four months aboard

Today marks four months living aboard my boat, a 1976 37' Gulfstar coastal cruising sailboat. As I write this I am, perhaps crazily, sitting where I spent most of my time during my first several weeks aboard: outside in the cockpit. Although the temperature hovering around freezing means I have traded flip flops for Uggs, I have a nice cold beer to help keep me warm. As I look back on this brief period that feels so long, I am filled with one overarching regret: that I did not embark on this journey twenty years ago.

But that I followed a path that was never right for me is a decision that cannot be undone. What I can do now is live my life to the fullest, be as free as I possibly can, plot a course away from the grid, toward freedom, independence, and adventure. I still hold hope that along the way I will drag anchor into a like-minded soul who wants to raft-up together for this journey. Love is very rare to me, but I would rather hold out for it than ever settle again.

Skeptics were in no short supply when I announced in early August that I was going to buy a boat and move aboard. Within two months I closed on my boat and moved in. I joke to other liveaboards that the dreamers in online forums with their five, ten, or twenty year plans to move aboard and cast off the lines are really on a forty-year-plus plan and the closest they'll get to living aboard and cruising is a Viking funeral. No boat will ever be perfect, or ready, or have enough equipment or supplies. I wanted to be the master of my domain and of my destiny, and so I jumped in. I knew that life aboard had long been meant for me; in that, I have never doubted myself for even a moment. I never even planned to be a cruiser any time soon, do not yet know how to sail, yet now it pains me to be tied to a dock. I cannot wait to cast off the lines and let my real life begin.

Hunter wide-eyed peeking into the galley as I cook

Me and pup dog

That is not to say it has been smooth sailing these past months. We live in constant financial strain and I have shed many tears over frustrations with the pets, the boat, and the heartbreak of the floppy-haired sailor guy. My holding tank is full and all the pump outs are winterized. I struggle to get on and off the boat safely when the tides leave my boat stranded, aground, my deck three feet below the finger pier. My new marina offers me more privacy and peace, but lacks any wireless internet access...I used up my phone's high-speed data and have not been able to get online (and update this blog) when I want during the past two weeks. I am still trying to solve the internet challenge. I have to schlepp to a laundromat or use the laundry at my office across town. Living aboard with snow and ice on the decks and docks is no treat and presents many dangers. I seize any day where it hits 50 degrees to fill my water tank and several gallon jugs with water. I check my NOAA Weather Here Free, Tide Prediction, and BlueFin Marine Weather apps obsessively, often planning sleep schedules, errands, and showers around when the tides will facilitate getting on and off the boat. Today I bought canned beer only because it fits more easily in the icebox-turned-fridge. Yes, I sacrifice to "live the dream."

Living the dream?

Where's my fruity rum drink!

Yesterday I kept sensing that I was walking downhill aboard. I set a battery on the galley counter, but it stayed. A few hours later I still sensed it and tried the battery test again...it quickly rolled toward the bow. It was a very disconcerting feeling. I was worried about damage to the keel and the safety of the boat. I reached out to an experienced liveaboard friend who offered another set of eyes and assured me it was simply a result of being aground in my slip. The depth sounder read 3.6 feet; my draft is 5. Some five or six inches of rudder stuck out above the mud, but at the bow the water was just kissing the boot stripe. I dislike being worried about the boat because I need more experience, but at the same time, I am pleased that I am so attuned to the boat's balance that I sensed the bow tipping forward long before any loose items did. My boat and I, we are going to know each other well and be together a very long time.

My view from the hatch door yesterday morning

Snow-covered decks

Gonna have to bail the dinghy out when the snow melts

Living aboard is not easy. It is not something to do on a whim; it requires compromises, creativity, and flexibility. I have much to learn both about my boat's systems and about sailing, but I know far more than most people anticipate and absorbed more than I thought during a decade tossing lines and drinking rum runners on Miami power boats. As much as some old salts act as though only they were blessed with the celestial knowledge of sailing, it really is not rocket science and where there is a will there is a way. But I entered this process in a trial by fire...my one-month anniversary aboard I got to ride out the edges of Hurricane Sandy and at four months aboard I face more snow and ice. Luckily, and from what I have seen unlike many of the dreamers, I went into this adventure focused on systems, hull soundness, winter survival, and a boat that serves my near-term purposes of coastal cruising and life aboard (not distant whisperings of circumnavigation). If one is focused on palm trees, sandy beaches, and fruity rum drinks, I think he or she may be ill-prepared for the realities of life aboard. That is not to say I do not see those tropical delights in my not-too-distant future, but they will be a happy side-effect of going into life aboard with my eyes wide open to the many challenges--and the opportunity to surmount them--so that I may be rocked to sleep by the sea.

Although the floppy-haired sailor guy (ab)used this song to seduce me, it rings true to my heart and I can finally listen to it without tears. My real life will begin out on the water, with the waves crashing over the bow. Waiting For My Real Life to Begin

forty hours later... going ashore

Forty hours aboard without leaving the boat. Tide back to normal this morning and able to have Buttercup go ashore. She finally broke down yesterday afternoon and piddled on the side deck, but she wouldn't use the piddle pad I put down in the head or just "go" on the foredeck, despite my pleading. She was one happy puppy to have a nice long walk this morning! Training her to go on the deck will be a challenge, but with winter storms (and hopefully someday cruising) in the future, she'll really need to get comfortable with it.

Here's a photo of the crew snuggling yesterday. Clockwise from the top: Buttercup, Hunter, and Maximus. Perhaps they were just oblivious, but I'd like to think they are all very brave. None of them got the least bit upset about the storm

The boat appears to have weathered the storm well. Naturally, there are leaks everywhere from the boat not being maintained in recent years so I will have a lot of work to do to track down the sources of leaks and make repairs.

Walking through Eastport with the dog, we did not see much damage; mostly leaves and tree limbs being set out for pick up. Was relieved to see my car looking OK, no trees having come down on it. Here's a photo of the calm after the storm at a pocket park at the end of Horn Point.

the worst has passed

Managed to get a few hours of sleep. Woke about 3:45am, tried to wake up a bit, listened for sounds indicating lines breaking or boat hitting dock or pilings, checked on bilge, interior leaks, and condensation. Crew kept snoozing through it all: winds whipping, boat rocking, gusts that heeled us at a good angle. They seem to have their sea legs.

Ventured above about 5:00am to check lines, pulled in some slack in bow lines to help keep me forward in the slip and off the dock. With high tide due to arrive at 6:00am, the water was just 3 or 4 inches below the dock.

Kept fingers crossed water would stay low enough that I would not have to disconnect shore power. Battery does not seem to be charging; possibly didn't get the charger back online right when installing terminal covers or perhaps I am drawing too much power between space heater, laptop, and stereo for the charger to send charge down to the house battery. (I really don't know enough about marine electrical systems yet, so just a guess.) My house bank was two big 4D batteries, but one is dead; replacing the dead one with a bank of a few smaller ones (that I can lift) is going to be a priority ahead of winter storms.

Grabbed another nap around high tide and headed out about 8:30am to see how the boat and docks looked in daylight. If I leave the boat I'll have a hard time climbing back aboard now that the water is level with the dock. Same for pup dog, so after trying to get her to "go" on the foredeck, I put a piddle pad in the head in case she really can't hold it until the tide subsides. (And I've been told winds will pick up again this afternoon, so she may have a narrow window to get ashore and back today.) Although I haven't left the boat, I did not see any damage to my boat or those around me as I walked my decks. Below are some photos of the water level.

My usual boarding spot, almost under water.

Relieved to see the stern did not hit the dock.

View of marina shore from the bow.

The storm really isn't over here, though the worst has passed. But some good lessons learned. Need to invest in a good set of foul weather gear. Headlamp was priceless for hands-free visibility adjusting lines in the middle of the night. (Thanks to Mike for picking one up at the last minute for me.) Need to have confidence in myself, take my time to get hitches right, let adrenaline kick in when needed. (Thank you Russell for believing I could do this, for sharing so much advice, and for helping me when I melted down.)

Looks like water is receding. I think we've made it through all right. Four weeks aboard; three faithful crew; cried twice; survived one tropical storm. Yeah, I can do this.

riding out the storm

Here she is Monday early afternoon, prepped for the storm. Bimini and dodger off, lines doubled up. I am pretty good at rolling with hurricane prep and stressful situations in general, but a few hours before getting her in this condition on Sunday I reached some tipping point between storm stress, 12 hours of throbbing pain from cracking my elbow into a wall, and pup dog making me nuts. I had my new dock lines, but when asked whether I had put them on I melted down that I don't know how to do the lines right by myself. Was told that of course I know how to do them and to have more confidence in myself. Probably true. But feel much better to have someone experienced do the lines and show me how and why to adjust them. But also glad to have been kicked in the butt a bit to have faith in myself.

Went out a few times to adjust lines (and cover the air conditioner with a tarp, which stopped the raining in the cabin below). Wish I had invested in a good set of foul weather gear. Even a few minutes on deck soaked me through. Hopelessly wet clothes are piled in the sink; things with potential to dry are hung in front of the space heater. Definitely need to have your wits about you heading into those winds on a slippery deck to try to pull lines in. I was desperately trying to get the boat away from the finger pier I use for boarding, but the wind was relentless and I would only get a few seconds when the line would slack and I could try to pull in as much as possible. A cold, wet, painful, frustrating half hour or so on deck trying to get the adjustments made, but I think I managed to do it.

All day I've been receiving messages encouraging (or pleading for) me to ride out the storm ashore. Only the boaters seemed to really understand that is not such a simple option. This is my home. If she sinks, I don't have someplace else to go. She is safest if I am with her to adjust lines as conditions warrant, to keep her off the docks, to keep her away from other boats. And my crew is aboard; they seem pretty confident in their captain, as they've been snoozing through the entire storm.

It's half past midnight Tuesday morning now. The eye passed north of us about eleven, so now we have to weather the back half of the storm. I've been told it might be quiet a bit and to try to nap an hour or two if I can.