’s going to be better than we imagined.

"Twenty years from now, you will be more disappointed by the things you didn't do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bow lines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover" — Mark Twain

I think this is my new personal motto. When people first hear about the dream we are pursuing, namely, to move our family of six aboard a large catamaran and maybe sail away someday, the first thing they ask is, “aren’t you afraid?” Afraid? Of course we’re afraid.  Afraid of storms, seasickness, shipwreck, sharks, piracy, conflict, running aground, our own ineptitude, untimely breakages, isolation, going broke, death, the unknown. I am afraid of the things that will scare me that I don’t even know about yet. I don’t even know how to sail. I have no business dreaming this dream. I have been moored in the safe harbor so long that my mooring line is encrusted with comfort and has become one with the mooring itself. I’m not going anywhere without something breaking off and causing some damage.

Alright. So what? Let it break off; it’ll only hurt for awhile. (Aha!) Those are the words that purchase freedom and welcome adventure, a life replete with excitement and risk of danger. In any case, we’ve decided that there are things worse than fear. Like regret. We’ve been afraid before. Like on our wedding day. The day we closed on our first house. The day we went to the hospital to have our first child. The day we moved to Florida. But if we had not done those things, actually gotten married, taken on the responsibilities of a home and a family, made big and scary decisions, if we had stayed in the safe harbor and never filled our sails with wind—what would be the point of our lives? The weight of regret would surely have crushed us by now.

We are, on the eve of “the point of no return” on this boat deal, alternately giving each other the pep talk. You can do this, we tell each other. It’s crazy, but we can do it anyway. We will, too. Just watch us. And if we do manage to do it, to actually acquire this worthy vessel, sail it around the peninsula and successfully dock it, take it for short cruises, learn to live with her and with each other, and to ultimately go exploring, it won’t be because we deserved it, nor because we were prepared, and it most certainly won’t be because we were unafraid, rather it will be despite those things.  We have decided to really live, or die trying.

“Full fathom five thy father lies.
Of his bones are coral made.
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
Nothing of him that doth fade
But doth suffer a sea change
Into something rich and strange…”

—Ariel in The Tempest by William Shakespeare

We are in the process of making some big and scary life decisions. It’s harder than I thought. I like to believe I am a dandelion: blow me in any direction and I’ll thrive wherever I land. To be perfectly honest, I’ve become rather comfortable—no, spoiled—in my current circumstances. I was raised in a house where little was stable: feast or famine finances, moves every couple of years that meant changing houses, neighborhoods, cities, states, or even countries. I got used to adapting to new schools, new environs, new friends. But what I have treasured in my stable and happy adulthood is how stable and happy it is!  I married my high school sweetheart and we settled into a wonderful, predictable life together. Despite adding a few “surprises” to our family and an interstate move a few years ago, it has been relatively smooth sailing, and our lives have become increasingly more comfortable and happy. So why would we abandon our safe and cozy life? Yet that is just what we propose: we’ll sell or give away ninety percent of our belongings and move our four young children aboard a large catamaran and maybe sail around the world. No big deal, right?

Somewhere between calling the yacht broker and signing on the dotted line, I got cold feet. I suddenly decided I didn’t want to trade words like “safe” and “boring” for “risk” and “adventure.” My whole being cried out in fear of losing the comfy-cozy shell it’s built around itself to insulate it from pain and hardship.  I like things the way I like them. Though I hate to admit it, I like to be in control. I want what I don’t want. I want to live a wild, free, unfettered life—as long as I can control it. But the sea cannot be tamed. This is the thing that simultaneously attracts and repels us, and will slowly do its work on our safe and easy existence and transform it into a self-sufficient, exciting journey.

But just like in Ariel’s haunting song, this sea change doesn’t happen without death first.  And so, in order to move forward despite my fear, I had to die. And I may have to do so again a hundred times. I thought the adventure starts when we bring the boat home—or, rather, the home to the boat—and we set sail. Who knew that it took so much courage just to initiate the process? Not I. As I wrestled with panic, the desire to bolt in the other direction, I realized I would need courage just to say “yes, I’ll try it.”

The night I first died, I called a friend who lovingly coaxed me away from the edge. I hung up the phone, prayed through the anxiety, and finally fell asleep. I awoke the next morning—imagine my surprise—resurrected! The sun shone, the dew sparkled, the birds sang, and my heart with them. What do I really need in this world, anyway? The trappings I was so afraid to lose had lost their luster overnight and I was ready to leave the nest and fly away.

I have begun to realize that the very thing I thought I hated about my childhood is the very thing that will serve me best in a future life afloat: in a word, the ability to adapt. I wasn’t in control then, and I’m not now. How like my Father, the Sovereign King! In charge of all circumstances, He uses the things we hate, the things in our past we run away from, our pain, our shame, even our sin—and changes it into something useful in his kingdom! That is the crucifixion and resurrection, reenacted daily in the lives of his followers everywhere. It’s a terrible and glorious process: our flesh, put to death, is transformed into something “rich and strange.”