The Boating Life

The following is a description of a Perfect Boating Day. It is somewhat romanticized, but I have had many such days. More often, like on land, something inevitably happens along the way to mess with my perfect day. I get the flu, the generator quits, the wind picks up and the waves get large. Our anchor doesn’t hold.  But when the stars align or the moon is full; when I remember to pick up coffee cream before we shove off the dock—then a perfect day looks a bit like this:

The Perfect Boating Day

There is something that happens, psychologically, physiologically, when you untie the lines and the boat you are on floats free from the dock. I am not sure why the feeling is different, say, from jumping in the car and reversing out of the driveway, but it just is. Even here, deep inside the bowels of the Intracoastal Waterway, I feel it. And once underway, the further I travel in my boat along this river, past bridges that slowly open to usher me towards the inlet, the feeling intensifies. My brain begins to salivate for the wide expanse of ocean. It doesn’t take long before I am pushing away from land. Away from all my to-dos and traffic, rules and red- tape, and ahead of me there is nothing but open water as far as I can see. The wind whips my hair back from my eyes and everything inside of me sighs with the relief of breaking free.  I can see clearly for the first time in ages. The air is inevitably crisp and the rolling, rocking movement awakens me to the fact that I am alive and traveling over other living things, swimming things whose lives I cannot even imagine.  And although I certainly exist on the same planet, the same plane of reality that I did a few hours prior, it seems I have entered another dimension. One whose proximity to the water, both as a sustain-er and killer, reminds me that I am near to death, a fact I am inclined to forget but glad to remember every now and again. Glad because in remembering death, I remember to live. A certain melancholy descends and I take my book to the flybridge, along with an apple, and settle in.

Cruising at Night

We may travel several miles offshore; a few hours or overnight. Most of the time, I vie for an overnight trip, especially if we are due for a full moon and calm seas. Then, it is early when I say adieu to the crew who might be in the middle of a game of Password or watching dolphins at the bow, and head to bed. It seems only moments later that I am woken up, strangely refreshed, at 2am for my usual watch. I grab some coffee and pretzels, open the pilothouse door, and sit in darkness for 3 sometimes 4 hours, watching for things we might run into or that might run into us. After such a night, I always feel as if I have gone through therapy, a purging or sloughing off of those unwanted dead skin cells of the soul that now lay in the wake behind me.

Life at Anchor

Arriving at our anchorage is also a relief. Now a different type of living can begin. One stationary yet still in flux. And the living is simple. The children hop overboard to climb up on our inflatable kayak, tied up with several feet of line to the swim platform. They spend the afternoon playing “I’m king of the castle, you’re the dirty rascal,” wrestling, attempting to push each other off, and laughing when their rival ends up in the water with a splash. Mike busies himself with the snuba. I tidy up the boat, cluttered from our journey, and make supper. While I do, the dog lays on the step in the cockpit, basking in the sunshine, and keeps watch over the children. We eat at twilight. Barbeque chicken, corn, and baked sweet potatoes with honey butter. We eat outside at the teak table in the cockpit as Chrysalis floats around her anchor. We are content and not anxious to begin clearing the dishes. We speak of memories, stories: that time in Malta when dad fell in the water, when we got a flat tire in the Azores, spending the night with Bedouins in the Sahara, and Stefan’s baptism by the three of us in the Jordan River, Israel.

Catch of the Day

And if the night is calm and it is warm enough, after we do the dishes, I will climb to the flybridge or sit at the bow and soak in the darkness again. The dog will come to curl up beside me and sometimes Mike or one of the children will join us. We will talk of the day or plans for the next. Sometimes we will just sit in silence, sipping our wine. Under such circumstances, it doesn’t take long before sleep begins to creep into the edges of my mind. Soon, I’ll say good-night and crawl into my berth. I’ll open the hatch directly above my pillow, and fall asleep watching the stars, with the cool salt air upon my face.