The inside of the boat is the same as always. The dappled sunlight
on the oiled teak, Starbuck's green leaves hanging down over the
closet (our mold-eating ivy plant), the smell of whatever happens to
be in the oven at the moment wafting around, the coffee steaming, the boat gently rocking.
You really couldn't tell from in here whether we were anchored in
Coles Creek at Carlyle, or sitting at the dock at Oak Harbor, or in
the anchorage at Magothy River. The inside of the boat is home, no
matter where we are.
The weirdness begins when you slide open the companionway and look outside. At the moment we're still in Back Creek outside of Annapolis and there are literally thousands of boats within a 5 minute dinghy ride. They come and go all day, waving and smiling and even hollering across that they used to be from St. Louis as well. When we lived there, every time I opened the front door was predictable. The same sidewalk, the same trees, the same neighborhood Some people find that comforting I guess, but I have to tell you that taking the comfort of home to places where every time you open your front door there's a new neighborhood, is some sort of magical. A bit like Lucy's foray into the back of the wardrobe. It's not quite Narnia, but magical nonetheless.
The weirdness begins when you slide open the companionway and look outside. At the moment we're still in Back Creek outside of Annapolis and there are literally thousands of boats within a 5 minute dinghy ride. They come and go all day, waving and smiling and even hollering across that they used to be from St. Louis as well. When we lived there, every time I opened the front door was predictable. The same sidewalk, the same trees, the same neighborhood Some people find that comforting I guess, but I have to tell you that taking the comfort of home to places where every time you open your front door there's a new neighborhood, is some sort of magical. A bit like Lucy's foray into the back of the wardrobe. It's not quite Narnia, but magical nonetheless.
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