Recently, returning from a trip to Nova Scotia, I flew into Fort Walton Beach, Florida—my current berth. As the plane descended through the clouds and arced gracefully over Choctawhatchee Bay, I picked out familiar landmarks below and felt a pleasant, reassuring rush. There’s the Destin bridge over there, whitecaps below on the bay, and the familiar indentations along the shoreline. I clearly see, from 1500 feet, the tricky shoals I skirt when I exit my marina to the open waters of the bay. And there’s the marina and the tiny dot that is my home, a 30-foot Baba cutter. It feels good to be coming home. I’ve lived here only eight months, but the beauty and charm of this place has completely won me over. It now feels like home.
Reflecting on the concept of home, I find it remarkable that over the past three years I’ve fallen in love with and adopted, for a time, many diverse places from Annapolis, Maryland to here at Niceville, Florida. It wasn’t always that way for me.
Southern California was my home for the first 33 years of my life. I went to college there, got married there (three times), raised a daughter there, and learned to sail there. I was raised to appreciate, respect, and love home. Home meant family, a circle of friends, and all the nice warm fuzzies that go with it: security, support, and the comfort of familiarity. And those roots ran deep.
My first experience with leaving home came in 1979 when I left for Houston, Texas to study medicine. I was homesick quite a bit during my four years there. After graduation, I drove my VW van back west to start my new job in San Diego. After miles and miles of Texas, a night in Las Cruces, New Mexico, then across the deserts of Arizona, I finally crossed the Colorado River, where a small sign greeted me:“Welcome to California.” I had to pull over as tears blurred my vision. I shut the motor off and walked around a bit, taking in the smells, kicking at rocks, and feeling elated to be once again on California soil. My elation escalated by degrees as I drove past familiar desert town and on to the very end of Interstate Highway 8 at the Pacific Ocean. I parked the van, changed in the back, and walked straight to the beach and into the ocean…home at last.
That powerful sense of home is still strong in me, only it’s now modified a bit. The difference is a melding of the cruiser’s sense of the vagabond, the nomad, into my old conventional concept of what constitutes “home.” The change was not without a good deal of angst. I had to learn to be adaptable and I had to change my attitude that there is but one home.
I left San Diego again in 2001. This time I had my boat trucked to Annapolis, Maryland, a move that had more to do with Trish’s job transfer to the east coast than to any adventurous wanderlust on my part. I spent much of that winter pining for San Diego and feeling homesick. I missed friends and family and familiar surroundings. I came out of my funk by degrees.
Winter in Annapolis can be really beautiful, and I learned to appreciate it. I ventured into town, discovered special places, and met some fantastic people. I took a writing course at a local college and a course in literature at venerable St. John’s. The place grew on me and I fell in love with it. Then the time came to move on, and I moved across the bay to Oxford, Maryland, a small hamlet on the Eastern Shore.
The process of falling in love with a great place began anew. I learned about log canoe racing and wooden boat building, got to know the locals, and made friends. It’s a charming place and it charmed me in short order. After a spring, summer, and fall the time to move on came again, this time due to a reluctance to spend another winter in the northeast (after all, I’m still a California boy at heart). So I cast off the lines once again and trekked down the ICW to Charleston, South Carolina.
I found another interesting city to explore, rich in history and southern charm. I learned about sides of the War Between the States that they didn’t tell me about in school, and about southern pride, low country cooking, and oyster roasts. That winter I took a digital photography course and discovered the vast library at the local medical school.
The following spring found me on the waterway again, traveling south. Moving on was becoming easier, and I was looking forward to exploring the Georgia Sea Islands and the coasts of Florida. My destination was “somewhere around Tampa Bay.” By June I was in my hurricane season refuge, Tarpon Springs, Florida. The process of getting to know a new city, a new home, began again, and eventually I fell in love again. I learned about the town’s Greek sponge diving history, ate tons of great Greek food, and joined a local writing group. Last fall I took off again, crossed the gulf and made my way to my present location, my home for a time.
Over time I’ve learned to adopt the vagabond’s approach to home - embrace it, learn from it, love it (if so moved), and when the time comes, learn to gracefully say goodbye and move on. I have also learned that, for me, there is a certain etiquette involved in being a transient: It’s not fair to just take and enjoy and not give something back to the community. As a “short-timer,” that can present some difficulties, but it can be done. In every community I’ve lived in I’ve been involved in some way. I feel that I have the time and energy, and I ought to contribute. So:
In Annapolis I volunteered at the local pound as an animal companion, walking the dogs.
In Oxford I joined the Chesapeake Bay Foundation and helped with some projects involving wetlands preservation.
In Charleston I volunteered at the medical school library, re-shelving books and journals.
While in Tarpon Springs I joined a local writer’s group and helped out at community events they sponsored.
In Niceville I work (for pay) as physician assistant at a nearby clinic and make rounds at an assisted living facility.
The hard part, I have found, is to maintain a spirit of mobility while I participate in the community, so that it’s not too difficult to move on, while at the same time making meaningful deep connections. Right now Niceville is my home, and I dearly love it. In a while, when the siren song of fresh adventure becomes overwhelming, I know I’ll move on.
Do I have any regrets about the vagabond lifestyle I’ve adopted? A few, I guess, but not a lot. There are some lonely times and the occasional pangs of separation from friends and family. Most of my family and long-term friends are back in Southern California. I do manage to go back for visits once or twice per year. The rewards of venturing away and cruising have been a reasonable trade-off. If I had stayed put in San Diego all these years, I would not have had the wonderful experiences and memories resulting from a trail of homes, however transitory, from Maryland to Florida.
Skip’s Ideas for Making Home as You Go
This lifestyle is not for everyone, but it suits me just fine. For anyone pursuing my type of cruising, here are some ideas. There will be places you visit along the way and places you settle into for a time. In those latter places, try some or all of the following ideas:
Venture out beyond the waterfront and explore the full breadth of the community. Keep an open mind and try to work through any regional prejudices you may have (that was tough for me, especially in the South).
Seek out locals who grew up there and get them to tell you about their hometown. Adopt the stance of a guest, eager to learn more about their city.
Get to know the area’s history and culture. The local library is great for this. After you get a feel for the community, try to seek out ways you can give back to the community.
Consider volunteer work, ranging from as simple as the “clean up the bay day” they have here to more ongoing endeavors such as being an adult literacy tutor or a volunteer in a hospice.
Be aware that you may be viewed with some skepticism as “just passing through,” or even as an interloper. Be honest about your intent and about your likely length of stay, and you can usually win over the skeptics.
One more thought that, as I look back, is worth considering. Before cutting the cord completely, it might be worthwhile to keep a home base on terra firma, at least for a time. It could be comforting to have a place on land to go to if misfortune trashes the boat or illness precludes further cruising. Cruisers do get old too, and the lifestyle is physically demanding. I mean, we may want to pack it in eventually, swallow the hook, and have a nice cozy fireplace to sit by in the rocker with a cat on the lap (if that’s your thing!).
All told, I guess it comes down to this: Think about it carefully, do what seems right for you, then get out there and commence cruising. You’ll find a wealth of great places to visit or call home for a time, and you’ll collect many fond memories. Guaranteed!
