My memoir, Leaving the Safe Harbor: the Risks and Rewards of Raising a Family on a Boat will be released at the end of October by Ingenium Books (in paperback and e-book wherever books are sold), but you can pre-order the digital copy from Amazon now! It is not merely a re-write of this blog, but rather a narrative that weaves together life lessons, nautical idioms, and our adventures as we go from teenage dreamers to suburbanites to barefoot sailors raising five kids on our 48′ catamaran, Take Two. Find the book here.
From the back cover:
Seafaring stories inspire us to do great things, help us laugh at our mistakes, and create a sense of wonder about the wild world we live in. We need these stories to shake us out of our complacency and give us the courage to chase new horizons.
Two high-school sweethearts from middle-class America go off to college, get married, follow all the rules, play it safe, and pursue the American dream. And promptly find themselves boxed in. Looking for adventure, they turn the shared dreams of their youth into reality. They leave the safety of suburbia to buy and live aboard a sailboat, s/v Take Two—while raising five children.
The sailboat becomes a classroom for the whole family. From the first overnight sail with small children to island-hopping in the Caribbean with teenagers, the ocean teaches life lessons and develops character traits like teamwork, discipline, hope, flexibility, and perseverance.
Returning to the United States after voyaging, their children on the cusp of adulthood, the couple discovers they’re not the same people who left the house with the white picket fence.
Sometimes the world is on fire and there is nothing you can do about it. It is the most frustrating feeling in the world.
Out-of-control fire we witnessed in the Bahamas, 2013
The news has been dramatic recently: the president of Haiti was assassinated, the Cuban people have taken to the streets in counterrevolutionary protests, churches are burning in Canada, Venezuelans are fleeing their country in record numbers (I read that 17,000 have arrived in the United States via Mexico in the last eight months alone), and armed mobs were looting and burning their way across South Africa. But it’s not just “news” to me—I am weighed down by the personal impact it has on people close to me.
I have a Cuban friend who escaped Communist Cuba when he was a teenager. He has been waiting a lifetime for an end to that failed form of government on his island homeland. He is wondering, “Will the voice of the people be heard this time, or will their hopes be dashed as they have been before?” Support for the protestors made it all the way to our small town—with Cuban expats demonstrating and flying Cuban flags. “Patria y Vida” is everywhere. My friend in Venezuela informs me that the situation is getting worse there, too. His family is rationing food and trying to figure out how to escape because staying is becoming harder and harder. He is a doctor whose hospital can no longer pay him to work, nor can it afford supplies and medicine. Another close friend and fellow sailor returned to South Africa to sell her house and renew her passport (which expired during COVID lockdowns while she was stuck in another country). Nearby villages have been destroyed in the violence of recent days and neither the police nor military were much help to the citizens. She and her neighbors defended their own community and scrounged supplies until delivery trucks could move and stores could open again. I am checking in with her regularly, both to provide moral support and to reassure myself that she is still okay. Amidst all this trouble, what can I do?
I can pray. I can do it at the first sign of trouble—not waiting until it’s a last resort—asking for peace or wisdom or healing as I, or my friend, or family member navigate an uncertain circumstance. It is a simple act that can have a big impact. Paul admonishes believers not to “be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God” (Philippians 4:6). To keep my worries at bay, this is what I do: I start here, with the Serenity prayer, adding details about the frustrating situation about which I can do nothing, asking forgiveness for personal failures, and expressing a desire to change or to help where I can:
God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, Courage to change the things I can, and Wisdom to know the difference. –Richard Niebuhr (1892-1971)
I do believe that praying makes a difference—this energy we send to and receive from an unseen (though not unperceived) God and share with others. I believe that love is real and tangible, that there is a source of this unconditional Love in the universe, that it transcends time and space, and combats evil. But even for those who don’t believe in a God who listens, prayer can, at the very least, make them feel more peaceful, and help them discern what is within and outside of their control. Even Ayn Rand, the famous author and avowed atheist, liked the serenity prayer for the way it helps a person make sense of the frustrating dilemma of existence. You can read her thought-provoking essay here: https://courses.aynrand.org/works/the-metaphysical-versus-the-man-made/.
When I can send tangible help, I do. But when money or supplies or volunteering or petitions or letters to congressmen or votes cannot fix a situation, I can certainly appeal to God, who knows what’s best and can see an outcome that I cannot. More importantly, it can help me accept, extract meaning from, and find hope despite the absurdity of life. On the other side of a difficult situation, I have often been able to see a purpose in suffering or hardship. This allows me to be grateful in tough times, even when the outcome looks unpleasant. From South Africa, I have heard similar words. Ferdi Barnard wrote an open letter to the Zuma supporters and criminal looters, to the unhelpful government, police, and military, thanking them for the circumstances that led to people of all races and backgrounds banding together to protect their own communities.
This brings me to a last point about prayer: when done in concert, prayer can bring people together in compassion and unite them for a common cause. I have prayed with a friend during a contentious election—knowing that we voted differently—but able to agree that we want a peaceful outcome, that we want whoever is in office to make wise decisions, and that we want what’s best for our country. Prayer not only gives us a way to deal with our uncertainty and frustration, but it helps us focus on the positive and create unity. Whatever your religious background or philosophy on the meaning of life, prayer can be a powerful way to deal with overwhelming circumstances. Perhaps if we spent more time praying and less time arguing, we would create the peace for which we are praying.
We have an announcement! We brought home two kittens from the Naples Humane Society. It’s been more than 5 years since Sugar and Spice passed away, leaving us catless. I had said that I didn’t want pets until after we took our long road trip. But since we returned from our 8,000-mile jaunt out west in March/April, there’s been a lot of serious talk of kittens. When we went to Naples for the Fourth of July, we decided to stop in at the Humane Society before heading home. Turns out, it’s kitten season!
These two females, named Stella (the black one with a “star” on her chest) and Raya (“stripe” in Spanish for the gray tabby), are about 2 months old. They are already well-adjusted and have found lots of interesting things to do on Take Two. We have yet to take them sailing, and I’m sure that will be another adjustment, but for now (at the dock for the summer), we are soaking up the kitten cuteness and everyone seems happy.
I’ve been playing music with a friend in the harbor. We’ve been working on a medley of Bobby McFerrin’s song Don’t Worry, Be Happy and Bob Marley’s Three Little Birds, the chorus of which says, “Don’t worry about a thing, ‘cause every little thing gonna’ be alright.” These words have permeated my mind, and they are timely. My musically gifted friend has plenty of reasons to worry. With a rare cancer diagnosis and an expiration date handed down by doctors, there’s no guarantee that the treatment he’s seeking will save him. Even now, he’s waiting for the VA to decide if it will even cover the treatment protocol and work with the oncologist who specializes in his type of cancer. But he’s refusing to worry anyway. He told me, “When you relax, things just have a way of working themselves out.”
Worry is a cancer of the soul. It emaciates your spirit—causing a loss of peace and joy not unlike cancer’s cachexia, the inexplicable wasting away of the body. Worry makes a terrible companion, keeping you up at night, preventing you from eating (or making the food you do eat indigestible), blinding you from the good in your life and keeping your eyes focused on all the possible bad outcomes. Worry says, “What if…?” The more imaginative the person, the more elaborate the worst-case scenarios he invents. Worry says, “We can mitigate this by…” The more goal-oriented the person, the more control she attempts to exert. Worry says, “Be careful…” The more risk-averse the person, the less adventurous his life becomes.
Sometimes our worries are completely unfounded—so much of what we fear does not come to pass. But sometimes we worry because circumstances are worrisome. In this case, it takes a herculean act to refuse to worry. Many of us have real worries. I have friends in places where the next meal is not guaranteed, let alone the next paycheck. The whole world is consumed with worry about an invisible virus, and about the cascading effects of trying to mitigate its spread. One generation worries about the world it will hand to the next—about the environment, about violence, about education, about jobs, about relationships, about government. There is no part of our lives untouched by these concerns, because no part of life is guaranteed. We know that life is fragile and that suffering is real.
But worry takes this uncertainty and amplifies it, creating deafening fears. One Bob warns, “in your life, expect some trouble, but when you worry, you make it double,” and the other offers an antidote, “smile with the risin’ sun” and listen to the message of the three little birds: “don’t worry ’bout a thing.” Perhaps they are echoing the wise words of another teacher: “Look at the birds of the air; they do not sow or reap or store away in barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” (from Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount as recorded by Matthew, chapter 6, verses 26-27). Our worries have no power, on the one hand, to change the circumstances in which we find ourselves, and a lot of power, on the other, to make a bad situation feel worse.
I should know. I am a worrier by nature, a nervous nail-biter with an internal monolog that sounds like a broken record (“The sky is falling! The sky is falling!”). The heightened uncertainty of this past year’s events has forced me to deal with this repetitive voice, and to tell it to shut up. It is an act of the will, and of the spirit. I have no way of knowing what comes next. I don’t even know if I will live to see this day’s sunset. There are dark clouds on the horizon, and it may indeed rain on me. What if the sky is falling? When I can’t change the circumstances, all I can change is my response. I don’t know what comforts you when you worry, but for me the answer has been prayer and gratitude. Keeping my eyes focused on the good, choosing to believe that all things eventually work out the way they’re supposed to, and asking God to take care of all the things I can’t control is what gives me peace of mind. Whatever comes next, I will be praying—and singing—my way through it.
Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God. And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus. (Paul’s letter to the church in Philippi, chapter 4, verses 6-7)
I’ve been homeschooled all my life, and I’ve never had reason to complain. Before our return to the United States from our four-year jaunt to the Caribbean, I’d never even set foot in an actual school building. However, when we did return, I was finishing high school and looking to start college. There is a local college nearby, College of the Florida Keys (CFK), so my younger brother and sister and I, along with a few friends, started attending as dual enrollment students. Dual enrollment is a pretty good deal: as long as you can pass the PERT tests to show that you are ready for college-level work, Florida allows you to take classes for free. So essentially, we were finishing our high school requirements by going to college and pursuing AA degrees in general education, instead of merely seeking a high school diploma.
It looked good on paper, at least, an economic use of time and effort. It was also my first experience in an actual classroom, and it was a pleasant change. During my first semester, the two classes I took were on the small side, with maybe 30 people. Most of the students were around my age, some were dual enrollment students from the local public high school, and a few were older. We would sit at tables facing the professor and the whiteboard, notebooks out and phones away, and take notes while he talked. I found I liked the classroom setting. You could ask questions and receive a knowledgeable answer, unlike simply learning from a textbook. You could engage the professor in debate and listen to intellectual arguments. You could achieve recognition for your work.
It was also intensely uncomfortable for the first few weeks, because I’m an introvert and I don’t like large groups of people. I got the hang of it though, and life settled into a rhythm. The two classes I took held sessions early every other weekday, so it was a bit of a runaround to get to the college from our boat in the mooring field every morning. The workload was heavy, and the material challenging, but I found that I was actually enjoying school. I was getting As. However, it could have been a lot easier. I had no real idea what I was stepping into with the whole college thing. So even though it wasn’t significantly more difficult than homeschool (at first, that is), it threw me off because it was different, and it took me a while to figure everything out.
Well, I’m finishing my last year of classes, and I would say I’ve done pretty well. Recently, my English Composition II professor gave the class the assignment of creating a college handbook, something to give to new students so that they aren’t completely lost. Below you will find the link to mine (you can read it in a browser or download the PDF). It contains anything I could think of that I would have wanted to know going in. Hopefully other homeschooled high school students will find it useful.
We celebrated our 13thTake Two Anniversary in April, which simply amazes me. For more than half of our married life, we have lived in this floating home. Two of our children spent their whole lives aboard, and others are beginning their own adventures as adults. So much has changed in the last dozen years or so, but one constant remains: our “Lonwood” vinyl teak-and-holly flooring by Lonseal.
It has survived the raising of five children, who tracked saltwater and sand across it, spilled beverages of all colors on it, “decorated” it with paint and glitter-glue, raced Matchbox and Hot Wheels cars across it, and generally abused it and took it for granted.
And yet, with an occasional deep-clean with a scrub brush and Eco-Orange solution, it looks as good as new.
It is beautiful, non-skid, easy to install, and, needless to say, durable. I looked it up recently, not because it needs replacing, but just out of curiosity, and it is expensive! To replace the flooring in our main salon would be close to $5000. Similar products like Plasteak and Aquatread also run between $6 and $8 per square foot. But if you amortize that over 13+ years, the cost is definitely worth it. If you are looking to replace the flooring on your kid-friendly boat and you have the money to spend, I highly recommend these products. They are practically indestructible. Unlike so many other projects on our circular list, replacing flooring has never been at the top!
How do you keep an energetic nine-year-old happy on a boat? The answer may surprise you: nine yards of purple fabric!
Splits
In November, we purchased some aerial silks for Rachel. She had been asking for some time, but we were not sure where we could hang the hardware. After brainstorming and researching, we decided to move the cockpit table indoors and try hanging them from the aluminum frame that supports our hard-top. Needless to say, Rachel was delighted.
Unicorn Pose
They have been a source of fun and exercise and I am completely impressed with her core strength and flexibility. She also uses them like a hammock, swing, or chair–though they move quite a lot when underway.
Hammock
We mounted the Aerial Silks using dyneema soft shackles, the 8-hook that came with the silks, and a locking carabiner.
She would love to take a class, but for now, she’s using YouTube videos to help her learn new poses. The ones we purchased can be found here. Jay says that “getting children’s energy out” is a myth, but giving them active things to do really helps!
June 2021 Update : Of course, a book isn’t really done until it is edited and published! I have found a collaborator and hybrid publishing house to bring the manuscript to completion. After (yet another) revision, I am hoping for a book launch in the fall!Below is an edited sneak peek. Note: the new title will be Leaving the Safe Harbor: Risks and Rewards of Raising a Family on a Boat.
I completed a final revision of the book manuscript I have been working on for more than three years, Leaving the Safe Harbor: What We Learned from Life on a Boat. With poetic justice, I finished editing the last page of the last chapter one year exactly from when my first reader/editor made her last encouraging comment. I moved the final pages to a document entitled “Final Draft.” It might not be perfect, but it’s done, and that feels amazing. Total word count: 84,654.
Jay and I had a quiet date night out (everyone else must have been at home watching the Superbowl!) and a glass of Prosecco to celebrate. It’s time to think about the next steps, but for just a moment, I want to enjoy that sense of accomplishment.
The book is not merely a re-write of the blog, though faithful readers might recognize some of the stories. It’s a narrative that documents our journey from suburbanites to salty sailors, organized around sailing idioms and life lessons. Here’s the prospective cover, and a sneak peek (introduction, table of contents, crew list, and prologue) to whet your appetite. I’m planning to publish as soon as possible.
Cover photo credit: Bruce Vanderbilt, Montserrat, 2016
“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 bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.” –Mark Twain
Contents
Crew List: Who’s Who on Take Two
Prologue: Staying Afloat / The Good and the Bad
1 Rocking the Boat / Big Dreams
2 Uncharted Waters / A Leap of Faith
3 Sink or Swim / Taking Risks
4 Running a Tight Ship / Discipline
5 Learning the Ropes / Making Mistakes
6 Close Quarters / Conflict Resolution
7 Chock-a-Block / Collecting Verbs
8 All Hands On Deck / Teamwork
9 Batten Down the Hatches / Hardship and Hope
10 Getting Ship-Shape / Organized Chaos
11 See Which Way the Wind is Blowing / Decision Making
12 Plumbing the Depths / Gratitude and Awe
13 Ships Passing in the Night / Friendships Afloat
14 Troubled Waters / Patience
15 On the Right Tack / Give and Take
16 Smooth Sailing / Simple Appreciation
17 Course Corrections / Flexibility
18 Safe Harbor / Letting Go
Epilogue: In the Offing / New Dreams
Glossary of Nautical Terms for Landlubbers
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Crew List: Who’s Who on Take Two
Jay, Captain and Chief Engineer. He’s the problem-solver, the magic genie who funds the dream, and the introverted computer-genius with an adventurous side. He grew up sailing and served as crew on race boats. He has two full-time jobs, working as a consultant and keeping the boat’s systems running smoothly—he’s equally adept at designing a database, plumbing a boat toilet, and wiring an electrical panel. Fun Facts: he has to medicate to prevent seasickness, loves extreme weather, and stands out like a sore thumb in Central America.
Tanya, First Mate and Ship’s Cook. She’s the impulsive idea man, extroverted family ambassador, and neurotic control-freak. She may be afraid of everything but doesn’t let it stop her from living a full and exciting life. She loves planning trips, taking the night watch on passages, and is in charge of setting the anchor or picking up a mooring. She loves meeting new people, serves as French/Spanish interpreter when necessary, and knows how to find things in a new place. Fun Facts: she plays ukulele, reads voraciously, and likes to kayak.
Eli, Second Mate. He’s the first-born son, a frustrated perfectionist, a lover of the great outdoors, and a wordsmith lovingly known as Captain Vocabulary. He’s in charge when Jay and Tanya are off the boat and helps stand watch at night on long passages. He’s the one who goes up the mast when the need arises. Fun Facts: he loves to freedive, plays D&D, and is working on a private pilot’s license.
Aaron, Second Engineer. A Mr. Fixit, he loves tools, can talk to anyone with his charismatic personality, but can sometimes be a bit of a primadonna. He helps with boat projects like installing a water heater or changing the oil in the engines. His motion sickness limits his abilities on passages, but he’s capable of piloting the boat in coastal waters. Fun Facts: he plays electric guitar, rebuilt his first carburetor at age seven, and knows almost everything about WWII tanks.
Sarah, Quartermaster. She’s a creative genius, who likes to draw and can play several musical instruments, and has a ready wit, though you might not know it because she’s also a bit of a hermit. She helps with docking and anchoring, knows where to find anything on the boat, and enjoys sailing in small sailboats. Fun Facts: she’s excellent at using just the right movie quotes to fit a conversation, is fluent in Spanish, and bakes the best cookies.
Sam, Able Seaman. He’s got an indomitable spirit and the ability to charm animals and small children, yet somehow most often shows us his spastic clown persona. While sailing, he stands by to help wherever needed and he likes to take morning watches on passage. He’s the fisherman of the family. Fun Facts: he’s a frustrated percussionist, a drummer without a proper drum set who taps on anything that resonates, and he can solve the Rubik’s Cube in thirty-two seconds, juggle, and touch his tongue to his nose (though not all at the same time).
Rachel, Midshipman. She’s the youngest, born after we moved aboard Take Two, precocious and wise beyond her years, empathetic and imaginative, and possessing a flair for the dramatic that comes with the downside of a quick temper. She sleeps in a single bunk we built for her amidships and loves to sit in the captain’s chair on passages. She is learning to pilot the dinghy and loves to help in the galley. Fun Facts: she adores animals, has a big singing voice for a small person, and can recycle anything for use as a toy.
Take Two, Custom Wooden Sailing Catamaran. Our boat is more than just a vehicle that gets us from point A to point B; she is a part of our family. We love and care for her, and she, in turn, shelters and protects us. She was designed by Dirk Kramer and built at the Waarschip yard in Bouwjaar, Netherlands in 1991, the year Jay and I rode the school bus together in high school. She is forty-eight feet long, twenty-six feet wide, and has a draft four feet. Her typical cruising speed is eight knots, but she’s capable of double-digits in a brisk wind. She was cold-molded, made of cedar and layers of marine plywood and epoxy, with a fiberglass skin below the waterline. Her keels and cross beam are solid mahogany. We are her third owners, having purchased her for less than $200,000 in Ft. Lauderdale in April of 2008. She has crossed an ocean, spent a few years as a charter boat in the Virgin Islands, and circumnavigated a hurricane. She’s been our full-time home since August of 2009.
Prologue
Staying Afloat / The Good and the Bad
May 2016. I am at the helm, the only crew still standing. The captain is wedged in a corner of the cockpit trying to nap. The others are lying prone, sleeping where they fell, some outside in the cockpit, others on the settees inside, and one, half-naked, on the salon floor. If there were a soundtrack for this day, it would include crashing waves, wind whistling in the rigging, the drone of a diesel engine, crewmen moaning and groaning, and the sound of someone throwing up at the rails. The wind is wild, whipping my hair around and chapping my face. We are pounding into six-to-eight-foot seas, directly upwind, sails furled and both engines running. Occasionally, I get hit in the face with salt spray from the bows burying themselves in a big, green wave.
It is the kind of day people imagine when I tell them I live on a sailboat and they stare at me with an odd mixture of horror and admiration on their features. Perhaps they are thinking of the fisherman in his yellow rain-slicker on the Gorton’s Fish Sticks package. Well, sometimes it is like that, but only for a day or two out of the year. Sometimes, believe it or not, life at sea can be boring. But usually, like this day, it is a combination of highs and lows, the highs often being better than you can imagine, and the lows, worse.
We are on a rhumb line between the east side of Puerto Rico and a small island in the Spanish Virgins, Vieques. The U.S. Government once used Vieques for target practice and, despite its now being a vacation destination with beach resorts, there are still parts of the island that are off-limits due to unexploded ordnance. We are here in the middle of a churning sea because it was the best weather we could see in the forecast for making our way south and east to the Virgin Islands. It is May already, late in the season, and we need to be in Grenada before hurricane season gets cranking. It’s been a rough year for leaving, our intended departure date slipping from January to March because of Jay’s work schedule and the numerous cold fronts and disagreeable conditions preventing our crossing the Gulf Stream.
We passed up a month of cruising in the Out Islands in the Bahamas with our good friends on Ally Cat in order to take advantage of calm weather to head east and the last cold front of the season to push us south into the Caribbean. Though we’re excited by what lies ahead, we are still feeling this disappointment. We had been trying to meet up with Kimberly, Michael, and their daughter, Ally, for months, slowly heading south as they headed north, our paths crossing as they had twice before. As it turned out, we had only three days together in George Town, Exuma. We made the most of it, with a dinner together of fresh-caught Mahi tacos, a provisioning day with two other boat moms, a cruiser’s open-mic music night, and a beach bonfire. The last day, Kimberly bestowed upon me her notes from their year in the Caribbean—notes that I would cherish and use extensively the following year.
One of her recommendations was Bio Bay (Bahia Mosquito), in Vieques, a naturally-occurring phenomenon where bioluminescent plankton exist in impressive concentrations in a closed bay, and cause anything that passes through the water to glow and sparkle. I was enchanted by the idea of anchoring our boat at the entrance to the bay and taking our kayaks in on a dark night to give my kids a magical experience. I became obsessed with this idea—so driven, in fact, that when it was time to leave Puerto Rico, I insisted we make the stop in Vieques instead of going straight to St. Thomas, which might have provided a better wind angle for sailing. And now I am paying for it and exacting a price from my crew as well.
Guilty questions circle my head like seagulls after a potato chip. “Will this be one of those times when we all suffer for nothing? Like those other times when I have an idea and drag everyone along and it turns out to be a costly disappointment? Will we even be able to anchor at the mouth of the bay with the wind and waves from this direction?” I have six hours of bashing to think about this while our little boat icon creeps across the screen of our chart-plotter more slowly than I could ride a bike. I say a small, selfish prayer that it will all be worth it.
I have seen no other boats since we left this morning with our French counterpart—a boat called Dingo D’Iles (“crazy for islands”), a large catamaran with five kids aboard. They are long gone, heading to the British Virgin Islands. This is another disappointment, as we would like to have spent more time with them. We have never met another cruising family with five kids—two of whom were teenagers. We overlapped by only a few days at Palmas Del Mar, just long enough to hang out in the laundry room while catching up on the wash, and to share Rachel’s birthday with their three little girls. But they are on a schedule to get to Martinique by a certain date and we are not. There is always the chance that we may run into them later.
Vieques grows incrementally larger on the horizon as the mountains of Puerto Rico vanish behind us. The only redeeming qualities about this day are that it is not raining and we’ll arrive before dark. I console myself, as I often do, by reminding myself that it could always be worse. By mid-afternoon, we are running along the coast, looking for a place to anchor the boat. The captain looks dubious. The opening to Mosquito Bay looks too narrow and the bay itself too shallow for us to get inside, and the water is too rough to stay outside. I can hear him thinking about his bail-out plan and calculating an arrival time in St. Thomas. I cannot accept defeat so easily. Perhaps, I suggest, we could just do a drive-by and see whether it’s “doable.”
So we creep in around a point, in whose lee lies a perfect little isolated palm-tree-lined beach, and inch toward the entrance to the bay. Suddenly, as if by magic, the wind and waves disappear, and a mangrove-lined channel opens up just beyond a wide, shallow bight. We drop the anchor, fall back to see if we like the placement, pick it up again in classic Take Two style, and re-anchor. It’s perfect. The captain agrees to give it a go, but we will only stay one night, so this is our only chance.
Everyone is moving again, like the waking dead, looking rumpled and groggy. “Where are we?” is the repeated question. And now that we are out of the wind, it’s hot. And at the mouth of Mosquito Bay, Sarah points out, it might be a buggy night. But I remain optimistic. Yes, it might be hot and buggy, but we’re in a safe place and, barring rain, we have a chance to go do something rare and interesting. Jay and I do a pre-dark recon by dinghy to see how far we have to paddle and what the bay looks like. We decide that I’ll kayak with the big kids and he will take the dinghy as a support vessel with our youngest crewmember, Rachel, who just turned five.
We make a quick dinner and drop the kayaks in the water. The sun sinks into the sea and stars begin to wink in the darkening sky. It is a moonless night, ideal for our purpose. We paddle down the long, serpentine entrance in the dark. There are a few sparkles in the water, but nothing we haven’t seen before. A fish darts away from the bow of my kayak and I see a streak of glowing green. Then the creek widens into a bay—something we feel more than see. The farther in we get, the brighter the swirls our paddles make in the water, until the water is unmistakably glowing. Fish dash in every direction leaving fiery trails like comets, the paddles come out dripping diamonds of light, and we leave glowing wakes behind us. The kids are all thinking the same thing and finally someone says it aloud: “Can we jump in?” If it weren’t so dark, Jay and I would exchange a parental glance. We had read that a girl was bitten by a shark in this bay a year ago and we instinctively know that swimming in a warm, shallow bay at night is a bad idea. But we say yes anyway. It’s irresistible—a chance to swim in liquid light. Our friends on a boat called Jalapeño said it was not to be missed—they went so far as to dare our kids to swim here if they ever got the chance.
Our fearless first-born jumps in first. His whole body is luminous. His hair is on fire with glints of green. One by one, we all immerse ourselves in what looks like radioactive liquid—even our timid five-year-old, who leaps in fully-clothed. Our hands and arms come out of the water scintillating like sequined opera gloves. The experience is thrilling, incomparable to anything we’ve seen or done. A kayak tour group emerges from a clump of mangroves and we have surely disturbed their quiet evening expedition with our riot of sound and light. We hop back in the kayaks after a while and play paddle-tag, using the glistening trails to chase each other through the dark. This is what that awful day at sea was for; it has made all the discomfort worthwhile, and I am quite literally glowing with happiness. As we paddle out of the bay, the glow fades, the streaks turning to mere sparkles again, and we head back for a freshwater rinse and bed.
Tomorrow, we’ll weigh anchor and head back out to sea. The waves will still be there, but hopefully we’ll have a better wind angle for sailing to St. Thomas. We’ll be sailing past Culebrita, with its famous “Jacuzzis,” a series of natural rocky pools on an island wildlife refuge. Our good friends on Abby Singer are anchored there, but time and weather do not allow for another stop, so we’ll have to catch up with them further “down island.” So goes the life afloat.
Sometimes we measure success on the boat by the absence of failure–nothing broke! Nothing leaked! No one got seasick today! Sometimes sailing looks merely like “not sinking.” There are glorious, wonderful, sparkling days, but they stand out in memory like an oasis in a desert of rough passages. “Staying afloat” acknowledges the hope-amidst-hardship of the sailing life. If it’s so hard, one might ask, why do we do it? Because despite the unpredictable and sometimes unpleasant nature of boating, the beauty, joy, and freedom we experience in nature, the sense of accomplishment we feel when we overcome a challenge, and the memories we make as a family while traveling make it all worthwhile.
Disappointment is a normal part of life on Planet Ocean. Our life and path are often dictated by things outside our control, like the weather, Jay’s work, or things that break unexpectedly. We may yearn to go somewhere but be unable to get there because it’s the wrong time of year, or the wind is blowing the wrong direction or speed. While we love to go off the beaten path, we can’t stay very long and keep the paychecks coming. This is partly why we have not crossed an ocean yet and why we waited so long to make the jump to the Caribbean. We needed the technology to catch up with our dream so that Jay could work from the boat wherever it was anchored. The tradeoff is that we get to live this way, instead of saving up for ten years so we can take a trip.
Then there are the things we can control. Every time we say “yes” to one thing, we have to say “no” to a thousand others, some of which may have been better than the one we chose. Often, we pray through a decision, and choose a counterintuitive path whose purpose is only revealed later. But there is no loss without some gain, and when we miss a time with old friends, for example, we have an opportunity to make new ones.
Our lost month in the Bahamas with Ally Cat was later spent in the Virgin Islands cruising with Abby Singer. Similarly, the weeks we might have spent with them in Culebra were used to earn income and tour Puerto Rico by car. A rough day at sea yielded a memorable night in a phosphorescent bay. Choosing to continue feeling disappointment about lost joys keeps us from experiencing new ones. We just need to stay afloat during the hard times so that we are ready when good times come again. This is one of the chief lessons we have learned from life on a boat, though not the first.
If you made it this far and want more, you’ll have to buy the book! Stay tuned…
I spent more than 18 years preparing my son and myself for this crossing, but it still feels surprising. After our thanksgiving cruise, Eli packed a bag, hopped in his truck and drove to Naples to work for my brother during his break between college semesters.
I thought he would be back after that, at least for a few months, but he’s decided to stay. He’s in a great place—he has a place to live, a job, classes he can take online, people to hang out with, and a support system of extended family. He was ready to go and we were ready for him to go. So why am I crying?
I feel the way I felt after giving birth: relieved, happy to meet the emerging person, and a little sad that the time of close companionship is at an end. All of childhood is a slow cutting of that umbilical cord.
I miss seeing Eli every day. I miss his sarcastic comments. I miss him during evening tidy-up, because he always took the initiative. I miss talking to him late at night. I miss his thoughtful comments during dinner conversations. I even miss the things that annoy me; I feel their absence. I knew it was my job to work myself out of a job. But the human heart is too small to house so many emotions—pride, joy, trepidation, sadness, longing, expectation, hope—all at once. They keep leaking out my eyes.
I’m taking nothing for granted this year. Things that would have seemed forgone conclusions in years past—hanging out with family on holidays, for example—have become special events for which we weigh risk and reward. For so many, it has been a hard year. Just like “love” and “friendship” are what we do despite differences and division, “gratitude” is what we do despite hardship. In the middle of all the losses, we look for small gains. And it gives us hope.
Despite so much bad news, we have been extremely fortunate this year. Jay has had plenty of work, we have food and shelter, we have our health, our family is intact, the older kids have been able to continue high school and college from home and take steps toward independence, and Sam and Rachel have continued with their studies and have been able to meet with a few friends despite the ongoing pandemic. I have been able to meet in person (at the beach) with my Wednesday morning Bible study—a group of true sisters for whose prayers and support I am especially thankful this year. And since returning to Florida, we have been able to spend precious time with our extended family. I have never been so aware of what—and who—is really important in my life.
I am under no illusions. Though some days I feel like the luckiest woman alive, I know how fragile life is and how quickly things can change. The ocean has certainly taught me that—one minute, you’re on the crest of a wave, scoping out the distant horizon, and the next you are plunged into the trough, surrounded by hills of foaming green water. Counting blessings is an important practice which can help us stay positive in the midst of negative circumstances—remembering and acknowledging good things can keep us afloat until we can see the horizon again.
As I approach another turn around the sun, here is my “thankful list”:
• We live in Florida, where we can be outside all year. The weather the last few weeks has been especially beautiful. Also, we survived another hurricane season in one piece!
• We have been homeschooling, working from home, and living self-sufficiently for a long time, so this year did not represent a major life shift as it did for so many. We chose to live in close quarters, and we acknowledge the privilege of that choice.
• I am thankful for the captain and crew of Take Two—for their hard work, their companionship, and the happy memories we have made together.
• We were able to go sailing in November—and experience probably the nicest overnight passage in our 12 years aboard Take Two on our way to Charlotte Harbor, where we met with Jay’s dad and stepmom, Al and Mary, and had a buddy-boating Thanksgiving. We loved our month of being neighbors with S/V Lovely Cruise.
• I was able to host my family in my home! It is a rare treat to share my floating life with my parents, in-laws, siblings, and nieces and nephews. I am so grateful for all of them.
• I got to spend time with several old friends this year—my mentor and home-school hero Mary Hines and her husband Jim (who planned our wedding and officiated, respectively, 23 years ago), my best friend from college, Heather, my friend Tarin who lived around the corner in our Clearwater neighborhood, my friend and fellow boat-mom from our first marina, Vicki (S/V Oddysea) and her niece Keren, and our friends from S/V Abby Singer, S/V Rothim, and S/V Cerca Trova.
• I even made some new friends, despite it being a year where people look at strangers like “purveyors of death” instead of “friends they haven’t met yet!” I am very thankful for the friends and neighbors aboard S/V Sputnik, S/V Must Love Dogs, S/V September Winds, S/V Tulsi, M/V Concrete Idea, S/V Watercolors, S/V Mysoun, and S/V Sweet Mary.
• We live in a quiet and relatively safe corner of the world, and we are surrounded by a wonderful tribe of homeschooling families. I am extremely grateful for this community. I can’t imagine a better place to weather these strange circumstances.
• I am so grateful for our friends in Venezuela, Providencia, and Guatemala, whose lives have been spared despite truly harrowing circumstances. We are praying for you every day.
• I am thankful for every sunrise, every sunset, every day I wake up on planet earth. I am thankful to God for the gift of life itself. May I never take it for granted and let no day go wasted.
Buddy-boating at Thanksgiving with Al and Mary Hackney on S/V Lovely Criuse
