Rule Number Two: To Live-aboard full-time or part-time

Okay, you've stomped you foot, you've shook your head, and ...
Now that we’ve got that out of the way. Maybe you’re actually considering it. Hmmm…It could be fun. He’s pumped you up. He’s talked about exotic ports and romantic nights under star studded skies. It’s sounding pretty darn good. Just the two of you.
Whoa, Nellie! Hold on a minute. It’s time for a reality check here. First for very few of us is it “just the two of us”. There’s the aging parents. There’s the kids and grandkids. There’s the brothers and sisters and most of us can find at least one person that will claim us as their friend.
I remember conversations with our loved F&F’s (friends and family) before we moved aboard full time. When the question of how long we were going to stay “out there” came up the cap’n would very confidently say “Oh, four or five years.” When the heads would swivel to me, I’d hem and haw and say “We’ll see.” Secretly, I was going to give it my best for two years. I remember one of our sons telling me, “Mom, you and Jeff need to talk. He was right.
It is unfair and most certainly a recipe for failure to enter into this great adventure giving your partner false expectations by not advising him honestly and unwaveringly of your own expectations. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve known each other, he can’t read your mind and in this instance he probably doesn’t even want to try.
All couples are different and have their different priorities and expectations. The following subjects seem to be some of the more common ones that come up for argument. Uh, I mean speculation. All of these will definitely contribute to what kind of boat you end up with.
Up first!
To live aboard full time or not. It seems to me that most cruising guides I read before moving aboard were based on the full time liveaboard. In my own experience though it seems that the people living aboard full time are the minority. Most cruisers still have a land based home in which they reside at least half of the year. For our first three years as boat owners the cap’n and I lived aboard our boat for six months of the year and went back to our house in our hometown to work for six months. I really enjoyed doing this. If I was getting sick of work and the routine of dirt dwelling I could see an end in sight. On the flip side if I was getting sick of the inconveniences of the boat and homesick for a hot bath, in-house laundry and the F&F’s, again, there was an end in sight. This seems to be the ideal solution for many cruisers. It, of course, requires the financial capability to pay for and/or maintain both the boat and the house. If you are having any doubts about life aboard full time it would certainly be prudent to try this arrangement, at least temporarily, before you sell your home and most of your belongings. If you decide to do this there are some steps you can take and sacrifices you can make before hand. For most people their biggest land based expenses are their home mortgage and car payments. In 1997 the cap’n and I went to the Annapolis boat show swearing we were only looking-not buying-and then came home the proud owners of Agur’s Wish. We truly hadn’t planned it this way. The big escape was supposed to be somewhere in the very distant future. We were working more than full-time in the medical profession, living in a 4000 sq. foot home and had three vehicles. We could have afforded to keep the boat and pay all the bills but we would still have to work full time. When would we have time sail? So we did what seemed logical. We mixed ourselves a drink. And then we mixed another. And as usually happens, in inebriated oblivion the impossible became possible. Fortunately, when we woke up the next morning it still seemed possible. We sold the house and moved into a duplex we already owned. We sold the good car and drove the other two until they were beaten and battered but still refused to die. We took extra call shifts and worked overtime to pay off our bills and build the cruising kitty. It wasn’t always fun but it was worthwhile knowing we were making our dream a reality. Finally, we were able to take off for our first six months of cruising bliss. Because we were only planning to cruise for six months, we were actually able to do this within nine months of buying the boat.
Another advantage of this arrangement is that it does give you time if needed to
work for a period of time to replenish the kitty. The cap’n and I are fortunate to work in the medical field which is rife with shortages guaranteeing us employment when we need it. I know several part-time cruisers who work in retail (Did someone say West Marine?) or construction or whatever they can find just to go cruising again. As I write this we are anchored next to a two masted schooner whose captain does day charters on his boat in the states for six months of the year so he can bask in the sunny islands the rest of the year. Where there’s a will there’s a way.
The cap'n and I did finally move aboard full-time for four years. After about three years I was growing a little disenchanted with the boat-life (read majorly depressed) and had serious house envy of anyone we visited. It took him about one more year, a summer spent dirt dwelling, a return to the Hot! Hot! Hot! Bahamas in September and a boat breakdown before he cried "Uncle!" I just cried "Hallelujah!" and opened up the laptop to the real estate sections. You might wonder why I waited a year of being unhappy before insisting we give up full-time boating. There are several reasons. First, and foremost, we had made so many friends where we were that I didn't want to leave. Second,I could tell he was ready also but hadn't admitted it to himself. Fortunately, he did finally admit it but some captains never do want to leave the boat or at least they never admit it. Why is that? There is very strong feeling in the boating community that to give up boating is just that. Giving up! Woosing out. Failing! And if you have spent years planning this wonderful adventure and it didn't turn out, it's pretty hard to swallow. But you know what? At least you tried it. At least you left the dock. Life is too short to be unhappy just so you don't have to admit you were wrong. Or you can be like a lot of us. Just part-time losers and part-time boaters.
See you out there.

Smitten (How Our Boat Found Us)

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The Other Side of the Boat
SMITTEN

Let's back-up and start at the beginning...

Oh, the sweet, sweet joy of irrepressible, illogical love—whether it be for the “well-beyond-our reach” homecoming queen or the “well-beyond-our-funds”(and insurance capabilities) cherry-red sports car. We’ve all felt it. Reveled in it! We’ve all said, “To hell with the consequences!” andtaken the plunge. It seems like only yesterday…

It was on a crisp, bright autumn morning in Annapolis when across the boatyard I spotted a brawny, broad-shouldered brute of a boat. My heart tugged me and I tugged my husband Jeff across the yard and up the ladder. The exterior was craggy with experience-worn teak decks. Its noble bone structure personified toughness. But along with that bad boy exterior came a heart of gold, and this one was 18 carats. At the bottom of the companionway steps I took a look over my shoulder into the saloon. “This is the one!” I hollered up at my husband.
Always the voice of caution, he replied, “We’ll see.” And as if I were a headstrong teenager, the more words of caution and reasonable alternatives I heard, the more stubbornly enamored I became.

To really understand the dynamics of all this you have to understand the events that brought about this bonding of woman with boat. My husband and I had taken an active interest in sailing two years before our current boat hunt. This was extremely difficult, considering we lived in landlocked southwest Kansas, where the biggest body of water for 300 miles is the municipal swimming pool. After several charters, we decided to reconfigure our lives and spend more time on the water. But first we had to find “the boat.” At about 2,000 miles away, Annapolis was the closest shopping place and the October boat show was the queen of the sailboat malls.
Of course, before we headed east, we pinned down exactly what we wanted in a boat—strength being at the top of his list, beauty at the top of mine. And we made a solemn vow: We were only looking, not buying! As a woman who has come home too many times with too many shopping bags full after making the same vow, I should have known better.

During the show we climbed on and off of hundreds of boats. While he exclaimed over engine space, I compared leather to printed chintz and admired the decorative ferns. Every boat was beautiful in its own right, but not one called out to me. Finally a boat dealer at the show, having heard our requirements, steered us to a used boat that fit every one of them.
It did nothing for us! But, it was from the deck of this boat that I spotted my true love, a 1987 40-foot Tashiba. It was kind of like being set up on a blind date and falling for your date’s best friend.

I guess I should explain what my requirements for our future boat were. First and foremost, I had to have a scoop-end swim platform. We had chartered a boat once in the Caribbean that had only a short boarding ladder on the side, and I discovered the only way I was going to be able to haul myself out of the water and on to that boat in anything resembling a speedy (forget graceful) manner was if a hungry shark suddenly chose me as his mid-afternoon snack. Even then it was going to take an act of God. Other items on the wish list included a spacious aft cabin (with a queen-size berth) and a nice roomy cockpit in which to entertain all the new boat friends we would be making.

So how did this hunk of a boat with its decidedly round stern manage to turn my head. For the first time in days, when I ended my climb down the companionway I knew I was on a boat. The timeless woodwork and the heavy brass portholes told me so. Absent were the ferns and designer fabric I had thought so important, and in their place was the tried-and-true style of protective close-knit spaces and gracious curves. It just kept whispering, “I’ll take care of you.”
Meanwhile, up on deck, my husband was cautiously rejoicing with fingers tightly crossed, for the boat had everything he had dreamed of. A full keel, lots of weight, a cutter rig and that canoe end—everything he knew would protect us well during whatever cruising we decided to do.
Oh, I forgot to tell you—he was loaded, and I appreciate that in a male of any type. I’m talking about the boat now, not my husband. (Yeah, yeah, yeah, I know boats are traditionally female, but not this one.) The boat had been outfitted for extensive offshore cruising by a lawyer who took a two-year hiatus from work. He sailed around for two years and then put the boat and everything on it up for sale. The equipment included would have taken us years to purchase if we’d had to equip the boat ourselves. The guy had back-ups for his back-ups.

In order to finalize the deal, we hired a crusty old surveyor, who acted as though we were doing him a disservice by asking him to come survey our boat. He was truly confounded that we had come looking at the first boat and had ended up with this one. Dumb luck, I guess, and I know he would agree. He merely rolled his eyes when we talked of refinishing the teak deck (which we learned later had merely mellowed to a healthy gray and required no refinishing at all). He grumbled when we mentioned getting rid of all the unsightly bric-a-brac on the stern end (which turned out to be our wind generator mount and a steering system). But he just couldn’t control himself when we allowed as how we’d have to get rid of those ugly red sails. “Who would ever pick that color?” we asked. Slowly and patiently, gritting his teeth, he explained that “tanbark” was the traditional sail color. (I really wish I was making all this up.)
After, two days of the surveyor’s mutinous banging around on our hull and sniffing through lockers, we were finally ready to take the boat out for its sea trial. “I suppose you’ll want to get the sails up,” the surveyor inquired, obviously annoyed at the thought and hoping we would be too embarrassed to show anybody those “ugly red” sails. But we insisted, and he ended up grinning the whole time as the heavy boat heeled over smoothly and, to our amazement, made an easy seven knots.

Once again he scoffed at our naivete, “What did you expect? After all she’s a Bob Perry design.”

Whoever he is. We had no idea at the time.

Needless to say the boat passed the survey with flying colors and became ours. And two weeks later we sacrificed an already booked charter in the Caribbean to sail our new boat on the Chesapeake. We snagged our first crab pot, ran aground a couple of times, and the dinghy motor crapped out on us. We loved it so much we came back six months later and spent the next six months discovering the Bay. From Langford Creek where really big things (skates) went bump in the night, to Dobbins Island for our first thunderstorm and dragging, to Baltimore’s wonderful Inner Harbor to countless secluded anchorages and charming towns, we fell in love with the Bay while falling more in love with our boat.

Since then we have stretched our sea legs a little and have sailed as far north as Martha’s Vineyard and Nantucket, where there is no such thing as a secluded anchorage and boaters have a really peculiar notion of anchoring. (“What do you mean I’m dragging in forty feet of water, I’ve got eighty feet of rode out!”) And we’ve gone as far south as Key West which is just plain peculiar and proud of it! And are currently exploring the Beautiful Bahamas. I’m happy to say the love affair lives on. My first impression of our boat has held true and he has loyally protected us from wind and wave and, more frequently, ourselves. And of course compromises and adjustments have had to be made along the way—as in any relationship. The captain bought me an extended ladder so I can exit the water gracefully should any hungry sharks come cruising, and we’ve always been able to make more room in the cockpit for new friends. Although a nice rear end with a scoop swim platform can still turn my head, I’m standing by my boat.

Next Blog: Back to The Rules: A little more practical way of picking your boat

BOYS AND THEIR TOYS

THE OTHER SIDE OF THE BOAT

BOYS AND THEIR TOYS

They say Christopher Columbus made his voyage to the New World
with just some ships, a compass, and the stars.

No Way! He was a guy, after all.

"Honey, next time you go down.. . . ."
What follows is usually a plea for something necessary to sustaining life
as we know it.. .like a beer. And "next time you go downn means within the next
30 seconds, please.

When I look up from my once again interrupted novel, the cap'n pleads,
"I would but I'm driving the boat."

As I descend the companionway, I look back at the cap'n. Yep, he's
behind the helm, alright. His eyes are busily scanning. Only one thing's missing
in this little scenario. His hands aren't on the helm. That's right, he's not really
driving the boat. Otto, our trusty autopilot is responsible for the steering of this
boat because the cap'n has become much too busy for even this task.

In response to my profane mumble he explains, "Someone has to be on lookout. Oh, and while you're down there. .. ."

As I finally start to arise from the companionway, I do a quick scan of the
horizon. As suspected, not a boat in sight. Just to confirm this, I confer with the
brand new radar, you know the one that sounds an alarm should anything even
think about coming close to your boat. The radar concurs. There's not a darn
thing out there. Which brings me to my point.

What the hell do they stare at all day? Lots of things actually. Did I say he was scanning the ocean or the sky? No. Instead he is scanning multiple neon electronic screens. I don't want to
mislead you, the cap'n still believes that even with all the modern gadgets, sailing
still requires constant vigilance. After all, it takes constant searching for markers
and buoys just to convince the male brain that the GPS really does know where
we are. The funniest thing is the cap'n continues to be incredulous every time
it's right. Which, luckily, is pretty often. But the cap'n remains skeptical.
So now tucked into the corner of the cockpit is the laptop computer with a
display strikingly similar to the one on the GPS. There's that little boat thing
following the little line thing. "Honey, "zoom in" on the computer," comes the command from the cap'n who is seemingly encased behind some invisible shield that prevents him from
moving from behind the helm. Or maybe it's just all the stuff crowding the
cockpit that keeps him imprisoned.

The computer and the GPS agree about our lattitude and longitude but
the cap'n is still not convinced. So just to make sure he consults the paper
charts strewn about the cockpit. "I'll be damned, they're right!" he exclaims.
Boating used to be so simple. I remember when we were thrilled and,
admittedly, sometimes surprised to reach our planned destination with just paper
charts and a compass. Later our little handheld GPS became a reassuring
addition. Then things kind of snowballed. When we bought our own boat we
bought a bigger GPS, even though the boat had it's own and by that time we had
acquired a total of three handhelds. (Don't ask me how that happened. I don't
understand it myself). Our new boat also had a radar, which we never had
before. It never really worked that well but at least we did wait until that one
cratered before we bought a new one. Still the cap'n hauled the old one around
on our deck (I wouldn't let him bring it down below) for a month, convinced that it
had some value or could be used for spare parts. It took three uninterested
dealers for him to be convinced that the only job it was suitable for was as an
anchor.

Our latest navigational aid venture, but I assure you, not our last, is
computerized charts. Of course this wasn't really the cap'ns doing. It seems
one of our friends forced him to download all of these charts on to our laptop
(which was primarily put on board for my use), and use up all our hard drive
space. So now sailing has become a quagmire of navigational aid consultations.
Long before time to set sail, the cap'n plots and plans and plugs in waypoints.
Constantly checking, consulting, comparing, and rechecking. All to make our life
a little easier he says. Ahhh.. . Sympathy stirs for the poor cap'n beleagured by
all of this. But then, just as my foot hits the top rung of the companionway ladder.. .
"Honey, before you come up.. . ."