Here is how an orange and child are alike:

They both have skin and flesh.
They both have convex surfaces.
They can both be cut pretty badly.
They can both be stitched up.

Here is how they differ:

Oranges do not scream or wiggle.
Oranges do not bleed bright red blood.
I do not have an emotional attachment to an orange.
If I fail to stitch up the orange correctly, there are no long-term consequences.

Jay and I just finished a two-day marine medicine seminar which covered most of the first aid skills we will need if (when) mishaps happen aboard our boat when out at sea. We should be able to take care of pretty much anything—with the right tools, knowledge of how to use them, and someone on the other end of the satellite phone telling us what to do next!

It should be reassuring to our parents (our children’s grandparents) that we are trying to round out our sailing education with classes teaching us how to deal with medical emergencies. I can tell you, though, that thinking about all the things that could happen is not very reassuring to me!

Incidentally, at the end of the orange rind experience, I came to the conclusion that stitches are a last resort—skin glue and medical staples are the way to go for a laceration!  A special thanks to Jeff Hazzard of Medi-Test and a fellow cruiser in SSCA for a great weekend of learning. 

Thunderstorms never freaked me out before. In fact, many nights I have gotten up to comfort a scared child during a thunderstorm and we ended up looking out of the window together with the kind of excitement one feels on the fourth of July during a fireworks show. There’s nothing better than a Florida thunderstorm for entertainment value (unless, like my husband, you consider hurricanes entertaining).  But when you live on a boat with a 68’ mast, lightning becomes a worrisome thing. 

Last night’s storms caused thousands of power outages and some minor damage—wind, rain and lightning-related. We were at a relatively safe and familiar anchorage, and we didn’t lose power (since we’re not on the grid), but it was the loudness, the closeness of the weather that scared me. It was the kind of lightning that you see even when your eyes are closed, and that sets the children’s Firefly toothbrushes to flashing. We couldn’t see the boat anchored next to us for the sheets of wind-blown rain.

Jay and I sat in the lightning-lit salon and wondered if we were going to have to don our foul weather gear and re-anchor. Thankfully, the anchor, at the end of 75 feet of chain, held well.  This was the first real storm we’ve seen on the boat.  Normally, we’re sitting comfortably tied to a dock, knowing the storm will pass, and that at least there are other tall things nearby that might channel the lightning if it strikes. But it feels different in an anchorage, with the boat moving around a Iot more, and 20 knots of breeze feels like 30 out on the open water. I wouldn’t have wanted to be at sea in a storm like that.

Storms at sea.

This thought makes me shudder a bit. Until the children are older, we will always be “short handed” (meaning less than four able crewmen). One person has to be at the helm while the other is navigating, or is off-watch on a long passage. Otto (a.k.a. Autopilot) does a good job steering so we don’t have to actually man the wheel, but one person still has to be outdoors, keeping a lookout, following a course, adjusting the sails, making sure we don’t run aground, or, worse, run into another ship. Somebody is going to get wet, cold and tired, and maybe seasick at the same time.

We will sail conservatively and wait for weather windows, but we will certainly be caught in a few nasty squalls, at least.  We may even go out in wet and windy weather on purpose, to get practice. But as of this moment, we are still untried and untested. I have always felt completely unworthy of this life. From the sidelines, I always admired cruising women who opted for a life of adventure, who were able to rough it and face danger with composure. I’m a wimp, really.  But if I felt worthy or ready, it would be sure sign that I’m not.

Take Two has entered a new phase as a family cruising vessel. The boat was charmingly simple, with a one-fuel system, when we bought it. One fuel means 200 gallons of diesel to run everything—engines and generator, for propulsion and electrical appliances, including a 17-year-old BOSCH oven and ceramic cook-top. We liked the one-fuel system, but it required a lot of generator run-time, which is noisy, and the wear and tear on the electrical system ultimately means expensive battery replacement every couple years. Most cruisers espouse two views about energy use: there should be some redundancy in case of failure, and greener is better. If the generator fails, how would we cook? And why not use the sun to keep our food cool and make fresh water?

After agonizing over the details, we decided to make a fundamental change to Take Two and make her more sustainable and energy-efficient. A welder is working on an archway/bimini (i.e. cockpit shade) where we will mount solar panels and hoist the new inflatable dinghy out of the water. Jay heroically removed the ancient, noisy and heat-belching BOSCH and installed a brand-new four-burner propane oven/stove. Only boat people will appreciate this, but this is not a marine unit with an oven too tiny to make lasagna—I can get two 15” cookie sheets in there, or simultaneously bake four loaves of bread. It works beautifully and we christened her with my sister-in-law’s best cookie recipe: coconut-chocolate chip-almond-oatmeal cookies. It is a happy day for this galley slave, I can tell you that much!

I was reminded this week as I got together with an old friend, or rather, a friend from the old neighborhood, how good it is to have true fellowship with someone. This is a person (you know who you are!) who sees me as I am and likes me anyway, with whom I can rant, cry, laugh, pray, troubleshoot and commiserate. We don’t always agree, but we do always speak the truth in love. Although this kind of thick-or-thin friendship seems to be a rare and beautiful thing, in God’s kingdom it is in no short supply. I have always found a friend in the places I have moved—at least one, true, loyal and kindred spirit with whom to share the journey. How is this possible? If you count the number of times I have moved in my life, it is surprising that I always find this person, and find her so soon after moving. I can no longer think it a coincidence.

We were bemoaning the physical distance between us. An hour’s drive is prohibitive when you have young children. We often meet in the middle (both physically and metaphorically), but although distance makes the heart grow fonder, it doesn’t do much for keeping in touch day-to-day. We really miss each other, and our kids are suffering withdrawal from their playmates as well. It’s hard to find a good thing and then leave it behind, and maybe harder to find a good thing and have it leave you behind. We were each committed to praying that the other would find fellowship on the new path on which she finds herself.

The very next day, the next day I tell you, I met the new friend. A Gulfstar 53 sailboat with a live-aboard family with four home-schooled boys moved in almost directly in front of us on the next dock over. We had heard rumors that a family was coming in, but we didn’t dare hope for one so like ours. As it turns out, Vicki’s strategy when they move to a new place (they’ve lived aboard for five years), is to pray that God would send her a friend. Both her prayer and mine were answered in less than 24 hours!  I had so longed for a boat-mom friend, so much that I didn’t realize it until I met Vicki. I actually cried during the first meeting! (How embarrassing!)

Since their arrival, we have had time to do “church” together on the weekends, go on a dinghy outing, take the kids to the park and start to show them all of our favorite local spots. They, in turn, have given us quiet moments (a rarity here) when all the kids “went next door” and reminded us why we like living this way so much while encouraging us to keep pressing forward (“you have no idea what fun awaits you!”). Their kids are well-behaved, imaginative, articulate and well-matched to ours—playmates from the first moment they met.  I am too happy and thankful to properly express my exuberance. I hope I don’t scare them off with my enthusiasm…

This all reminds me to remind you to ask. Just ask. Sometimes the answer is no—after all, His grace is sufficient for us. But it pleases a loving God to show us love in a personal way, sometimes through the people He sends our way. I will definitely be following Vicki’s example as we come to new places and asking for a friend. But whatever it is that you lack—ask Him first. And then expect the implausible and maybe even impossible.

“Why are we still here?” We asked ourselves. “It’s in the sixties today in the Bahamas. Should we have kept going after Thanksgiving?”

Our ducks are not all in a row, it seems. The house sits empty, repairs underway but no sign in the yard. On the boat, several major projects are in progress. The propane stove/oven is on order, and the batteries have to be replaced. The water-maker is being repaired and Jay is, at this very moment, in the bowels of the ship cleaning out bilges and fuel tanks. 

But the cold weather that came—and stayed—made us long for points further south. Part of the reason we live in Florida is because we hate cold weather. We have no longing for the high latitudes, and will feel perfectly satisfied sticking to the tropics. The arctic blast that hit us caught us off-guard. I rushed out to buy more down blankets. Nights that dipped below freezing and left frost on the dock and ice on our transoms made sleeping difficult, even with the space heater running and hats on.  That was January, and February hasn’t been much better.

We stayed on the boat during the cold snap because it was the right thing to do. Our house has almost nothing left in it, kids’ beds among the things given away. Packing up and moving out of our home, unless there is a hurricane coming and we can’t get out of its way, isn’t really an option. We camped out upstairs for several days because it was just too chilly to go down into the hulls, where it hovered around water temperature, 50˚. It was fun in its own way, though I have a new appreciation for the term “cabin fever.”  We are able to wait things out because we know it’s temporary. If we can’t hack a week of cold, how will we survive a storm at sea? Or a week of rain? 

Cruisers talk of waiting for a weather window—a time when conditions are favorable for leaving an anchorage to make a passage. We are waiting for a window of sorts, a time when we can leave the house in the good hands of a realtor and have the boat ready to leave the dock. After moving aboard, that is the next logical step. It is just wrong to keep this boat tied up all the time. We are doing this so that we can be out there, not stuck at the dock. It is easy to say “Find a stopping point, set a date and go!” But it is harder to discern readiness and act accordingly. The boat must be safe and main systems operable. The people may never be really ready to go on an adventure, but they should also have done their homework. We want to be safe and have a smooth transition to cruising full-time, which is why people wait for a window in the first place. At the same time, a quest for safety and comfort works against efforts to leave!

The bottom line: we will wait for the right time, and we will know when that time comes. We always do. It’s a little like falling in love. How will you know when you’ve met the person you will spend your life with? You just know. It may take work and patience to persevere after the fact, but you’ll recognize the right thing when it comes. We are not in a big rush—that would be foolhardy, but we are not dragging our heels, either. Our family strongly believes in waiting for God’s timing, so that is what we will do. And in the meantime, we will bundle up and be thankful for whatever weather we’re having, because it could always be worse!

I wish my friends could see me now. Call me suspicious, but I think at least a few acquaintances thought that I would be disillusioned, if not disappointed by now. A week’s vacation on a boat sounds very romantic and adventurous, but surely living on one with four children can’t meet those glossy cruising magazine expectations. It is true that some things are harder and less pleasant than I guessed, but they are the intangibles, like becoming more flexible or patient, being comfortable with lack of control over my circumstances and physical space. Others are downright unromantic, like no-see-um bites or the Jabsco hand-pump head (toilet), especially when the joker valve needs replacing.

But things like doing the dishes or laundry by hand have turned out to be more romantic than I first imagined, the mundane tasks often becoming infused with beauty. Laundry on a breezy, sunny day is actually a fun family project. Tonight I did the dishes by starlight in the cockpit surrounded by mangrove islands, the water twinkling with bioluminescence, in the company of porpoises who would surface every few minutes to take a breath. Falling asleep in starlight with the hatch open above my head never ceases to make me giddy with delight.  I never tire of seeing the sunrise and sunset; it is a daily dose of glory, reminding me to be thankful for every day. Yesterday we woke to a thick fog, and I felt as if we were our own private island, a cozy oasis from the damp gray water world outside. This life often exceeds my expectations, and is most pleasant when I don’t even know what to expect.

There are always challenges—I never know until we arrive somewhere whether or not we are going to pull it off or have to head back to the dock. Generator trouble on our way out of the Manatee River the morning we left almost derailed our 2nd Annual Turkey Day Cruise. Watermaker troubles the night before had kept Jay up late preparing for the trip. Next on the list is figuring out what’s wrong with the macerator that helps us empty the sewage holding tank offshore. After that, he’ll investigate a voltage problem with one of our battery banks. If we are going to be self sufficient, a few systems have to be in working order, namely, power, water and waste! Just when we fix one thing—the new steering system seems to be working smoothly—something else breaks, like one of the desalinator pumps.

But even those things, although they cause temporary inconvenience, don’t really wreck the day. Jay excels at solving problems, and is never happier than when he has figured something out. It does take time, energy and money, but we seem to have just what we need at the right moment. I am feeling so grateful for the opportunity to live our dream that I am willing to put up with almost any inconvenience or trouble. It is a beautiful life, and, by God’s grace, we have slowed down enough to really see and enjoy it. For this and countless other blessings, we are truly thankful.

Back to (Boat)School

The beginning of a school year can be a lonely time for homeschooling moms.  Several friends echoed my melancholy sentiments and said it wasn’t just because I moved away—I would be lonely even in my old environment. Some of the children’s friends go back to school and are no longer available to get together at convenient times, and the moms are either running the kids to and from school and various lessons and practices, or, like me, are hitting the books with their own kids and have time for little else. Of course, unlike me, they tend to live in regular neighborhoods in houses that stay put, with friends that mostly stay put. I am learning to be content to have Jay and the kids as my only daily companions—we have become a very close family (in more ways than one!).

Aside from a few moments of missing my friends and what used to be normal routines, I am really happy here, and our school year is going really well. Last year, we were constantly coming and going, packing and unpacking, so to have entire uninterrupted weeks and months to focus on our unit studies, I feel like we are making up for lost time this fall. Sam is a little older, too, so he can sit still on my lap while I read, and can be given things to do on his own while I teach the older kids and help them stay on task.

We just finished a unit study entitled, “Myths, Legends, and Fables” which introduced Ancient Greece and covered everything from Hercules to Aesop.  That morphed into an additional month of astronomy, of course, with almost all the heavenly bodies in some way related to the ancient names and stories. I learned so much—I was a good student, but I feel like there were things missing in my education that I am now learning as I teach my children.

It makes perfect sense for us to homeschool our children—what school would tolerate our schedule? Who would give a five year-old second grade work? Since when is tree climbing part of the P.E. curriculum? And aside from my objections to public school in general, the main reasons we homeschool our children have nothing to do with escaping negative things, but rather being drawn to all the positives.

I love homeschooling my children. It is not always easy (actually, it is rarely easy), but I do love spending my days adventuring through books, through history, and through nature with these interesting, intelligent, and funny people. I would hate to miss out on all their successes and failures; I want to be the one to see the mental light bulbs switch on, and to help them to persevere through disappointments.

I also have the insider’s view on the developing relationships between siblings, which brings both joy and frustration. I spend a lot of time teaching conflict resolution, but there are also precious moments. Last night I taught Sam and Sarah the art of snuggling; we climbed into Sarah’s bunk and sang songs and told stories, wiggled and tickled. The only way I could get Sam to climb down and go to sleep in his own berth was to promise more tomorrow! I frequently have to hush the boys at night as their storytelling gets out of hand with sound effects and fits of laughter. I have often wondered if the relationships in my own family growing up would have been closer without the pressures of a school schedule and social strata. I see that although it is nice to have other families with whom we can get together for play time, we are a pretty self-sufficient unit. I am very glad we have four children as they provide plenty of social interaction for each other (and us!).

I love that we don’t have to rush. We can go at whatever pace is necessary; slow down to savor the good stuff, speed up when things are going smoothly, or take time off when we need it. Because we opted to live on a boat and forgo the “normal” life, we also don’t have lots of running in different directions like headless chickens. I apologize to any of you who may read this and take offense—there’s nothing wrong with being on a schedule or being busy, it’s just that we’d rather be on “island time.”

I love the planning part of teaching perhaps more than the implementation, and that fun is doubled in homeschooling because I can draw on such a wide variety of resources: field trips relevant to our unit of study, cultural events, art exhibits, local parks and nature preserves, the public library, and anything else that you can imagine. Things seem to providentially fall into place, making the synthesis easy. Pertinent library books practically jump off the shelves into my hands, the museum of which we are members hosts exhibits that coincide with our studies as if on command and everything flows very naturally from school to real life.  

Last, but perhaps greatest, I know that I am doing something meaningful and enduring with my life. Not only can I infuse my children’s education with cohesive, interconnected and meaningful studies, but I will be simultaneously learning and expanding my own understanding. I will never regret the time and energy investment as we will all be reaping the rewards, perhaps for a few generations. Our closeness as a family is worth every difficulty we may face in this journey.

I can’t say whether anyone else should or should not homeschool their children. I only know that there is nothing else I would rather be doing with my life. I have my dream job: mother-teacher- baker-writer-sailor. Lucky, lucky me.

I try to tell him often how thankful I am for all he does, but I’d like to brag about Jay publicly for a moment. Over the past year, he has shown me again and again why he is not only the perfect husband for me, but also why there’s no one else I’d rather go adventuring with. I mean, the dude can fix anything. You name it, he’s done it: plumbing toilets and sinks, water tanks, electrical, water heater, air conditioning, engine repair—even epoxy and Awl Grip are no match for Jay.

It is true he is not the most romantic or communicative man around, and we all have our areas of weakness, but he is so good at plodding along, one foot in front of the other, toward a goal. I admire his ability to detach emotionally from a problem and find a way to solve it.  (Maybe that’s why he’s no Romeo—I am a bit like a problem that needs solving, sometimes…) I know it is hard for him to balance work, projects, and family time, not to mention selling a house, traveling cross-country and trying to enjoy a little time on the water.

The tasks Jay takes on are often Herculean, but with his sensible nature, he reminds us all that slow and steady wins the race. (Can you tell we are studying Ancient Greece in our homeschool right now, with a focus on myths and fables?) Someday, our home will sail into the distance because he, little by little, discovered what makes this boat tick and repaired the things that don’t tick quite right. I just love that man.

Today I mark the passing of a friend. Sibyl was someone we met here, a friend of a friend on our dock. I will miss her greatly. I wrote this poem in tribute; she was a bird lover, an ornithologist as well as marine biologist. Her two cockatoos, Scout and Spike, were favorites with my kids. 

For Sibyl

I hope it doesn’t sound absurd
To say my friend was like a bird:

Often fussy, known to preen,
But sensitive to things unseen.

Sometimes silly, sometimes wise,
She had the knowing kind of eyes.

Always friendly and gregarious,
Loved to cackle, often hilarious.

Ruffled or flustered, would sometimes brood,
Needed some coaxing to alter her mood.

Had a gentle and caring way about her—
I can’t imagine the world without her.

Sometimes she tired of her earthly cage
And flapped and battered clipped wings in rage.

I wished for nothing more than this: that she
Could fly from her troubles and be free.

Fly free, my friend, fly free.