We pulled Take Two out today to do some work below the waterline.  It is always a little bit of an ordeal because of her 26' beam.  On the Florida West Coast our haulout options are few and far between.  The yards here that can handle our width use marine railways instead of lifts.  I'd never seen it done and was a little nervous about the process. 

They use a large sled sitting on rails and controlled by cables from a large winch.

They lower it down the rails and into the water.

The boat is carefully positioned over blocks on the sled.

Then they pull it back up the rails and Voila! we're out.

We’re in the middle of a homeschooling unit about the scientific method. Conveniently, we’re also in the middle of a big family experiment. So here’s our lab write-up, of sorts.

Question: Are we ready to move aboard full-time?

Research:  

  1. We know how to live on the boat for short periods.
  2. We love being on the water.
  3. We’re tired of packing and unpacking all the time.
  4. We can’t seem to maintain both a house and a boat.
  5. We’re not that attached to our land life.

Hypothesis: We think we’re ready.

Experiment: Move aboard for one month, bringing the cats. See if we can work, do school and live without all our normal stuff and routines. 

Results/Analysis:
1. I can’t take it all with me.
That I already knew. But after unloading all the stuff I packed for a month, I realized that I can’t take even a fraction of the stuff I thought I could. I brought ten changes of clothes for each person (that would be maximum allowable based on storage space) which allows for laundry flexibility. I brought a few days’ worth of fresh food stores and a 9×13” dish (which the boat didn’t have) but none of my “necessary” kitchen gadgets like the Vita-Mix or Food Saver. I brought everything I thought I would need for a month of boat-school, but left most of the math manipulatives, art supplies and other “necessary” homeschool items at home. The kids did not bring any extra toys or activities, and I did not pack very many books. Our large library at home may be the hardest thing to leave behind.

2. Living aboard is different than visiting.
We’ve been doing the weekend thing for a year now, but this really feels different. The first Monday morning was the worst, but it improved to better-than-normal after that. Since the boat is a weekend/play place for the kids and a relaxing place for the adults, it was hard at first to get into a normal working routine. Getting children to do handwriting when they’d rather be crabbing is like pulling teeth.  And never-mind about keeping the two-year-old out of trouble while the others are doing schoolwork. Play-Doh and Duplo blocks only go so far. The trampolines and fishing rods are much more interesting, but could lead to an un-intended swim for the toddler (and whichever adult hears the splash first). And while I have always appreciated how easy a smaller space is to clean, I never realized how tidy it must be kept in order to keep it safe and chaos-free. One of the more pleasant realizations is that we are extremely comfortable and cozy here, and it’s so nice not to have to pack/unpack every few days. And the constant awareness of sea, sky, wind and wildlife adds patterns of beauty and wonder to every day.

3. It’s going to be a long time before the boat is “ready.”
Some people never leave for an extended cruise because the boat is never quite ready enough, but there are a few essential systems that must be operational before one goes out on the open ocean.  Freshwater storage is one (we’re currently able to store 50 gallons instead of the usual 200, while Jay searches for the best liner/bladder for the newly epoxied tanks). Engines are another (time to figure out if they need repairing or replacing). Food preparation must not be forgotten—a cooler and freezer full of ice bottles work fine for the time being, but the system itself is both broken and inefficient (Jay has to build a fridge from scratch to do it well), and the stove/oven are ancient and must be replaced. Part of our experiment here is to see if we are able to go about our daily business surrounded by the mess of projects large and small. Like replacing hoses or pumps on the single working head, just to name one. This endeavor requires longsuffering and heroic patience.

4. We don’t need that much to be happy.
We have always striven to live simply, but living on a boat takes it to a new level. And we’re not even on the minimalist end of the spectrum. There are some (like Lin and Larry Pardy) who cruise the oceans of the world sans electricity, engines, pressured water or refrigeration. Granted, we don’t have a working fridge at the moment, but we have many, many comforts. We are quickly acclimatizing to not using the A/C (ask me again in August). I don’t miss my washer and dryer—doing laundry at the dock house isn’t that hard or inconvenient, and buying an electric washer for the boat adds up to a LOT of quarters, so we won’t do that until we get ready to leave leave. The kids need very few toys to keep them entertained. Books, games, puzzles, legos, cars, dolls and other small toys seem to do the trick quite well. Not that homeschooled children have that much play time anyway—there are always schoolwork and chores, not to mention spending time outside. Rainy days are tricky, and the occasional movie on the laptop saves the day. But I might go so far as to postulate that the less stuff we have, the happier we are.

5. It was hard to come home.
This is especially true as I began to feel confused about where home is. It was unexpectedly hard to come back to the house. The experiment was a success, for the most part. We still have a dilemma about the cats because they don’t fit into our long-term plans, but there’s no dilemma about us. We are happy on the water, living on the boat, at anchor or at the dock. I won’t go so far as to say we are ready, because that invites trouble, but we are as ready as we ever will be, and definitely willing.  I found that I need very little to be happy, so coming home to a house full of things was, as one friend put it, like culture shock. We have so much stuff—and I have no idea how to sort through all of it and reduce it to what we can bring with us or store in a small unit. And even though I began months ago to give to friends some treasured items, I have yet to weed through every item in every room and decide where it goes. That is a daunting task. Furthermore, I miss seeing the sunset, feeling the gentle motion of the boat beneath me, being outside. We feel so alive on Take Two—it is a sensory feast to be on the water—so many sights and smells and feelings, so that I feel a bit closed in at the house. I can’t even tell you from which direction the wind is blowing. 

Conclusion:

We have come a long way in a year: from our first sleepless night aboard exactly a year ago last Friday (we celebrated with root-beer floats) to feeling like strangers in our own house!  I guess this means we are no longer dirt-dwellers and sea fever has truly infected us. Even though it’s going to be hard to say good-bye to our life here—to friends and family and to some treasured items (i.e. books), we will all be happy to move more permanently to our home on the water. If anybody out there is looking for a four-bedroom house in Clearwater, drop us a line…

We’ve been spending more time on the boat recently, trying to see what “regular” life is like here, not just week-end retreats. For anyone interested, here is the outline of a typical day on the boat, which resembles our life on land, only with the chaos stuffed into a smaller space that moves (and breaks).

Reading back over this list, I realize that this is not a typical day, but an ideal day. There are often so many other things that intrude, like housework, laundry processing, bread-baking, visiting with friends, shopping and field trips, that it’s hard to say what a typical day is like. All of these things do happen, but not necessarily in this order or with such neat organization. Life sort of just happens, and maybe that’s better anyway.

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! 

Website maintainance has never been real high on my list, but it came to my attention today that the email function hasn't been working correctly.  Since we were depending on email notifications for comment moderation, that hasn't been happening.   So the bad news is that if you sent us email through the website during the last year… um, we didn't get it.  Sorry.  But the good news is that now we will.  Hooray! 

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.