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Cruising Musing #2

• Fetching an item from my small but deep refrigerator often becomes a study in frustration and an opportunity to explore imaginative new combinations of swear words. The desired item is invariably on the bottom, often glued there with leaked salad dressing, and I wind up unloading nearly all the contents of the reefer, which wind up strewn around the galley and nav station (typically during a crucial moment in preparing a meal on the two-burner stove adjacent to the reefer). 
• Running out of propane halfway through cooking a would-be nice meal is another delightful show stopper. 
• Then there's the issue of deck leaks, nearly unavoidable on this 23-year-old boat with teak decking.  In a downpour I have to methodically position towels to catch drips, including the one square in the middle of the V- berth where I sleep. 
• Then there are the fascinating issues involving waste management.  The occasional urgent "nature call" can present a dilemma and certain logistical difficulties.  Imagine this scenario: It's 5 AM, it's raining, it's cold out, and you're on your way up the dock in sweats and a slicker, flashlight in hand, bound for the "shoreside facilities" waypoint (anyone with a holding tank knows why this is the only acceptable resolution to the dilemma, even though technically you could go on the boat). 

It's times like these that I ask myself, "Am I nuts? Why do I choose to live on a 30-foot-small sailboat?"

The misgivings have been short lived so far, however.  Within a few days I invariably find myself in the cockpit, leisurely enjoying a wonderful dinner with a drop-dead gorgeous sunset as a backdrop.  I look around at my waterfront neighborhood and the doubts evaporate.  It is worth it, in spite of the niggling inconveniences and annoyances.

But there's more to it than that.  It is a way of life, not just a choice of habitat like a house vs. a condo vs. an apartment.  My decision to pursue this lifestyle was impulsive.  The notion took seed in during my early twenties, lay dormant (but not forgotten), then came to fruition when I was 43.  And the commitment to this choice has deepened since then.  It is a big part of who I am, an expression of my values and philosophy of life, and a (nearly) constant source of joy and contentment.  The underpinnings of why it works for me fall into three categories.

1.  Aesthetics:  The essence of this is a profound love of the ocean (which started for me, for reasons I can't explain and don't fully understand, at around age 9 or 10).  I love the physical sensation of the boat's motion on the water, whether underway or "stationary" (an oxymoron when applied to a boat, unless it's on the hard).  While underway, I enjoy the rhythmic undulation of the boat as it rides over the waves.  At anchor or in a slip, the rocking motion soothes me (usually, that is; as any boater knows, there's a fine line between pleasing and annoying motion when the wind picks up). 

I love the closeness to the ocean's natives: the fish rippling the water's surface, dolphins playing off the bow underway, and the seabirds on the water and in the air.  I feel like I'm a guest in their realm and feel a certain kinship.  I love the smells of the ocean, from the fresh seabreeze to the pungent kelp beds.  And the sounds associated with boat life I've also come to enjoy; the squawk of a great blue heron taking flight, the chatter of gulls circling the marina, the sound of rainfall on the deck, and even the wind in the rigging. 

And I really like the view.  When I look out from the cockpit, companionway or portholes, I see water, sky and boats, not concrete, stucco and landscaping.  And when I gaze up through the open hatch from my bunk on a clear night, the view might include one of my celestial friends like Orion, Cygnus or Cassiopeia, and perhaps the moon.  So all these diverse aesthetic qualities provide a sumptuous feast for my senses and my soul.

2.  Ethics:  I’m talking about my ethics here, personal and individual.  I like the feeling of self-sufficiency and efficient, low impact utilization of natural resources.  It's a personal ethic that had its roots in my early days as a back packer, Sierra clubber and environmentalist, and is now applied to my life on the water. I have no real ethical antipathy toward those who live on land (except perhaps for those malignant few who blatantly exploit and spoil it).  It's a matter of choice, and the essence of the choice is one of attitude, not the form of one's abode.  Most folks living on land are conservation conscious and environmentally responsible.  I just find that, for me, my choice of habitat makes it easy for me to fulfill my conservationist philosophy and goals. 

I know that this is a slippery slope and I don't want to go down the philosophical path of universal mores.  I just know what works for me and rings true for me.  I choose this lifestyle partly because of its low impact on the environment.  I have no lawn to mow, water or fertilize, I have a small living space to efficiently heat in winter, and a few 10-watt lamps provide all the illumination I need.  Away from the marina I can get nearly all the electricity I need from solar panels and a wind generator, and on the move the wind is my main motor.  A five-gallon propane bottle lasts me about five months.  I fill my 60-gallon water tanks every two or three weeks (the average American uses that much in a day).  And underway or at anchor I can use my water maker to convert sea water to fresh water. 

At anchor in nice weather my three-gallon solar shower bag provides free hot water for a nice shower or doing dishes.  I figure that, overall, I use about 1/10th the resources (water, electricity and gas) compared to the average American.  And I don't need a lawnmower, edger, weed whacker, leaf blower, sprinkler system, big screen TV, hot tub, or 20-cubic-foot fridge.  I still have what I consider important comforts, including a microwave, TV/VCR, stereo (and about 300 CD's), coffeemaker, laptop PC, and my trusty cell phone (all of which can operate on the boat's batteries, which can be charged using solar and wind power). 

3.  Eccentricity: The final category I'll call eccentricity, or perhaps rugged individualism with a waterfront motif.  The boat and its environs constitute my personal Walden Pond.  In part I feel like a dropout, a voluntary non-participant (well semi-participant), in what I feel is a generally over-consumptive and environmentally indifferent society.  And I do sort of relish the concept of being a rebel (with a cause), and marching to the beat of a different drummer. 

The simple life suits me.  And blending in the aesthetic factors just sweetens the deal.  Now the astute reader may point out a potential source of sourness in that sweet deal.  Namely that the same factors of simplicity and economy of lifestyle also give rise to the inconveniences and annoyances.  This is the tradeoff, and I fully accept that.  All things considered, the sweet overpowers the sour and the total package works well for me and I hope it will continue so for many years.

What works for me may not be suitable for most folks.  Life on a boat is often cramped, confining, inconvenient, occasionally outright uncomfortable, and always attended by its unique set of annoyances.  Factor in a few young children, perhaps a pet or two, and the challenges can become daunting.  I would not have embarked on this lifestyle when I was 33 and had a wife, a child, a dog, and two cats.  But it serves me well now.  What started as a midlife choice (and at first, an experiment) for an alternative lifestyle has evolved into a passion, a commitment, and a lifelong love affair. 

Trish’s Two Cents: Skip left out an element of living aboard that is so much a part of him I think he takes it for granted. It’s the heightened sense of community that is an integral part of living in the world’s largest village. When a new boat pulls into the marina, Skip is quick to go up on the dock to take lines and stand by to assist in any other way that’s needed. He offers rides to marina visitors who need to run errands. And he’s ready and willing to engage in conversation at any time, which will often lead to an invitation to come aboard Nehalennia for a glass of wine and munchies. One of the major pleasures of liveaboard life is that we measure and are measured on a different yardstick. No one really cares how materially wealthy anyone is, or what profession they pursue; what matters more is how we operate within the community, and there’s no need to prove ourselves before being accepted. It’s a wonderful environment for us.

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With this month’s Cruising Musing, Take Her Sailing has launched Skip’s Tips. Check that section for Skip’s first entry: 13 Creature Comforts for a Liveaboard Life.

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