Here We Go Again

It has been nearly three years since I walked off Kintala without looking back. Since then I have settled into a comfortable life doing an easy job that pays well. Even better, Deb and I ended up living in the “granny flat” over a garage owned by Daughter Middle. She and Family, including six of our eleven grandkids, live in the “main house” about twenty-five feet from our front door. To our complete delight, they come and go without knocking. This is what “family” was meant to be. (And the main reason we have been here for nearly three years.)

Though still dedicated minimalists, we have indulged in a music hobby that delights the soul. On our walls hangs an array of Ukuleles, joined by Deb's guitar. Across the room sits an electric drum kit, fold up electric keyboard, and small amp for the U-bass and electric Uke. Next to my chair lay a tongue drum while in the opposite corner are two bucket drums that also store harmonicas, maracas, a tambourine, and additional mallets. Books on music theory are stored in the iPad for frequent reference.

Six different parks lie within walking or biking range, with two bikes being added to our “stuff." Well, actually four. One of the realities of living on land saw the first two stolen right out of the garage. We are regular visitors to the parks, often accompanied by a gang of grandkids There are special trees we visit to stay close to Mother Earth. They often gift us with a whiff of the magic that so often brushed Kintala's deck and slipped into her cockpit. The sparkle of a Dryad or Nymph will flirt by in the tree shadows and dancing light reminders that, even in the city, we are part of a living world. Something otherwise easily forgotten in the noise-echoing concrete canyons of a modern American city.

In any case I am, by any definition, among the luckiest, richest, most privileged human beings who has ever lived. There are billions of people on this planet. A good bet would be that more than half of them would change places with me in a heartbeat. So why, pray tell, have we bought another boat with the intent of moving aboard and going back to the gypsy lifestyle of a full-time cruiser?

Good question.

First, “full-time” this time doesn't really mean full-time. It means six months on, six months off with a travel time fudge factor. Winter months will be spent on the boat, wandering waters first explored on Kintala: the East Coast, ICW, Florida Keys, maybe the Chesapeake Bay and the Bahama Islands. Hopefully much of that time will be spent with Family as well. Family currently living on their own boat keeping to those same waters. Family we sailed with and lived near by for nearly two years. Family we have missed every day since we left Kintala. It will be good to wander with them once again.

Summer months will see inland waterways added to our forays. A slip about a 30 minute drive from our land-side home will keep the new boat far from the rampaging hurricanes that are becoming ever more common. Regular weekend trips on the river with grandkids who don't live on a boat will keep our ship handling skills sharp. It will rest under the cover on floating docks. As safe as any boat anywhere can be.

That, as they say, is the plan from which to deviate. The details are fuzzy, the distances long, and the budget a question. But we have been down this path before. Flexibility, a willingness to admit mistakes, learn, and go on is the key. Add in, once in a while, a fair bit of stubborn determination and success is a sure thing. Well, as sure a thing as life will allow.

This is an older photo when it was in the water and, no, we would never allow the power cord
to drag in the water...

Another big change is that the new boat is a trawler. Yes, we have gone to the “dark side." As much as we loved sailing, traveling on a sailboat can be trying. Outside steering station, weather challenges, the cumbersome handling characteristics in tight quarters, a draft that tested the depth of the water in many of the places we wanted to go, the glacial pace even when trying to outrun weather? All were stress-inducing limits to what the boat could do. More to the point, the nearly seven decades of my sojourn though this life have left their mark. Once upon a time working a foredeck in a heaving sea and thirty-knot winds, deep on the back side of the clock, was an adventure to be lived. Now it looms more like a death match to be avoided. My fighting days are long over.

Living on Kintala was, at times, just as trying. It was also like living in a cave. The windows were high and small. Airflow was often restricted. Even out on anchor, in the tropics it often made for a very hot and muggy cave. And when caught too far north on the ICW during the trek south? Waking in the morning meant seeing one's breath float through the salon. Struggle into long pants and a sweat shirt before leaving the berth. Bundle up more for the hours spent huddled at the helm, wishing the day was over.

An older photo of the previous owners

The new boat? Fire up the generator and run the AC for a few minutes to cool off the cabin. Or turn on the heat and sip hot coffee in shirt sleeves while waving at the sailboat captains shivering in their cockpits. And no cave. Sitting in the salon means 270 degrees worth of visibility, near 360 if the covers are off the big windows forward of the lower steering station. There is a covered “back porch” on the same level of the salon. It has a gate that leads to the swim platform / mini-dingy dock. A ladder accesses the covered flying bridge / lounge area. The all around view is amazing. Truth to tell, it is a little intimidating. Kintala was, by most measure, a slightly bigger boat. But when standing at the upper helm this thing looks massive. One can see the entire boat, including the bow! How cool is that? What was going on at the bow was always a mystery when at the helm on Kintala.

That nearly seven decades that has slowed me down on the foredeck weigh on me in other ways. Mine is a good job. But no job is as good as not having to have a job. A huge portion of my waking hours are dictated by the whims of those whose only real goal is to use my life's hours to stuff their pockets with cash. They do share a little of what clients pay them with me. (Otherwise I wouldn't be there at all.) But a far larger portion of it ends up in their bank account rather than mine. We are near a place where we don't need any more money to finish our journey. Why spend the hours that remain doing someone else's bidding? But I could “not work” and still not go back to cruising. So again, pray tell, why?

Simple. I miss being on big water. I miss living with the ebb and flow of a more natural life spent closer to the rhythms of Mother Earth. (Though some might argue that Mother Earth is getting a bit cross with humankind at the moment.) And, to be honest, as much as I adore having family so close, having so much of the rest of humanity equally close is...trying. Each day sees more carelessness, more conflict and anger, more lies and hubris and hate, than experienced in months of living on the water. I loathe having to drive city streets and highways, where the worst of selfishness and self-indulgent arrogance is on regular display. The bits of car parts lining the shoulders and regular slowdowns for accidents are constant reminders of the real danger possibly lurking in every car and truck nearby. Each trip is likely to include at least one near miss; someone cutting across my lane with inches to spare or ridding my rear bumper in an apparent attempt to get me to ride the bumper of the car ahead. But cool and calm is required. Many of these wankers carry a gun along with their attitude. I will not miss being around them. Still, there will be sacrifices and compromises.

Not all of our new toys can travel with us. I am going miss the hours spent hammering out the primitive rhythms on the drum kit, a beat that helps put the world in focus. There is not enough wall space for seven ukuleles and a guitar. But which ones to leave behind? It isn't likely the bikes can fit anywhere, nor can all of the tools I have re-acquired having moved back on land.

But by far the hardest part will be, as it was before, saying good-by to those I love most in the world. The grandkids will grown many inches during the months we are away. There will be stories of things that happened while we were wandering, events that we missed. The jolt to the heart that missed time will bring cannot be, should not be, discounted. At times there will certainly be thoughts that the hurt was too much of a cost, that we should have stayed put.

Yet there will be other stories, stories that could not have been told without a boat being part of it. Stories of river travels with grandkids having a new adventure. Stories they will pass along to generations I will never see. Stories of traveling with the the other grandkids whose missing smiles are hard to take even now. Stories that share the magic of living different and exploring free. Stories whose foundation lies in the knowledge that life is what it is. Make of it what you can. Accept what happens. Keep going as long as you can.

So we will be going once again. But not tomorrow or even this year. More on that as soon as we figure out just where we stand with this new boat.

A different kind of view

A different kind of wake