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.
