The Superpower of Women

Honestly, I've wrestled with how to even begin this. I never intended this space to become a chronicle of my mental health, but I realize the importance of sharing an authentic perspective of a life not many experience. A perspective in which even the most beautiful sunsets are heartbreaking when you understand that wherever you go, there you are. So how have I managed to become more lost than I ever have been living these last few months in a tropical paradise?

The motor sail from Miami to the Bahamas was as boring as any sailor could ever wish for, no unexpected weather patterns, just hours of humming along into sunlit blue skies. We checked in at Bimini in the rolliest anchorage we have seen yet. Literally rocking toe rail to toe rail in the ocean waves off the beach. But amidst the physical discomfort, a deeper unease had settled.

I had been making my way down the slippery slope of losing myself for months now. I'm not sure where the trailhead was marked, but I think it's somewhere among the trees of other voices that started to drown out my own. They call it 'people-pleasing,' but it feels more like a slow leak, draining my energy as I strive to fill others' cups. I'm tirelessly, bailing water from every vessel but my own. Yes, helping is good, but when it erodes your boundaries, it becomes a disservice to all. One could argue it's actually a form of manipulation wrapped around the need to use others opinions to boost your own self-worth. Funny thing, the world is a mirror, reflecting the self-respect we already hold – or lack. In the absence of people to please, a stark realization emerged: my inability to please myself is the root of it all.

The more anxious and scared I became about my surroundings, the more I grasped onto external stimulation, searching for affirmations and further abandoning the introspection needed to process a transition like this. My part-time work as a resume coach became a full-time chain to my desk. In the evening my nose was usually stuck in my phone reading an article about the awfulness that is happening in our world feeling more and more helpless to help. My daily tasks of boat's chores, upkeep, and existence became more and more tedious to deal with. I became obsessed with being a good employee, a good citizen of the world, a good partner, that I wasn't allowing myself to just be me. I stopped doing the little things that I know bring me joy. I stopped creating, reaching out to friends, singing at the top of my lungs, swaying my hips to music as I make coffee, noticing the beauty around me. When I opened the floodgates to all the other shouting, I lost MY voice, MY inner guidance. That voice, once a constant companion, however often I may have chosen to ignore it, was now a hollow silence.

Despite my efforts to contain it, my quiet depression began to take up space. It took up space in my mind when we lay watching shooting stars at night. It took up space in crystal-clear waters while amazed at the vibrant, indescribable neon colors of the parrotfish swimming by. It lay heavy on my heart as we celebrated my 40th birthday walking the beach, combing for delicate shells like treasures in the sand. The beauty around me only served to highlight the distance between my experience and what "could be." Guilt and shame followed quickly behind as I blamed myself for letting this opportunity slip through my fingers, and worse ruining the adventure for the person I love most in this world.

I had gotten caught up in a cycle of negativity. One negative thought led to another, then multiplied to the nth degree of a spiraling, cyclone out-of-control. It all finally came crashing down somewhere between Staniel and Big Major Cay. And in that moment of collapse, I was reminded, yet again, of the extraordinary power found in the sisterhood of women. I called all my lifelines that day and then the next and the next. I have been held in their words and love, their empathy and support, their kindness and their strength, their knowing of my heart as they told it back to me. I could feel the slivers of light peeking through.

When we anchored in Black Pointe, I was fortunate to converse with a lovely new friend. She was kind enough to share with me how hard the first year of cruising was for her. She said she cried every day for six months, and in that moment, tears of relief rolled down my cheeks. Relief in a shared experience. Relief in seeing her resilience and the hope that I could come to love this life or at least the rest of this journey. I was so encouraged by our exchange I decided to begin again as ME. I have started to pick up the joys I know and love, I have started to set boundaries, I have started to regain my self-worth. Oh, and yes, I started counseling; hahaha, you better believe I started seeking professional help. I can confidently say I am doing so much better.

I am so very fortunate and grateful to have the support that I do. I am coming out of this downward spiral and gaining some perspective. I am taking steps to live this beautiful, heartbreaking, joyful, scary, magnificent life for ME. Yes, alongside my partner, but still for ME. What we are doing is not a vacation; it's our life, so we can't abandon the integral parts of ourselves. I have to find time for creativity, dancing, and singing at the top of my lungs, and community. We WILL be making more time for community!

I have so many wonderful things to look forward to. I am so grateful and excited to say that in three days, my best friend will be flying in for a visit, and shortly after, we have a visit from another beautiful soul. We have also changed up our cruising route, switching to the Abacos in search of more possible buddy boats and socialization. I have been doing the small things I can to participate in standing up for what I believe is right. I am picking up the paint swatches and fabric samples to not give up on MY dream. Please know, I am doing really well and so proud of myself for the effort and progress I am making. I will try and share more of the amazing parts of this trip, but I wanted an opportunity to continue to share my experience, especially now that I feel it could be helpful to other women who have found themselves trying to dream someone else's dream.

Ok - enough of that - Here are some amazing things that have happened so far: See photos!!
pod of 7 dolphins welcoming us to Honeymoon Harbor

Patrick becoming a sourdough bread-baking fiend

lots and lots of sea turtles

almost getting sick of lobster we ate so much of it in Morgan's Bluff

all the new friends we have met, however fleeting our time together was

seeing the green flash in Black Pointe

finally growing my sea legs and getting over motion sickness - knock on wood

the sunset we watched in Mackie Shoal surrounded by nothing but water all around us

When the Going Gets Tough

 We were leaving Fort Pierce. Once again guided by the weather, instead of overnighting to Key Biscayne, we'd take a shorter, 10-hr offshore jump to West Palm Beach, avoiding the incoming high winds but still inching that much closer to our Bahamian goal. The morning was rife with tension, not uncommon for offshore days. Deep water can put nerves on edge. The waves were a little  bigger than what was  forecasted. It seemed we were locking ourselves into an uncomfortable ride. I started asking questions. I do that. Grasping at every angle of the situation, trying to gain my grip, I can turn into an inquisitive toddler real quick. It was sharply pointed out to me that if I hadn't participated in the prep work for the offshore test we were currently on, then I needed to zip it, be helpful and save the questions for the planning phase of the next offshore quiz. Truth hurts. I'd skirted this responsibility before. One might say it has been a pattern in the past to skip over the prep work and go along for the ride. Hurt feelings weren't exactly the companion I was hoping for on this undulating, proprioceptive challenge, but who wouldn't want to spend 10 hours in complete silence, using their nausea to fuel the anger simmering below.

When we finally made it into the long inlet that is the Lake Worth runway, we had the pleasure of sharing it with every giant fishing boat racing home for dinner. We would steady ourselves from "Reely Fishy's” wake only to be immediately knocked off balance again by "Take the Bait." I could already tell this place was not my vibe. I love the quaint fishing town with a pier and local drinking hole. West Palm Beach was a drastic contrast of overstimulation. Mansion, mansion, mansion, giant yacht, giant yacht, giant yacht. It felt disgusting. How do so many people have this kind of money? I don't quote scripture often, but the eye of the needle fable seems fitting. 

Patrick and I had already worked through the morning spat. The boat is a good mediator, like many other things, there simply is no space for unresolved issues. He was now sweetly trying to convince me to take a long dinghy ride to shore.Something about my feet on land helping me feel better. I didn't want to go. Didn't want to feel so out of place in a place I didn't care to know, and frankly the promise of a post motor day hot shower was calling my name. The mention of tacos got my shoes on and before I knew it I was tasting salt spray on my lips, my partially damp jeans sticking to my thighs. When will I learn, denim does not dry. With Fajita in tow, we were seated outside as always, comfortably tolerating the drizzle, but picking up our pace to gobble down our dinner before the looming downpour commenced. One beer, 5 tacos, the usual guac, queso, salsa combo and $130 later I was sure this place was not for us. We rode back to the boat in the pouring rain ready to sleep it off and get moving in the morning. 

We woke up with a plan to GTFO. We'd run Fajita to shore then it'd be engines on, anchor up, peace out.  Only one problem, no dinghy. It was gone, disappeared, at what time we don't know. I let the reality sink in. Not only were we stuck in this god forsaken anchorage, but now literal prisoners of the boat. Ok what's the next right thing...Radio the coast guard. 

It's funny how small the sailing world is.  A sweet couple we met and casually chatted with back in Oriental, NC heard us on the radio and messaged Patrick within minutes. They were serendipitously in the same anchorage, and could even see our boat. Crazy luck. We had a ride to shore and a little bit of relief.

Seems as karmic lessons tend to do, we were being hit with another reminder to slow down. Moving everyday is for the birds anyway, so I welcomed the opportunity to give the boat a much needed wipe down. We took time to nurture ourselves with movement, breath, and stillness even while zooming boats were doing their part to maintain the rockiest anchorage possible. The cabin felt like a washing machine, turned all way to deeply soiled. Unable to spend too long below deck, I took sanctuary in the sunlit cockpit and recharged my batteries with FaceTime chats from friends and family. 

While we waited a couple of days to see if Tink (our dinghy) would turn up, hoping she got stuck under some dock and would be reported, Patrick was diligently scouring Facebook marketplace for other options. He found a possibility, a one-season-at-most,used dinghy, but with a higher powered engine that had potential for comfortably speeding us around. We were very much ready to seek greener pastures and since Tink had not reappeared a deal was made and the dinghy was promptly delivered to our boat. We were no longer trapped and could thankfully run poor Fajita to shore, but the engine was so heavy it took strategic planning, teamwork, and mechanical maneuvering to hoist to and from Neverland — not ideal for everyday use. I could tell Patrick was starting to feel a little defeated, nevertheless we would batten down the hatches and stow things away, planning to leave first thing the next morning.

The alarm went off and determined to take a more active approach in curbing my anxiety I decided to dig into the bag of tools that has helped in the past.  Somatic exercises, which includes a really cold shower first thing in the morning. It's best to get your face wet first, it kind of shocks you past the discomfort straight into power up superhero mode. I knew it was going to be a good day because I was prepared to will it. The new dinghy gave us a couple of issues, but I kept pushing us forward,. We can do this, we can figure it out together. Just one foot in front of the other and we would put this place in our rear view. 

Once we started pulling away, the winds of luck seemed to change. We timed the bridges perfectly, not hitting a pause until we had Boca Raton in sight. Our destination was a calm little lake with plenty of comforts in walking distance, a hopeful quiet respite. I was so grateful to this morning of character building, it seems there was a new lesson learned, we do choose our good days. We were building that resilience, as a good friend reminded me when the going gets tough, the tough get tougher.  

As of now we are in Boca Raton still — planning on heading toward Miami on Tuesday.

Hard Days Night

Determined to stay one step ahead of the Polar Vortex, we were considering trying to make our first overnight jump from Charleston to Fernandina Beach. It appeared the element were conspiring, coaxing us toward the deep blue ocean. With waves at 2-3 ft and a 5-6 second period, we were hopeful for the most comfortable ride yet

Really, fingers crossed because surprise, surprise the girl who has always gotten car sick gets sea-sick. I have high hopes though, each time has gotten easier. And the best thing about motion sickness, it's temporary, once you stop, it stops.

I had my nausea prevention strategy in place. No coffee the morning of, make sure I have a full belly before we take off, and half a Dramimine, which does come with drowsiness and irritability (I don’t care what the label says), but with a pay off of no puking, we’ll take it .

The forecast also promised gentle westerly winds with gusts at 12-17 knots, nothing to be too nervous about, especially with our sails double-reefed. This would put us on a delightful beam reach. Our boat loves a beam reach. She's fast on a beam reach. Ok, ok what is a beam reach. - it's a point of sail, which refers to the positioning of the wind on your boat to which you adjust your sails accordingly.

If you are taking the wind in the most uncomfortable position, right up the nose, you are ‘in irons’, meaning your boat is literally paralyzed by the wind. This is why it’s the position you put the boat in to raise and lower the sails. A little further back from that and you are ‘closed hauled’, moving, but an uphill battle for sure with your sails trimmed tightly to the boat. Easier and still upwind sailing is ‘close reach’, when the wind is grazing the cheeks of your boat. But the real joy? A ‘beam reach’! The wind kisses your ears of your boat, the sails billow out, and you glide along, a vision of grace and speed. And then there’s ‘running’ with the wind at your back, a thrilling but terrifying pursuit, where the sudden, unexpected ‘accidental jibe’ is ever lurking (look it up). There are more points of sail to consider, but for our purposes, those will suffice.

We woke in pitch black to get the boat moving before slack tide turned into a ripping current. We were pushed off the dock by 5:30, and I was dutifully stationed at the front of the boat, spotlight in hand, searching frantically for crab pots in the dark. Determined to do better than my first game of crab pot hunt, a pathetic 1 for 7 before Patrick, at the helm thankfully still managed to spot them - to be fair it was a beautiful sunrise and I was capturing the moment.

The slow crawl out of the inlet seemed to last an age. It was cold, the bitter wind biting at my face, or maybe it was the sting of my tears as I reflected on the far too short Charleston visit. Not enough time with friends and family and far too little raw oysters enjoyed. I needed that time, those visits, those hugs, and encouragements. I will go ahead and fully admit, this transition has not been the easiest for me. Patrick was been born for this, while I feel like I’m struggling to tread water, gasping for air as I unavoidably gulp down mouthfuls of salty ocean waves.

There have been moments where I thought to myself, ‘I hate this’, but I am committed to this experience. I don't want ‘I hate this’ to become my mantra and seep into my subconscious every time something is challenging. So, instead I acknowledge the discomfort. It's uncomfortable, I'm uncomfortable, but unlike hate ‘uncomfortable’ allows for growth. The most beautiful orchids are known to bloom in the most challenging terrain.

Comfort, I’ve learned can stunt your growth. It wasn't until I faced a little adversity that I began to see real change in myself. Sailing is another spoonful of that adversity, with the added benefit of a built-in cheering section. Every other sailor on the water. They have tasted the pain, disappointment, frustration, fear, and hardship that this life throws your way. But they’ve also been on the other side. They know it's worth pushing through. I’ve been told, cruising on a sailboat is experiencing high highs and low lows. Talk about a crash course in emotional regulation.

So yes, this was my state of mind as we were attempting our first overnight, an uneasy prospect for someone who still occasionally panics in elevators. It would be a leap into the unknown - - haha sorry, side note giggle as I write this and think of my cutie patootie little friend Maya, one of my best friend’s daughters, who loves Frozen and has been known to say“I hear them calling me momma” — into the unknown - - I felt like I was venturing into the unknown.

Once we hit offshore and fluffed out our sails, we were on a lovely albeit, little out of the way trek towards our more southern destination Fernandina Beach, nestled on the Florida-Georgia Border. The day was spent napping, preparing for the night shifts to come. We had plenty of delicious leftovers from our Charleston feasts to sustain us. Before we knew it we were closing in on Savannah, gawking at 7 jaw-droppingly-huge container ships parked, awaiting their turn in port. As the sun began to set, they switched on their lights, shimmering like giant hotels in the middle of the ocean.

Night fell and the moon and stars emerged, Jupiter shining the brightest ahead of us, a benevolent planet if you follow astrology, a calming omen for my fluttering heart. The cold set in quickly, and Fajita and I swaddled ourselves in the warmth of blankets. Patrick diligently cycled on the propane heater, determined to keep the cockpit as warm as possible. We alternated our shifts, Patrick taking the first until around 12:30, then resuming around 3:00 and then my turn again at 5:30.

We both stayed in the cockpit, too nervous to leave each other alone. Sleeping on the cockpit benches is a lot like backpacking sleep, it’s more like resting with your eyes closed. Luckily the Dramimine induced a few short snoozes, not so much for Patrick. It was unsettling at first, the crescent moon provided limited illumination, you could only really see the red light of the cockpit compass, but you could hear the wind howling and feel it pushing the boat. We were flying through the dark, a vulnerable, slightly out-of-control feeling. Thankfully, we have a trustworthy auto pilot. Every 20 minutes my alarm would go off, I’d sit straight up scanning the horizon for anything that wasn’t a star, then frantically check the chart, wash, rinse, repeat until it was Patrick’s turn to take back the helm.

Finally we could see daybreak over the cresting waves. What a welcome sight. We were still hours away from our stop, but we had made it through our first overnight. Some of us a little worse for wear. We still have not managed to get Fajita to pee on the boat, unfortunately she holds it, so far as long as this sail which was 160 miles and 30 hours. We did eventually make it to the dock, getting her some relief, our confidence a boost, and our bodies the nice warm welcome of the Florida sun. - real time update we are one overnight sail away (which we will make on Jan 16) from Key Biscayne. There we will eagerly wait for our weather window to head to the Bahamas!!!

The tarot card I pulled for my meditation the morning of our overnight sail.

Finding the Rhythm

Over the last 6 months we have slowly been getting to know Neverland and her many sounds and rhythms. The tribal drumming of the wind generator, bom-bom-bom-bom, eerily reminiscent of the goblin war drum in The Lord of the Rings before escalating into what I call 'Jumanji' mode: bombombombom. The halyard is a jazz musician, playing minor scales up and down the mast with dissonant, tinny clangs in infuriating precision. A week ago Patrick rolled out of bed at midnight to silence it, returning to the warmth of the covers only to realize he had just tuned it to a higher key. ‘It’s playing you a song.’ I sleepily muttered. Unlike the halyard, the engine has a low droning hum that WILL lull you to sleep. There’s also the flapping of the sails when we need to trim them, or the at-first-absolutely-terrifying bang of the boom as it crashes over to windward when there isn’t enough wind to hold it over. Actually, that sound is still very terrifying.

Headed South on the ICW

But there's a whole other melody to this Neverland song: the rhythm of the journey itself. Aunt Dolly shared in conversation that, back when she and Uncle Lewis cruised full-time, it would take her two full weeks to get into the groove of their boat. She wasn’t kidding. In my land life I had gotten so used to manipulating every last detail, creating a day full of expectation, aka the mirage of control. I could easily establish a routine: this errand at this time, lunch here, coffee with a friend there. I'd lay my head down at night, knowing I'd Maestro’d that Sonata to near perfection. This is not the way of the boat. You are not the Maestro, you are not the lead singer, you are not even third chair oboe. No, you're the tambourine. After this last stretch to Charleston, I'm pretty sure we weren't even the designated-band-member tambourine, but rather the drunken wedding attendee who gets pulled up on stage and throws everyone completely off-beat.

The boat’s movements are most dictated by other elements. They set the tempo, sometimes the directions, and definitely the mood. The wind, for instance, is undoubtedly the lead singer. Sometimes she sustains long, ethereal notes, other times disappearing for seemingly endless cigarette breaks. The current acts as the drummer, setting the pace. You often find yourself wishing he'd pick up the tempo, until you're attempting to dock, at which point a gentle, lingering guitar solo would be most welcome. The Tide, he can play guitar, I don’t really know how to relate it back to the boat, but it for sure controls how bad we are sweating going through some shoaling spots on the ICW.

There is a sailing phrase "you can pick the destination, or you can pick the time, but not both". We were trying so hard to be in Charleston by New Year's Eve, we forced it, spastically shaking that tambourine toward the head microphone. Not listening to our gut, pushing our way through some sketchy situations, and not giving ourselves time to enjoy the journey. Well, the joke was on us, ain’t nobody like an overzealous tambourine player. The other band members quickly put us in our place. We were never going to make it by New Years, the wind and the current were playing a slow sultry song that we weren’t hearing.

The Ben Sawyer Bridge dealt the final blow. We radioed the bridge tender for an opening on Jan 1st at 4:30, only to be told it doesn't open during rush hour traffic, not even during the holiday when most people are off work. We took it as a sign to stop forcing things and fall into the rhythm. We turned around determined to enjoy the evening, finding the absolute best anchorage of the whole trip. A secluded completely marsh-covered inlet, not a house in sight, the iconic Ravenel Bridge illuminated in the background, marsh birds of all shapes and sizes, swooping through the orangey-pink glow of the sunset, wings spread wide. We could hear dolphins behind us, surfacing for air as they hunted. We watched fireworks exploding in all directions, and, lo and behold, coming over the coastal breeze, we could hear live music from a nearby venue, cranking out the best of the 80's early 90's. Some Toto, a little Journey. Ok, now we let those tambourine cymbals shake.....crescendo....."I've had the time of my liiiifffeeee, never felt this way before, and I swear it's the truth, I owe it all to yooooooouuuuuuuuu."

Best Anchorage of the trip!

Getting through the Ben Sawyer Bridge the next morning

It Takes a Village

It’s 1:45 in the morning, only 4 hours away from that 5:30 alarm, which I hate.  Anyone else absolutely loathe being woken up by a startling noise? I have flipped through the rolodex of mobile phone alarm sounds searching for one my beleaguered nervous system can tolerate. I discerningly curated a Spotify playlist of songs that I hoped would whisper sweet nothings to my subconscious, but the truth is, whether it's quiet coffee house techno or ambient piano instrumentals, they all sound abruptly the same when piercing through my snoring slumber. I really need to bite the bullet and finally buy one of those alarm clocks that wake you up with light. No, not your Mom’s get-up-for-school jolt of room-illuminating-full-light-switch flick, but a lovely dim glow that slowly gets brighter and brighter. I'm sure THAT is the fix to my morning grumpies, and once I have one in my possession, all of my problems will disappear. Anyways, I've finally accepted that Mr. Sandman has skipped our boat tonight and conceded defeat to Patrick in the Great Bed Sheet War of 2024, I guess I have no choice but to embrace the company of my own (loud and obnoxious) thoughts. 

We push off the dock in the morning. I know, I know. So exciting, relieving, nerve-racking, all the things. 3 months dreaming about cruising life, 2 months tied motionless to a dock, 3 months in the boatyard, and 3 more months finally getting some practice are presumably coming to an end. Today we celebrated Christmas, getting the last few things checked off the list, and tomorrow the adventure begins.  

In my limited experience of the sailing/cruising world, what I have been struck by most is the amount of support offered from others who share this passion. From the moment we dared to speak our nautical fantasies out loud, to the actual purchase of Neverland, and every wobbly mile since, we've been blessed with the most extraordinary serendipity, encountering the kindest, most helpful souls imaginable. Let's face it, this isn't your average crowd. We're talking about people who can fix an engine with a rusty screwdriver, navigate by the stars, and whip up gourmet meals on a rocking boat. We're honored to be counted among them.

I was describing how Neverland consumes our lives, our wallets, and every ounce of our sanity, when my friend, with a knowing glance, simply said, 'Oh, you have a child’. Which is why it takes a village of kindred spirits who understand the joys (and the trials) of life on the water to help keep us afloat.

Please know if you have ever lent a tool, welcomed us into you home for a hot meal, answered continuous questions about engine mechanics, showed us how to keep our air conditioning running, took our pup for a playdate or two, guided us through something new, helped us dock safely, texted us words of encouragement, checked in when you knew it was hard, reassured us when we had doubts, your kindness and support means everything. I can push us away from our cozy little marina home tomorrow, knowing we are not alone on the journey ahead.

Update - as of this post we have successfully made it to Fla!! More to come soon……

Five Stages

I’m in denial a man could brag of his assaults yet still rise to power

Angered as hates sharp knife tears at the fabric of our shared humanity

Bargaining with desperate hope our country won’t be sqaundered for personal gain

Depressed in the knowing some men, so insecure, can enjoy stripping away the rights of others

Accepting that the path to healing is often a windy one

Woke up this morning and went on a walk with Fajita and Patrick. It was the next right thing to do. I will sip my coffee and log onto work because of that very same reason. Step after step I will strive to continue to do the next right thing.

Boatyard Buzz

Neverland in Duck Creek Marina, New Bern, NC

     Purgatory. We have been stuck in purgatory for the past 3 months. Neither water nor quite what I would call land, the boatyard is the in between, the upside down. It has a tendency to dim the light of one's soul. It’s a comical coincidence, that the ‘boatyard’ sounds so much like ‘boneyard’, but that’s not their only similarity.  Both  are dusty and littered with carcasses. Once vibrant sea maidens, now mere shells of their former selves, their to-do lists overwhelming their guardian's ambition. Our sentence here will shortly be fulfilled as we put the finishing touches on Neverland's hull. God willing and the creek don't rise, we will slip her back into the water as we flip the calendar page to November.

Patrick’s tiny travel trailer in Flanagan’s Beach State Park

Moving from Airbnb, to motel, to State Park in the travel trailer, to RV Park, and back to the State Park again, I've noticed a low-grade fever in my nervous system. Thankfully, the weighted blanket has been given paid leave and no major panic attacks have been recorded for the year of 2024. However, that constant buzzzzzzz is back, the one I thought I had vanquished back in the winter. I have made great strides in dealing with my anxiety this year, but  growth is not always linear. It seems we're going backward Captain. Rather than being three steps into the clearing, we're now only one step away from where it all began.

Inside of our cozy living space for the past 3 months.

When I was around 10 years old, I attended a summer theater camp.  Alice in Wonderland was on the playbill.  I was very suitably cast as the tightly wound white hare who constantly checked his pocket watch, obsessively worried about his fading punctuality. I even had a solo “….I’m late, I’m late for a very important date, can’t even say hello goodbye I’m late, I’m late, I’m late….”  He then proceeds to list all the many tedious tasks he lacks the time to do because he is always late, of course.   

This is a pretty good illustration of the anxiety that hides just below the surface of my daily activities. It’s the feeling of being in a rush. Rushing to try and catch up to my life which is careening around the next corner like a getaway car from a bank heist. I remember always hating those educational math games that timed you while you completed multiplication facts. My stomach would be up in my chest, my brain getting fuzzier as I would strain to force the answer out. I would watch the seconds tick closer to the buzzer, buzzer sounds off, and even in my anticipation, I would jump out of my skin. 

Yeah, it all feels like that.  Rushing.  Rushing to do everything.  Rushing to get the next task checked off the list.  Rushing to find your keys and get out the door. Rushing to make the light before it turns yellow. Rushing to get dinner ready by 6:00. Rushing through my shower to be in bed by 9:00. Rushing to be in bed by 9:00 and asleep by 10:00. Rushing to have 10 min to relax before I rush myself to death.

Before I was fully conscious of my own habits, Patrick took notice.  He’d see me frantically rushing around, put a hand on my shoulder, and say, “Slow is smooth, smooth is fast.”. It was the perfect prompt. It would break me out of my trance. Closing my eyes, I’d take a big breath, lower my shoulders from my ears, and proceed through my activity without the feeling of being chased. Slowing down brought me back to the present moment. Ah, the present, where all your feelings and emotions are waiting on you. But alongside pain, fear, and grief there is real joy. All the rushing around keeps us stuck in the future, focusing too hard on meeting the next moment. The more we are stuck there, the less we can experience joy in the now. I find it rather interesting that when I slow down I magically seem to have all the time I need?

Boatyard Chaos

More boatyard chaos….

I think this whole boat life thing—the boatyard, everything—is a chance to dive headfirst into the unknown. It's an opportunity to deal with that pesky anxiety mosquito buzzing around in my ear.  On a sailboat, you barely get settled before it's time to move on to the next thing. You make plans, only to have them change at a moment's notice. You're at the mercy of everything around you: the weather, the boat, even the number of people in the tranquil cove who anchored there first. You have to find calm within yourself, not out there in the swirling, twirling chaos of everyday life. 

Since the start of this adventure, our lives have been a series of ever-shifting timelines. I am choosing to focus on one day at a time. I meditate in the morning, let my body feel that I am safe, and remind myself there is no need to rush. We actually have all the time in the world to do this thing called life.  As for the boatyard, one of my most embarrassing childhood memories—peeing my pants on the playground slide in second grade—taught me a valuable lesson: no matter how badly you want to go outside and play, sometimes there are just things you have to do first.

Hurricane Helene

Me and Fajita enjoying Fall in the Blue Ridge Mountains

Heartbroken is how it feels to watch the city you love get crushed, a catastrophic storm leveling it with the wrath only a Cat 4 hurricane brings. From an RV park in Pamlico County, parked for the next month as we tend to the boat, we were safe and sound while fearing the worst for our friends and neighbors. The Jayco trailer is a little 100-square-foot metal box, claustrophobic at times, but a hurricane really puts into perspective how luxurious it can be to have all of your essential needs met.

The Thursday afternoon before Helene I spoke with a close friend. I got the update of rain fall and we casually chatted about what to expect of the incoming storm.  It would blow through by Friday afternoon as all systems do that sweep through from the coast, here and gone and onto the next issue.  Friday morning I woke up too early to call anyone. I started reading the local newspaper’s live feed.  About every 30 minutes an update of trees on houses, roadways down, power outages and rising water levels.  Worried, around 8:00 I started calling friends.  No one was picking up.  I texted neighbors, friends in Brevard, friends in Asheville, nothing.  The ball in my stomach tightened into a rock.  9:30 was the last update from Transylvania Times, a mudslide report, then hours of nothing.  

Slowly, video after video started pouring in of horrendous depictions.  Asheville underwater, trees and destruction everywhere, roads completely washed away, a large swathe of Western North Carolina without water or power.  A day went by without a word. I was still desperately sending texts,   “Hi! Are you ok! Please text me back when you can, I love you!” We worked so diligently on the boat Friday and Saturday, busy hands steadying racing minds, but there was nothing to be done.  Any control we think we have in this world is a mirage.  

I got my first text Saturday midmorning, “We are ok, we drove 20 miles out for cell service.” Followed by news that other friends were also ok. Soon, I could account for the people I love in Brevard. It was a moment of relief.  I would send more texts out to my Asheville friends. Hi, I hope you are ok, I love you.  One by one over the next couple of days I could breathe easier, as friends checked in.  Close friends and neighbors all still with us.  Surviving together through this horrific event.  

We will head up to Patrick’s house next week, Oct 13, to clear his property from trees.  We were both extremely lucky, thankfully no trees fell onto his house. All I want to do is hug the necks of all the beautiful people I have come to know as family. 

I am excited about this new adventure, but the mountains will always be my home base.  That area of NC is my heart and soul. I ache to think of the losses felt.  I know those who live there are compassionate, resilient, and creative.  It will take many years to rebuild, but I have faith it will happen.

I hear them, I’ve heard them all my life, no maybe I feel them

Yes, I’ve felt them all my life

They pull me 

Pull me into an embrace of fog and trees 

Pull me into the comfort of their towering peaks

Slow my heart into a sense of peace, ground my feet in the mossy green

Their babbling creeks, they speak to me 

On cool crisp mornings stinging breezes flush my cheeks

And as the sunlight glimmers through their fall colored leaves

I feel those mountains pull me home

And Now, We Celebrate

Seventy hours of boatyard toil between the two of us seems like a good time for a vacation. Lucky for us, we are Vancouver-bound to embark upon an Alaskan Cruise. The past couple of days have been spent carefully assembling strategic outfits that will allow me to cram two weeks worth of clothes into a a solitary carry-on. As I folded my clothes in space-saving origami shapes, my mind wandered to the purpose of our journey: a celebration of my parents' fiftieth anniversary. A pretty darn good excuse for a boatyard break, if you ask me.

Thinking back, I must admit I have often foolishly taken for granted the unwavering support and encouragement of my parents. They never missed a game or recital. I was cheered on through every phase of my youthful pursuits from piano to tap to guitar, clogging, basketball, or even marching band. Even now, in the new phases of adulthood, their support remains steadfast. I feel most grateful, though, for the values they have patiently taught me along the way. Values that were instilled not by repetitive empty words but by so many examples that they gave in their actions. Their shared compassion for their community and others has been a cornerstone in their beautiful enduring partnership.

My mother gave her heart and soul to the public education system as a special education teacher. After 39 years of service, she retired, yet her passion for teaching remained. She continued to substitute and lend a helping hand. I remember many early mornings getting to school earlier than I ever thought it was necessary to so she could have her room open and waiting for her kiddos. Often we are frequently approached by former students, now grown adults, eager to share a hug and a word of gratitude. My Mom has always given extra love where it is needed. I recall at least one instance when she welcomed a student into our home, providing a good hair washing in our kitchen sink and a hot meal.

Any friend who graces our doorstep is treated with the utmost hospitality. My mother goes to extraordinary lengths to ensure that their favorite treats are prepared. That cheese you mentioned you liked is in the fridge, and special trips were made to three different stores to find the coffee creamer that complies with your pistachio-only, nut-milk diet. It is impossible to not feel special in her presence.

Nowadays when you pass through my parents' doorway, you are greeted with the smell of fresh sourdough bread. There is always dough rising in a green bowl on the counter and a couple loaves baking in the oven. This loaf is for such and such down the street who is sick, and that loaf is for so and so who has company in town. Many a neighbor, friend, or family member can attest to her generosity.

My father, too, possesses a heart of gold. Throughout my childhood, he seemed ever vigilant for opportunities to lend a helping hand. He would offer his seat to strangers, mow his neighbor's lawn without hesitation, provide encouragement, or a listening ear to those in need. He is the one organizing the flowers for bereaved classmates' families, cooking the pancake supper, and undertaking countless other acts of kindness.

As a child, I watched my father as he patiently cared for my Gam-mommie. She was my father's stepmother, a welcome addition to our family when my grandfather reached his seventies, my father being in his forties. Despite being a stepmother, she was cherished and treated as one of our own. As she aged and battled dementia, my father would often leave work to visit with her and offer comfort and reassurance. Sometimes the only calming activity for her would be going for a drive to see their small town through her eyes. She would point to each house, and my father would listen as she recounted the same stories heard many times before. Even as her mind faded, she would still recognize my father's voice, a testament to the depth of their bond.

My father is a man of boundless enthusiasm, particularly when it comes to finding the perfect gift. He often struggles to contain his excitement, spoiling the surprise by revealing his purchase weeks in advance. I adore this quality about him — I dare say it’s one of my favorites. It speaks to how much the act of giving means to him personally.

My Parents continue to give generously. I've been so proud to watch as they exemplify that growth continues at any age. They don't skip a beat to organize help and support for those in need. They can often be seen at the games and recitals for their friends' grandchildren. They have taught me the importance of extending kindness and respect to all living beings. I am eternally grateful for their love and support, though I do not express my gratitude often enough.

I know there are countless examples of their generosity, and I encourage you to share them in the comments, and I will happily pass them along as we celebrate this week together with my brother Josh and his husband Marcus. We are in for a fun time! I can't wait to put my arms around them as we give Debbie (my mom) a fighting chance to see a whale. Keep your fingers crossed for us on that one.

How do you eat an elephant?

How do you eat an elephant?

One bite at a time.

Do I find joy in sanding the bottom of our boat? No, definitely not. But I can find peace in it. I won't lie; the first two hours, I cursed in my respirator and shot Patrick a dirty look or two, especially when I realized the noise level of the sander/shop-vac combo wouldn't let me drown my thoughts out with a good podcast — I don’t have noise-cancelling headphones. It wasn't until after I screamed loudly, "I f’ing hate this" (which, with all my gear on, sounded more like "Mmm-hmmmph-hmm-hmm-hm"), that I was able to accept my fate and relax into the meditative potential of hours of tedious, repetitive motion.

Something happens when your muscle memory kicks in, and your mind is let loose to wander onto other things. Problems get solved, epiphanies occur, dreams are realized. I'm a pretty big dreamer. I like using the future to whisk me away to possibilities yet to unfold. It's the small steps to the big dreams that I have difficulty with. The individual bites.

My sanding experience feels a lot like my experience with running, another activity I got bamboozled into by my ambitious other half. I hate running and for many years used the quip, "If you see me running, call the police because I am being chased." Nevertheless I was persuaded to sign up for a Spartan Race. Every other morning, we would wake up and trail run. The first two and a half miles were the worst. I absolutely couldn't stand it and fought against every step. My quads hurt, my calves were cramping, my throat was dry, and the tag on my T-shirt kept itching my neck. I couldn't get past all the small physical discomforts and would usually quit around three miles. One morning, we got to a half-mile stretch of the trail I had come to loathe for its elevation gain and switchbacks. I could feel myself slipping into that defeatist mentality when I suddenly couldn't contain it any longer. I let out an echoey "I F’ING HATE THIS." Something happened in that release of energy. I was able to bear down and push two more miles out. Instead of continuing the fight against my discomfort, I had reached acceptance of what was. I eventually came to enjoy our runs. I actually miss them now. I started seeing my capability, and before I knew it, this newfound resolve was spilling into other areas of my life. I found it easier to accept other difficulties in my life.

I suffer from anxiety. I know right, who doesn't? Anyway, when I started really making gains on how to deal with my anxiety, it was about this time that we were training. There was a correlation to be made here. If I could lean into the discomfort of my anxiety instead of fighting against it, I could accept it for the temporary present moment that it was instead of fighting it. Fighting the anxiety only made the feelings bigger and more prolonged, accepting the anxiety actually helped to calm my nervous system, and eventually it would pass. It's like a rip current; you swim with it until you're out of it. I was gaining resolve. Resolve, probably the characteristic I respect most of Patrick’s. He doesn't back down from a challenge, and I'm lucky enough he brings me along sometimes, kicking and screaming as I tend to do. He has rubbed off on me, and I will say in the two and a half years I have known him, I have accomplished quite a bit. I have worked through frustrations in keeping a successful short-term rental afloat. I trained for and completed my first Spartan Race finishing in the top third percentile of females in my heat. I climbed a mile and a half and over 3,000 ft of elevation with a 20-pound backpack strapped to me. I have ticked off the first three boxes to get me headed toward a career I have been dreaming about since grade school. We decided to challenge ourselves this year by abstaining from alcohol, and we are over halfway there. Now we find ourselves days into painstakingly sanding a 41 foot boat inch-by-inch, and we will get it done. Maybe resolve is a muscle to be exercised. Maybe my resolve muscle is getting stronger. Maybe at 39 I learned to like the taste elephants.

Let the Conceptual Design Phase Commence!

On August 1st, Neverland swapped her swanky marina spot for the decidedly less glamorous confines of the boatyard. A month ago, we were all gung-ho about hitting the ground running to get her seaworthy by September. Unfortunately, after arriving in a slip outside the yard, it took about a week to get pulled out onto land just for Hurricane Debby to roll through, with rain and another week’s worth of waiting.

What have we done with this enforced leisure time? Well, lots of laundry for sure. Patrick has been consuming as much content as possible about electrical systems, focusing on converting our battery bank to lithium and installing more solar panels. Meanwhile, I've been diligently prepping for my RDIQC certification and, okay, fine, I freely admit to indulging in a few hours of Pinterest-induced procrastination. There's something about rainy mornings and coffee that makes you crave a perfectly curated montage of layered rugs, you know?

Ironically, this obsessive pinning might have given birth to Neverland's design concept – our plan to turn this sailboat into our home.

Sure, right now we're spending a lot of money on keeping her afloat and the lights on, but there will come a time when some of that cash will be allocated to the RETF (Rheney's Environmental Therapy Fund). You might chuckle, but that's the power of good design. The spaces we inhabit have the potential to shape our moods and emotions. Think about a serene, spa-like bathroom to wash away the day's stress. Imagine a colorful, cheerful kitchen that brings joy to the chore of cooking. Picture a classic, masculine billiards room for gathering with friends, enjoying scotch, and perfecting your poker face. When designing a space, that's where I like to start: with the mood, the feeling you want to evoke, followed immediately by what’s going on in there — the function.

I’ll use my cottage as an example, Duckworth Cottage. You can check it out here on airbnb (airbnb.com/h/duckworthcottage). Every design decision I make for it is rooted in the mood – pure sunshine and joy, with a dash of cheekiness. But Neverland? Beyond being a magical place where wishes come true and grown-ups are optional, Neverland could be a refuge from the storm. A big, two-armed bear hug you want to sink into. Isn't there some study floating around about hugs, dopamine, and their potential life-extending effects? Anyway, you get the idea – an atmosphere that helps you feel calm, safe, and secure.

Another trick I love is flipping a room's negatives on their heads. What could be seen as cramped quarters will become our cozy little haven. And guess what? This approach also puts the spotlight on the teak, which is already a major player on board. It's beautiful, classic, and frankly, we couldn't change it even if we wanted to. So why not make it the star of the show?

Unlike a traditional house, we won't be picking out furniture, countertops, and flooring. Our focus will be on textiles (upholstery, drapes, rugs, pillows, bedding, and maybe even some wallpaper) along with metals (lighting, fixtures, and window trim), and accessories. By choosing these elements strategically, we can make the teak sing and further tell our design narrative. Imagine the sophisticated surfer shack of your eclectic, hippie uncle who has a great vinyl collection, loves being barefoot, but at the same time is very particular about the brand of vermouth he uses for his Negroni. Can you see it?

I’ll help walk you through it. As stated, teak is the anchor with the largest visual impact, followed by the ceiling, which is a light sand-colored grass cloth and will also remain the same. This puts our focus for design decisions on the settee upholstery, bedding for the aft cabin, and bedding for the v-berth. These three larger areas of textiles will be the first opportunity to layer in color and set the tone for the overall palette. Cohesiveness across these areas will establish some symmetry and rhythm, allowing our eyes to see all the separate areas in the boat as one unified space on the map – Neverland.

Many times, I've observed the use of hues like white to enhance the sense of spaciousness within boat cabins. The lighter a color is, the more light it reflects, and the darker a color is, the more light it absorbs. We're going to go the darker route and trust in the snug embrace of a small, moody space. Home sweet cocoon, that’s what we’re going for.

I've included some inspiration pics to give you a peek into what's swirling around in my head. Thanks for joining us on this journey! Feel free to drop us a line or leave a comment – we'd love to hear your thoughts. And of course, I'll keep you posted on our progress.

Following images : 1.https://www.communedesign.com/portfolio/residential/marin-compound/ (Commune Design - love their projects, absolutely swoon worthy)

2. https://www.airbnb.com/rooms/4172172?

3. JBBlunk House https://www.jbblunk.com/house image by Leslie Willamson - sink in the bathroom of this house ya’ll, worth a glimpse

4. https://jakearnold.com/portfolio/beverly-hills-hillside/

5. https://fluxboutique.co.nz/products/surf-shacks-an-eclectic-compilation-of-creative-surfers-homes-from-coast-to-coast-and-overseas? - Highly debating on purchasing this beautiful book, it has been suggested to me many times and I think would have some great inspo for Neverland in its pages.

6. https://www.wallpaper.com/design-interiors/salmon-creek-farm - I monthly go back to peruse the images of Salmon Creek Farm for reference. Love it!!

7. https://giancarlovalle.com/pages/st-barths-villa - If you enjoy interior design Gian Carlo Valle’s portfolio is worth a view or two.

https://manoftheworld.com/blogs/articles/a-modernist-masterpiece-in-the-pennsylvania-sticks - Article from Man of the World Nov 2022 - George Nakishima’s Cottage

Living on a Boat is Like….

We have now been living on Neverland for over a month, still very much adjusting to life a float. Getting our bearings just in time to be hauled out in a boat yard for some hard manual labor - in August I know, I know. This too is part of it. The life we are choosing is inconvenient to say the least. Will it be worth it? The true battle is finding worth in the very act of preparation, in the grit of labor, the present moment of day to day struggle. For example, yesterday we spent 6 hours hunched over and crammed into our tiny forward head (boat word for bathroom) scraping paint off of the gel coat floor. Very monotonous, but anything is possible with a good playlist (if you haven’t heard the song Minimum by Charlie Cunningham I now have it on repeat). We whistled while we worked, stretched every so often, and now have the satisfaction of completing the task. This will be ever so more satisfying when we put the teak tiles down (interior design inspo post coming soon). I keep trying to think of how to describe our experience to my friends and fam. Hopefully this helps.

Life on a boat is like a puzzle…..

Formulating exact parameters to wedge all parts of our life into impossible spaces has become a daily activity. It’s an absurd calculus of containment. Literally a game of domestic Tetris, configuring inanimate objects to perfectly fit into every crevice of an awkwardly shaped, shallow cabinet. Picture me, focus-faced, tongue darting out of the corner of my mouth in concentration, flipping objects this way and that, then wrestling the pile into submission to close and latch the door. Those who know me well know that I have been training for this. I LOVE puzzles, like, nobody else touch it, obsessing over until completion, sitting for hours until my neck is petrified and the last piece is clicked into place. A Virgo Rising (yes, astrology nerd as well), so a compulsive calibrator of efficiency, or at least a day’s worth of analyzing our 5S’s (if you know, you know), until my Sagittarius Moon usually takes over… “Next!” Seriously though, it’s not uncommon for me to have middle-of-the-night epiphanies of a new place to stash the third-string storm anchor.

There is also the problem that sometimes, no matter how organized we think we have become, things vanish into thin air, swallowed whole by the boat, I swear. Well, that’s when we resort to a fun round of adaptation. Honestly, with zip ties, assorted sized funnels, hoses, and rope, you can craft just about anything into a makeshift tool for the job. I am really enjoying this aspect of boat life, fulfilling the role of Vessel Virtuoso: Architect of the Impossible. My business card will read: one-stop shop for nautical chaos management. Hmmm… I’ll at least add it to my list of big business endeavors to complete by the age of 80.

Life on a boat is like a roller coaster……

One minute you’re on a high. You’ve managed to contort yourself into the most advanced twister maneuver to reach into a dark corner, blindly combine the perfect amount of twists, pokes, and bops (all professional terms I assure you) to triumphantly resolve the latest catastrophe of water in the bilge, mechanical engine hiccup, or whatever demon has possessed the electrical system, when you find another something or other is already broken. Such is boat life, a perpetual state of repair. The amount of times we have heard “Cruising on a sailboat is fixing a boat in exotic places” or “Everything on your boat is already broken; you just haven’t discovered it yet.” That’s because it’s true. Also, to be fair, it’s almost always Patrick doing the contorting, so let me think of another example from my frame of view...

You have made the most delicious dinner from a recipe your new marina neighbor sent you. You have two nights of leftovers, a break from slicing, pot juggling, electrical output balancing, and most importantly, hand washing of dishes. You pull everything out of the top-loader fridge and start placing items back one by one. It’s a delicate ecosystem that calls for precise management of temperature and priorities. The bottom level is mapped out to have items that prefer to be icy, or at least can handle some iciness. On top of them, you pile things that still like it cool but would rather not be half frozen. You place the one wooden shelf back down to begin arranging the next compartment. This shelf we organize by priority. Items we need the most access to are positioned far right and then in descending order to items needing least access to on the left. Whew, everything is back in the fridge, you go to close it… nope, wont close. You debate if you have time to start over, losing more cold air every second, then finally deciding to eat two desserts, making room, and yes, I guess you’re right; it’s a win-win.

Life on a boat is like a Marie Kondo live webinar…..

Do you need it? Do you love it? Does it bring you joy? If it doesn’t check all three then it ain’t on the boat. Actually, over half of the items we have made room for I do not love and they do not bring me joy. They are the back ups to the backup parts we have for insurance when the first edition kicks the bucket. You know the old sailor’s adage: “If you have two, you have one, if you have one, you have none.” It’s a bleak philosophy, but it’s also the cold, hard truth about life on the water. Maybe I can reframe this scenario. These items will bring me joy when we aren’t forced to prolong our stay in a less than desirable location waiting on the ever-slow delivery of a boat part.

There is also something very freeing in refusing to buy random junk. We literally don’t have room. There’s no pressure to answer the call of capitalism and consume, consume. It’s nice to look around and see that we inhabit a beautiful space filled to completion with everything we need.

Life on a boat is like living with a relationship counselor on your shoulder…..

The minute we want to hoard resentments until they erupt into a years-long amount of grudges used as weapons in petty arguments about toilet seat etiquette, we are forced to stop, take a breath, and remember. We have a goal. A goal that requires us to act like adults and communicate like humans who love and respect each other. We’re supposed to be a team, right? United against the real enemy, (the toilet that’s not flushing) not each other. So we listen, we try to be less defensive, and we laugh – a lot. Because let’s face it, most of this is ridiculous. We’re not perfect, but we’re trying. And I’m grateful for a partner who’s willing to grow along with me in this crazy experiment. Please note we have only just started collecting data, so please keep all independent hypotheses under wraps until further notice.

I’m sure I will have a 6-month update, followed by a year update for this post, but as for now I hope this helps illustrate how our month has been going. Love and miss you all.

Adventures of a Salt Kissed Life….

Getting Underway

Patrick and Fajita on Neverland the day before we set out on the water.

Thursday, June 27th, 2024. A day of reckoning, perhaps, or merely a step into the unknown. Neverland, our recently acquired 1981, 41-foot sailboat and soon-to-be home, was ready to carry us up the coast on our first solo cruise. We would launch from Little River, South Carolina, and motor up the Intracoastal Waterway (ICW) 180 nautical miles north to New Bern, North Carolina. There we would spend half a year reviving the vintage Bristol, learn the dark arts of sailcraft, and prepare for a winter of sun, rum, and reckless abandon in the Caribbean. Perfect circumstances promised a three-day sprint to our destination, but we suspected it might be more of a four-day crawl.

Since we are entry-level sailors, we opted for motoring the protected ICW rather than sailing offshore. Land in sight? Check. No sails to wrestle with? Double check. We were trading wind for safety, or so we told ourselves. Our speed would be about six knots. That’s about as fast as a determined little old lady on a Sunday afternoon drive. My favorite speed for leisurely observing the lives of the coastal elite and their McMansions. Of course, the ICW is no cakewalk for a sailboat. It's a watery obstacle course, strewn with treacherous shoals, temperamental bridges, and the occasional rogue shrimp boat.

Depth was our biggest concern. Unlike those smug, flat-bottomed pleasure boats, we have a keel… A fancy word for a big, underwater fin that counteracts the pressure of the wind above, but that also makes us awfully picky about where we plant our feet — or rather, our hull. Neverland's keel is a centerboard, it goes up and down. This adaptability allows us to explore both the warm waters of the Caribbean and the colder climates of Norway, Scotland, and Maine — places I'm particularly eager to visit. With a current draft of four and a half feet, we require at least five feet of water to avoid scraping along the bottom of the channel. So, in other words, charts, my darling, charts. Lots and lots of charts.

Patrick, bless his heart, spent months poring over maps and charts. His final weapon of choice: the Navionics app, supplemented with a Bob’s Tracks overlay. Who is Bob? Some benevolent seafaring deity? A group of overachieving sailors? Your guess is as good as mine, but one thing’s for sure their digital bread crumbs were our lifeline, guiding us through a watery labyrinth. And to hedge our bets against catastrophe, we armed ourselves with a small arsenal of devices: 2 phones, 2 laptops, and a Google Pixel tablet. Because when it comes to staying alive on the water, redundancy is the new black.

Example of our chart

The thick white area is the channel. Most powerboats can zoom all over it (We’ll call it ”Lava”), but the thin line is our safe zone. We must stay in to not hit ground.

Young Hearts, Run Free

The night before the Great Undocking, we were a pair of delusional admirals, plotting our nautical conquest from the confines of our tiny cabin. Thirty thousand pounds of boat, a tangled jungle of ropes, and a sea of uncertainty stretched before us. We practiced our best “Captain and First Mate” voices while dissecting each move, line by line, scenario by scenario. Would she drift left? Right? Into the neighbor's boat? A cocktail of apprehension and naive confidence, we were ready to conquer the world, or at least the marina.

No alarm clock was needed; two newbs masquerading as seasoned mariners, we sprang into action at the first sliver of light. Lines released, engine roared, and there we were, floating free from the wooden dock that had restrained us. I turned to look back and saw the seller’s broker, waving. "I came to help!" she shouted, her voice echoing across the water. So much for the rescue plan. But the thrill of independence was intoxicating. We had done it. Us. Just the two of us. A tiny victory, perhaps, but a giant leap for our confidence in each other. "We've got this," I whispered to Patrick, our unspoken pact of trust sealed with seawater.

The sweetest Broker! She ran back up to her deck to catch this shot of us heading out. So priceless to have our first outing on the boat on video Thank you Beth!!

Perfect Day

Our first day at sea was a gilded dream, marred only by the glaring incompetence of our fancy new tablet. A useless, overpriced paperweight when it came to navigation. No GPS? Really? Don’t those things automatically come with GPS these days? I say again, Google Pixel Tablet does not have GPS, just FYI. We were forced to rely on the small screens of our little phones, juggling them like hot potatoes to avoid running out of juice. But hey, the storm clouds were receding behind us with clear blue skies ahead, and life is about overcoming challenges, right? Or at least that’s what I told myself as I clutched my phone like a lifeline.

We spent the day chatting about upcoming adventures, munching on dried figs and pistachios, punctuating our idle chatter with bird names and dolphin sightings. The Cape Fear River welcomed us with an outgoing tide. Seven knots turned into nine! We were speeding right along, at a less than glacial pace. Even Fajita, our furry first mate, was getting into the spirit. A little wobbly at first, but soon she was sprawled out in the cockpit, soaking up the sun like a seasoned sailor.

We reached Wrightsville Beach around four o'clock and found a perfect spot with a little sandbar to row to (our dinghy's outboard motor wasn't working). Our first anchoring attempt was a success, which, of course it was. In my mathematical genius, I misjudged our every twenty feet of marked chain for ten, resulting in putting out double the amount of scope needed for the job. We rowed Fajita to the beach, where she reveled in her freedom, leaving a trail of zoomies in the sand. Her playful antics caught the attention of the neighboring sailboat. The couple motored over to introduce themselves. They showed us pictures of Fajita's doppelganger (their dog, Burrito — how perfect!), and invited us over for snacks and tales of the sea. We discovered they lived in Oriental, a charming town close to New Bern where seemingly every backyard boasts a sailboat. Then, in a display of true Southern hospitality, they graciously towed us back to our boat. As we watched the sun paint the sky with pinks and oranges, we were feeling giddy, maybe a little cocky. In a dangerous surge of brashness I let the words slip through my lips, "this isn't that hard," a foolish whisper against the backdrop of a perfect day.

Message from the future...Christa and David are now friends, whose boat we have crewed on and Burrito is Fajita’s best friend in New Bern

Mercury Retrograde Kicks In

The cabin felt like a sauna. Trying to conserve our batteries, we put too much stock in a single fan manically whirring in futile defiance of the heat. By 2 a.m., I was a puddle. Desperate, I bolted up the companionway, seeking sanctuary in the breezy albeit buggier cockpit. Restless tossing and turning commenced on the hard bench cushions. It was camping without the charm of the woods.

5 a.m. The world was still sleeping, but we were wide awake and eager to maintain our three day pace. A turn of the key, and our optimism collided with a sickening click. We gave it a second try.....silence. One last attempt confirmed it: dead batteries. Just like that, we were officially cruisers. The kind who rely on ducktape, critical thinking, and a lot of flexibility.

I rowed Fajita to the beach while Patrick called for a tow. As I climbed back aboard, I discovered my phone had jumped ship, fleeing from my pocket the moment it had a chance. Grateful for the foresight that prompted me to check the insurance box on this recent purchase, I acknowledged what its absence added to our situation. Navigation now hinged solely on Patrick's remaining phone. We'd have to be very careful with its battery life, our technological reliance didn’t allow for paper charts this trip.

Our knight in shining steel arrived quickly. That Towboat US membership sure did pay for itself quickly. We surrendered to fate and let him nudge us towards Dockside Restaurant. A quick charge, we thought. In and out before the weekend crowd. We plugged in, we waited, and then... nothing.

Low blood sugar is not conducive to brilliant problem-solving. We opted for the sensible approach: pancakes at nearby Drift Cafe. Meanwhile, Wrightsville Beach was waking up. Boats buzzed past, kayakers and paddleboarders dotted the water, and the restaurant docks lining the sides were starting to fill up.

We returned to find Dockside transformed into a bustling weekend hotspot. Our boat, however, was still as dead as a doornail. Disappointment was starting to set in. Was this the end? Had our batteries chosen mutiny? The question loomed large: tow or no tow? The marina beckoned, a promise of power and air conditioning.

Patrick, in a moment of sheer brilliance, decided to defy the odds. Maybe, just maybe, it wasn’t our batteries, but a dead charging station playing a practical joke. With a MacGyver-like move, he cobbled together two power cords and struck gold. Juice! Actual, live juice! We whooped, we hollered, we ordered something frozen and blue.

About forty-five minutes later we glanced at the clock. Only seven minutes remained before the drawbridge would open on the hour. We rushed to get to the boat. We worked in a flurry, untying lines and preparing for departure. "All clear, pull ahead!" I yelled. But the universe, in its infinite cruelty, had other plans. The current, a relentless bully, slammed us back into the dock.

Panic surged through me. Pulling out all my best parkour. moves, I scurried to the front leaping over cleats, ducking under lines, and weaving through the jungle that was the rigging of our boat. Fruitlessly, I tried using the boat hook to push us away from the dock while my focus sharpened on the very expensive fishing boat we were closing in on. And then, to my surprise, the cavalry arrived. Men were materializing from all directions (no doubt the owners of the expensive fishing boats surrounding us). It was a ballet of chaos, a symphony of grunts and colorful language. With full throttle and the brawn of strangers, we managed to exit our parking space unscathed.

We were the main event, a dockside reality show, but we had no time to shake the nerves, the bridge loomed ahead. With a lump in my throat, I switched the VHF radio to channel 13 and hailed the drawbridge operator. "Wrightsville Beach Bridge, this is Know Return..." (a terrible name, we knew, but a temporary one until registration). "Requesting bridge opening."

The response was a gut punch. "Next openin's noon," the voice crackled over the radio. “#?!*” (insert your favorite expletive here). Looking around, there were little boats everywhere. Those pesky little boats all smug in their ability to fit right under the bridge, weaving about, buzzing around us like gnats. We inched closer to the imposing steel arch, but our mast blocked our passage.

It seemed like we were headed for collision, but Patrick masterfully gave the wheel a 180 spin, we swirled around like a tortoise on a carrousel, without so much as grazing a passing paddleboarder. But the damage was already done. Our egos were bruised and the audience of onlookers thoroughly entertained.

Our morning was a baptism by battery. Lesson one: don’t be a dummy and leave the starter battery on, rookie mistake. But the real lesson was something deeper. We shouldn’t have rushed getting off the dock. We lacked the patience to pick the right moment. Like a good wine or a perfectly ripe tomato, some things just need time. Experienced sailors know this. We, apparently, were still green.

With an hour to kill, we decided to reacquaint ourselves with Neverland. We motored her back and forth at a safe distance from the bustling harbor. Although she is sturdy and beautiful, she is not the most agile of athletes, she responded to the throttle like a moody teenager, and a little red flag was beginning to wave: she was running a fever. Not a full-blown crisis as the engine temperature only rose in neutral or reverse and quickly normalized in forward gear, but definitely a symptom of something amiss.

Noon finally arrived, heralded by the alarm of the drawbridge opening. Our hope of keeping the pace had been depleted into two and a half more days of travel. We were now contemplating the best place to call it early, drop anchor, and cool things down a bit.

And Another One

I had been steering for a good hour, starting to become numb to the Saturday power boaters whizzing by, their wakes aggressively see-sawing us from one wave to the next. I was adapting, convincing myself I was a creature of the sea. Then I heard it, the engine coughed, a phlegmy mechanical interruption which then sputtered into silence. "Stay calm," I muttered to myself, a plea to the rapid tempo of my heart.

Thankfully, traffic was light at the moment as we bobbed listlessly about. Looking at each other in utter confusion of what to do next, I tried to hold the wheel steady, fighting to maintain our position in the middle of the channel. “Ummm, I’m going to try something.” Patrick said as he dashed towards one of the fuel cans secured on deck. While he worked to get the can open and pour the diesel, I crossed my fingers that the current wouldn’t push us somewhere we didn’t want to be. A fresh two gallons were in the tank, "Okay, try starting her up!" With fumbling haste, I checked, we were in neutral, inserted the key, and turned. Oh happy day, the engine surprisingly roared back to life!

A quick inspection of the gauges below deck left Patrick scratching his head. "There's still plenty of fuel," he muttered. We wouldn't question our luck, though. We did, however; have another reason to start looking for an anchorage. With limited options until Morehead City, we found a lonely creek to lick our wounds and ponder our next move. No other sailboats for company, and no beach for Fajita to explore. But it would give our engine the rest it needed.

The afternoon was a three-ring circus: potty training a 5 year old dog to go on a boat, waving at strangers mocking us with their best pirate impressions, and playing amateur mechanic. We phoned some friends for their trusted advice. Messing with the sails on our own without prior instruction? That had been one of my non-negotiables for making this trip without a Captain. But the wise words found their way into my ear. A little sail for backup, they said. A safety net, a Plan B if the motor went out. So, tomorrow, we'd do a bit of both: sailing and motoring. A hybrid, if you will.

As the night slipped by, we noticed the boat's bow wasn't responding to wind or current as it should when the anchor is properly set. Instead of being angled out in front, the anchor chain ran straight down from the bow, curving ominously under the boat. Was our anchor wrapped around the keel? Diving down to investigate, Patrick thankfully confirmed the anchor was not wrapped around anything; however, the tide had turned against us — we were aground.

It was at this time that I managed to break our windlass. A windlass anchor system is a mechanical marvel that handles the load of raising and lowering the back-breaking weight of an anchor. Unfortunately, in our attempt to kick ourselves off the sandbar, I held down the button to reel the chain in while we were reversing, frying the motor of the windlass, and adding manual anchor deployment and retrieval to our growing list of challenges.

We were hostages to the tide, a captive audience to her mercurial moods. We would give up on getting ourselves off the ground and wait for her to raise us back up. Low tide wasn’t finished and as the boat tilted at an increasingly precarious angle, a silver lining emerged: our hatches morphed into makeshift air conditioners. The world, it seemed, was conspiring to keep us cool. Life, it turns out, is a series of ups and downs. Our whole trip unraveled like this. We were learning to find joy in the struggle, to appreciate the kindness of strangers, and to marvel at the absurd beauty of our predicaments.

Eventually, the tide, ever the benevolent dictator, she did stand us back up. Our accidental air conditioning was now a relic of the past. As dawn approached, emerging from the depths of the boat, I was blanketed by the peacefulness of the night. There, spread out before me, was a celestial masterpiece: a million diamonds scattered carelessly across the inky, black sky. In that moment, with the world hushed and the stars ablaze, I almost forgot the entire, craziness of the day.

Speak No Evil (of Smooth Sailing):

Sunday morning was a gift, wrapped in silence and solitude. The NC coast was still tucked in bed, dreaming of church bells and biscuits. I was finally getting the hang of manning the helm, making small, subtle shifts of the giant wheel instead of overcorrecting at every turn, zigzagging us across the channel, and confusing any oncoming traffic heading our way. Patrick, with his intense focus, scanned the map, searching for a suitable docking spot in Moorehead City. With our trusty sail billowing in the wind, it felt like we'd weathered the storm, finally settling into a nice ride.

The warmth of gratitude was swelling in my heart, when I heard the raggedy cough of our engine flaring up again. Choking, choking, dead… again. In the grand scheme of things, we were fortunate. This was the moment we’d been dreaming of — the boat, a silent swan gliding through the water, propelled by nothing but the wind and a touch of magic. Gone were the engine’s angry growls, replaced by the sweet song of birds and the playful splashes of fish. The vibration had ceased, and in its place, I felt the gentle pulse of the water. Even the air was different — clean, fresh, and free from the stench of diesel.

We had become one with the elements, part of a larger, more beautiful world. Patrick grabbed another fuel can to see if our magic fix could work again. For twenty glorious minutes, we existed outside of time, suspended in a bubble of tranquilty. Then, with a turn of the key, the engine roared back to life, shattering our perfect moment. The damage, however, was done. I was hooked on this silent, gliding existence, and we could now confirm that our fuel gauge is a pathological liar.

The Battle of Sugarloaf

Moorehead City was in our sights, and we had to plot our attack. Slack tide was our target for arrival, a fleeting moment of calm before the current's fury. And then there was the issue of the dinghy, the small inflatable little boat that looked so innocent but was so very heavy. We needed to haul it back on deck before rounding Sugar Loaf Island. A simple enough concept, until you factor in the broken windlass and sick engine. To translate, I would be manually deploying our 45-pound anchor with a chain whipping around heavy enough to break an ankle. We would then expend a herculean effort to hoist said dinghy up and onto the deck of our boat. Afterwards, Patrick would muscle all 50 feet of scope, plus the anchor back up before completing the last mile or so to the dock, all this while our engine would be heating to an uncomfortable temperature. It felt like a game of chicken, but the thought of that dinghy getting tangled up around something while we had the already difficult task of docking our boat was good reason to pull the trigger.

We found a spot to anchor, a less-than-ideal compromise between sanity and necessity. A little too close to the rocky teeth of Sugar Loaf Island for comfort, but it was a mere pit stop and we hoped to be on our way quickly. Patrick maneuvered us into position, and I took my place at the bow. I counted out the amount of chain we would need for the drop and cleated it off on deck. Carefully, I laid out the chain so it would avoid getting tied up on itself, anything on the deck, or my limbs.

I battled with the weight of the anchor to get it unclipped, then waited. "Drop it!", the signal from the helm rang out, I lowered it slowly to the water, then moved myself out of the way as the metal chain sped past me at an alarming rate. Once set, we looked apprehensively at the closeness of the island's shores.

We hurried to pull the dinghy to the side of the boat and then braced for the strength it would take to heave it over the railings. "One, two, three!" I shouted, a battle cry before the charge. Reaching over, we grabbed the dinghy and wrestled it up halfway. "One, two, three!" I grunted, a guttural plea for assistance as we pulled a third of its weight onto the railings, the wood groaning in protest. "One...two...three..." I panted, as we summoned every ounce of strength, willing the dinghy over and onto the boat.

Looking over to the island, we could see we were drifting closer to the rocks. Patrick cranked the engine back up. He wanted to keep it in neutral while anchored, hoping to keep us from drifting further while we waited for slack tide. Glancing down at the engine’s temperature, I noticed it had crept up to 220. "The engine is hot again," I said, masking my panic in a calm tone. Patrick, who was now busy getting fenders into position, mumbled something about needing to keep it in neutral a bit more. I watched the needle continue to jump up. "I think we should turn it off," my voice now rising into a higher octave. "We are good in low gear, just for a little bit longer," he replied. Still climbing, "It’s 240, Patrick!!! I’m turning it off!!" Finally understanding the urgency, he agreed, "Yes, turn off the engine."

I sprinted down the companionway into the cabin, a madwoman flinging open hatches and cabinets like a possessed pirate. We needed to give our overheating engine a ten-minute time-out. Just enough time to cool us down, round the corner of the island, and the dock would be right there. Turning the engine back on I prayed to see anything under 190 on that gauge. But the needle hovered at 200, our boats defiant middle finger to her new owners.

The engine had to stay in low gear while Patrick pulled the anchor up. Again the needle climbed it’s way back to the 240 danger zone. We switched seats when the anchor was secured and Patrick steered the rest of the way. Once he picked up the pace, the engine temperature dropped to 220, a small victory. We were nearing the finish line, and rounding in on the dock. Bailing and circling back around has always been discussed in our docking strategies, for moments when we are coming in too fast, or feel uncomfortable about anything. "I'm going to circle back," Patrick yelled, but I couldn't wait another second in suspense for our engine to blow. "No! I've got this!" I roared, my inner superhero emerging. As we were careening towards the dock, I flashed back to summers with Uncle Lewis and Aunt Dolly: "Never use your body to stop a boat." I grabbed the boat hook. I felt like a gladiator lowering my shoulder and pushing back the advance as I rammed that hook into the piling. The boat hook collapsed in on itself and the boat bounced into the slip.

I had the mid ship line in hand ready to tie us off, but the 18 knot winds had pushed us too far to the right and away from the dock. We threw the line to a good samaritan who thankfully helped pull us over and into place. We tied ourselves up. There it was again......relief.

Our dock in Moorehead City.

We were walking, talking petri dishes of stress sweat. We needed a shower, a good meal, and another night of good sleep. Plugged into shore power with the air conditioner humming in our ears, we looked over plans for the next day. This should be our last day of travel, the shortest leg of the trip. Twenty-eight nautical miles more to New Bern. We would pass through the Pamlico Sound and then into the protection of Adam's Creek all the way up to the Neuse River. The forecasts called for a rainy, windy day, so we would have our foul weather gear at the ready. Looking to slack tide again for our timing, we would need to be fueled and ready to depart at 10:00.

The Last Leg

Let's just say, gym memberships are a waste of money in this floating life. Lugging two forty-pound fuel cans half a mile at 7:30 in the morning qualifies as a full-body workout in my book. After stopping for my fourth five-minute break, two men from a nearby boat tour business took pity on me and let me borrow their wheelbarrow. This boating community is a special breed. We'd heard the rumors, but now we were living it. We had encountered so many helpful strangers on this trip. Patrick had a good perspective on the matter: when you're boating, you've more than likely experienced the need for a helping hand once or twice. It's easier for this community to put themselves in someone else's shoes; they've all been humbled before, too.

We managed to escape the dock with only minor scars on our teak trim. The wind was a relentless force the first half of the day. What sound? The Pamlico felt more like the wild ocean. We heard clattering and clanging, as we hadn’t properly stowed for an offshore experience. Adam's Creek, thankfully, was a refuge from the aggressive rocking, and I’m proud to say I still haven’t gotten seasick yet. It was quite lovely being the lone boat drifting up the creek in the light pitter-patter of the afternoon rain. The cool, gray day turned into a welcome respite from the sun’s assault we had experienced earlier in the trip, and before we knew it, we were hailing the Cunningham Bridge, conveniently located right in front of our slip.

We arrived in New Bern around 5:30, the witching hour of traffic jams and bridge closures. I had read that the bridge would take opening requests starting at 6:00, we could easily motor around until then, keeping our engine at a nice 160 degrees. I hailed the operator, "Next bridge opening is 6:30." No, no, nooooooo, an hour to wait. We would anchor.

As I prepared to drop the anchor, a silent prayer echoed in my head. “Please watch over us,” I pleaded. The sun peeked through the clouds, like a warm embrace, a sign, a promise of protection. We’d been watched over this entire journey, every stumble a lesson learned, every near-disaster a character-building exercise. Everything had been necessary to our progress, and nothing had been too catastrophic to handle. We were becoming sailors, forged in the fires of adversity. This was the road less traveled, a path of challenges and rewards. Our perspective was shifting, expanding to encompass the vastness of the sea and the resilience of the human spirit.

We began the now familiar ritual of setting the anchor, getting lines and fendors in place, and planning our strategy for docking. Luckily our marina was well protected from the elements. We would pass G, E, D, C docks before turning down B. Then, just an easy bow thrust or two and into our slip, 31.

Ten minutes until showtime, and Patrick was already wrestling with the anchor. He was a one-man tug-of-war crew, determined to conquer this metal beast without resorting to engine power. It had of course gotten hot while shifting in neutral and reverse to deploy and set the anchor, so we were waiting as long as we could before firing her back up. Here we go again, engine turned on we were already at 200. Keeping it in low gear until we had the anchor up, we jumped to 220. I could feel tightness in my chest. 6:26 anchor was up, we were moving forward and toward the the bridge, but I heard no alarms signaling any plans to open. 6:30 there it stood still closed. We were idling there waiting as our engine was getting hotter. Patrick hailed the operator again. "Cunningham Bridge this is Know Return requesting a bridge opening"....."Whelp you're two minutes late but I'll open it for you." he had forgotten we hailed at 5:30. I wanted to grab that vhf and unleash a tirade of epic proportions. Patrick thankfully stopped me, "He's opening it for us, let's be thankful for that." As we waited, our engine temperature soared towards critical mass. We had reached 240.

I was trying to do my best zen master impression, box breathing and focusing my sights on the destination ahead, visualizing us pulling into our slip. Just get us through this bridge. We passed through the steel barrier, my heart slowing to a normal pace, I could hear the engine rumbling along with significant effort. We passed e dock, then d, started slowing down past c, we would turn on b. Booom.....Hissssssssssss, that sound could only mean one thing, I looked up at Patrick alarmed, but with surprisingly less panic and more steely resolve. "Fire suppression system," he shouted. Our bodies took over with a knowing from another lifetime. We quickly switched places. I grabbed the wheel as Patrick headed for the anchor. I steered us out of the middle of the channel and used the bow thrusters to get us into anchoring position with the wind direction. The anchor splashed into the water. Still adrift, but we had been significantly slowed and could get familiar with our surroundings.

The current was pushing us to the swing bridge (a bridge for the train), not an option to get hung up on. Behind us a little beach and park, we would be aground if we floated that way, but to the left, we saw old pilings from a dock washed away. This could be a possible option if we couldn’t get the anchor set. I pulled out the tablet to check the depths around us. Plenty of depth here, plenty of depth here, oh no, clicking on the area right below us I see "RESTRICTED, DO NOT ANCHOR, CABLE AREA". Plan b is now plan a.

We used all of our left over adrenaline to lift the dinghy back over the railings and into the water. Patrick jumped into action tying lines together, then paddling out toward the large wood beacons of hope. He wrapped the line around the piling and then frantically paddled back. He climbed back on board and hand, over hand we tugged our boat broadside to the pilings where we could tie up. There we were secured, battered, and bruised, longingly looking at our slip just a baseball throw’s away.

That is our Marina right in front of us!

A wave of relief washed over me, followed by a tsunami of tears. Patrick held me tight while I sobbed and sobbed. So many emotions that had run through me over the past couple of days: fear, joy, exhaustion, relief, gratefulness, they were all existing simultaneously and bubbling out of me like a volcanic eruption.

We needed food, so Patrick convinced me to leave our haven in the water and head for wings and mozarella sticks. With Fajita in tow we rowed our dinghy across the water and parked it in B31. “See we did make it to our slip afterall.” Patrick smurked. A smile slowly broadened into healing belly laughs. We had made it to New Bern, safely with a good story to boot.

Home Sweet Home

That evening on the boat was the coolest yet. The Northerly Winds brought along temps in the 60's. It felt like the cool mountain air we had left behind blew in with us. I rowed Fajita to the beach, and then we called the Marina to see what we needed to do next. They would be able to push us into the slip with the pump out boat, but not until 3:00. We spent the day getting to know our new town.

New Bern is a hidden gem, a charming blend of Charleston's history and Brevard's small-town warmth. We were smitten. At 3:00, the rescue squad arrived — a pump-out boat, sent by our marina. We cast off from our makeshift mooring and they pushed us across the way. As we approached the dock, I started to see men climbing off of their boats and heading to ours. I welled up with tears at the site of this welcoming committee — a band of boat-owning brothers ready to lend a hand.

We were home for the next five months. A place to rest, to learn, to grow. This journey had been a crash course in seamanship. We were stronger, wiser, and more connected than ever before. The next adventure was on the horizon, but for now, we were content to simply be here.