And We're Off

You've been waiting for this post, I'm sure. I've sure been looking forward to this day! Sometime in the spring, we sat down to pick a departure date. We'd read that without a hard deadline, many sailors find it difficult to leave the dock. The Pacific NW coast gets dicey in the fall, so we knew we wanted to leave in early September. It seemed pretty obvious to us both to choose September 3rd, Bryan's birthday, as an ideal day to sail away.
First, we had to move aboard. We'd purged a lot when we left our house and little by little worked to let go of more after we moved in with Bryan's mom. But there was still an insurmountable pile to deal with in the last few days. We drove several car loads up to the boat and on Saturday, spent one last morning at the house getting (we hope!) the last of our things packed. Bryan's mom and aunt left today for a month in Africa and Amsterdam, so they were in the middle of their own packing frenzy, but somehow we made it out.

In a caffeine fueled frenzy, the girls and I spent Saturday evening and all day Sunday "stuffing the stuff" while Bryan worked on drilling holes in the boat to install the new, external chainplates. He broke a drill bit off inside one stubborn hole and spent most of the day trying to find a solution.

Our work started out tidy and sensible and devolved into randomness as we got closer and closer to Sunday night. Finally we stashed the last few boxes in the trunk of our car and went to bed because Monday was...
The Bon Voyage Party!
We'd been saying smaller goodbyes for days, even had a picnic in the rain at the park near our church for those who couldn't make it to St. Helens. But many of our friends and family had never even seen our boat, and we wanted to give them a good picture of our home for the year. Monday morning, Bryan spent more time drilling the chainplate holes and the girls and I found hidey holes for everything below.

Many of our dear ones were able to join us. We tested the buoyancy of our vessel for a few family pictures and spent a delightful afternoon shifting from the park to the boat to see everyone "one last time." 

I'd said to Bryan the night before, "I wish I could filter out all the exhausted and the freaked out and just leave the excited for a little while." At the party, people from all of our circles—family, church friends, sailing friends—intersected and their excitement for us overshadowed, just for the moment, all the hard work, the frustrations of the past months, and the uncertainty about the next. We've read other sailors' accounts of these events and imagined our own, but nothing prepared us for the outpouring of love, food, cards, gifts, and well-wishes.

OK. You're reading a sailing blog, so I know you're not too annoyed with sailing lingo. But just in case you don't know, the chainplates are the lower attachment points for the shrouds (the side cables holding up the mast) and ours were fiberglassed into the hull of the boat, 50 years old and un-inspectable. We'd manufactured new ones out of aluminum-bronze (that's a story in itself!), and planned to install them on the outside of the hull where we could inspect and maintain them more easily.

Before we could leave our dock, with readily available power and borrowed power tools, Bryan had several holes to drill, starting on the outside of the boat, working through the old chainplates, piercing through to the inside. He'd already finished the starboard side before the party, and it had gone relatively smoothly. Tuesday started off well, with 5 chainplate holes drilled in 2 hours. but this one hole on the port side seemed to be actively resisting. He broke several bits, dropped a few more (we've more than paid the obligatory sacrifice to Neptune) and borrowed a bigger drill. Nothing seemed to help and every pass with the drill produced a miniscule amount of metal shavings, just enough to keep him at it. Bryan assumed he was drilling through the old chainplate and likely a tie-bar, originally installed across all three chainplates, but even still, we couldn't figure out why it was taking so much longer than the other holes. Some friends (H&A) stopped by with helpful essentials—fresh strength, good attitudes, and gatorade. After 5 or 6 hours of drilling in the sun, the bit finally broke through to the other side. The whole marina heard us shouting! 

Later, the men realized they'd likely hit a weld and that bit of reinforced metal, in addition to the ½-¾” of stainless steel they'd drilled through was the reason our friend thought we'd discovered a new element—Un-obDrillium.

We scrambled to get cleaned up and our generous friends took us out for a celebration dinner. I don't know if we were more excited to celebrate Bryan's birthday or the fact that we'd finally poked the last hole in the boat. Either way, we took over a corner of the local Thai restaurant with our cheer.

By the time we walked back from dinner and cleaned out the truck one last time, Bryan's mom and aunt had arrived to see us off. We debated tossing everything on the deck and motoring over to nearby Sand Island, just on the principle of making our deadline. But Bryan's back was starting to seize up from the day's work and we made the sensible decision to stay for the night. “What if our first port of call is...the lovely St. Helens Marina?” Bryan joked. “It's conveniently located, with very friendly locals, and it seemed to take no time at all to get here!”
We said a last goodbye to Bryan's mom and aunt, off on their own adventure, and walked back to the boat, breathing a little deeper than we had in weeks.

Epilogue: It was Wednesday afternoon before we raised the drifter and eased away from the dock under sail. H&A had come back with more provisions (the boat is so loaded down with treats from friends—chocolate, quick breads, miso soup fixings—I think I could have skipped provisioning) and stood on the dock taking pictures and cheering as we slipped across the river to the Sand Island dock. Our journey of (many more than) a thousand miles had begun, not with a single step, but with a sail just about as short. Hannah, the official log-keeper, enjoyed recording the exact times of our departure and arrival: 4:07pm and 4:15pm. Symbolic? Yes. But meaningful just the same. We'd untied the lines from our old lives and crossed the river into our new one.

Transition Means You're Almost There

Nearly all women have a moment in labor, right in the middle of transition, when they think they can't do it.

I'm finally coming up for air enough to realize that we're really doing this, REALLY for REAL. I've been plugging away at to-do lists and plans and trying to stay present in the moment as I go, but I am turning the talked-about, prayed-over, yearned-for dream into the true story of my life. My spirit, in this 36 year-old body, is going to sea in a 32-foot boat.

We plan to leave 2 weeks from today and our marina friends have promised to untie our dock lines whether we think we're ready or not. I've had more than one moment (in the middle of my own sort of transition) when I've been pretty sure I can't do it.

I know you're supposed to take each moment as it comes and that I have the skills and fortitude to handle each moment of our trip. I know I'm not supposed to sweat the small stuff (and it's all small stuff). I know we've planned and fixed and list-ed ourselves half to death to do this thing, but none of that can negate the natural fears and self doubt connected to turning a life upside down in pursuit of a dream.

I was driving to my regular Tuesday morning meeting, along a well-worn route, in my familiar car when I finally named the fear. I'm pretty sure I can't do this. 

Can I really leave the comforts of home for the hot, sticky, dirty, wet, messy life at sea?

Can I really live without weekly (or even daily) contact with these people I love so much?

Can I really stay patient, kind, and sane while navigating the new coastline, the new language, the new cultures, the new everything?

I'm not at all sure I can do this.

And just that fast, the truth spoke back, "Maybe that's not a bad thing."

For years now, I've awakened confident that I can handle my day. Oh, I have bad days, of course, and circumstances that blindside me. But I've found a relaxed routine that fits m

e and I sail through the majority of my life doing pretty well on my own. It's not comfortable, living beyond my capabilities, but it might not be such a bad thing to live a life I'm not sure I can manage.

The voices of my encouraging friends, the voices (well, blogs and facebook pages, anyway) of those who've gone before me, the still, small voice in my own spirit all say that (with quite a bit of help) I can do this hard, amazing, beautiful thing.

Nearly all women have a moment in labor, right in the middle of transition, when they think they can't do it. The lucky ones have someone nearby to say, "Yes, but you are."

Sea Change

"...that's what happens when you separate the things that don't matter from the things that really do. You end up with a big pile of nothing, next to a very small pile of everything."

--Mike Lescarbeau

We're still very much in the transition stage. Yesterday, a new friend asked me where I live and I hesitated before answering. Long enough that she probably thought I was one shroud short of a full rig (oh, that's not a common saying?) We're so glad to have moved out of our house, leaving it in the very capable hands of our delightful renters. And we're tremendously grateful to our family for opening their home to us and our boxes and our endless parade of dishes and laundry. And we're looking forward to moving aboard next month and beginning to settle into the new routines of life on LiLo. But still. It's a lot of work, this transition thing.

Bryan went straight from all the extra work of moving out to the challenge of boat repair. The boatyard had a unexpected spot in their haul-out schedule so he spent multiple days last week driving to Astoria for bottom paint and other work and then back to Beaverton for the job that pays the bills. I've hardly seen him lately, but I think he's holding up OK.

I've gotten a few breaks here and there, so it feels like I shouldn't have anything to complain about. Physically, I'm recovered from the big push of packing and cleaning. Mentally, I feel capable again, but underneath all that, my spirit is still churning.

In the last few weeks, we've had a spate of breakdowns: the truck, the car, the ipod, the truck again, the house's main water valve (just hours before the renters arrived), the truck again. I may have had a breakdown or 2 myself. My stress level appears to be an inverse function of the countdown to September 3.

We expected this when we set out on this path--the flurry of busy days before the adventure--and I'm choosing to see this as part of the journey instead of just payment-in-advance. Every life has seasons of sifting. Many people don't get to choose the season; we are embracing these good/hard days willingly, but transition has been building for a while.

In the midst of our seismic shift, smaller tremors are shaking my world. A dear friend is moving away, my time of work at our church is ending, the girls are more independent by the hour. Friendships, schooling, creative work, family relationships--so much is shifting, irrespective of our plans. This is a sea change year.

What are you doing here?

If you're reading this and you don't also already read my friend, Beth's blog (FiveKidsIsALotOfKids) you should go over there right now and get caught up on her archives. And then maybe you'll want to take a look at today's post because sometimes she posts words from guest writers and today I'm there talking about the myth of balance. Well, actually, today I'm painting my bathrooms and moving all the furniture out of my bedroom before the carpet cleaners come tomorrow. But I can do both!

For once, the internet is helping me multitask instead of procrastinate. Gotta get back to it!

Moving LiLo

Cousin K. sailing into her first night watch in the ocean

I'm taking a break from the mess of packing the house to look at sailing pictures and remember what all this trouble is for. We spent Memorial Day weekend moving LiLo from Port Hadlock (near Port Townsend, WA) to Astoria and my brother-in-law and his oldest daughter came along as very able-bodied crew. She's been in a Sea Scout for several years now but this was her first trip out into the Pacific. It was delightful to have company on long night watches and extra hands for the trickier than usual bar crossing into the Columbia. It was a typical boat delivery trip, with wind on the nose the whole way. Toward evening the first day, we put up the sails for a little bit anyway. The sunset was so beautiful we didn't care if we were sailing backwards for a while.

We celebrated Meira's birthday with a quick stop behind Pillar Point for homemade clam chowder. Only after we all ate did I notice I hadn't put the clams in the chowder. Worse things have happened on sailing trips. Nothing broke, for once, but we were boarded by the Coast Guard for a random inspection on our fuel stop in La Push. It's hard to search a 32' boat with 6 people already on board but they managed.

We made it across the bar and into the Astoria mooring basin just before the tide turned against us and spent a wet day packing up and getting back. Transportation logistics on the way up included a car, a bus, a van and a ferry so we really appreciated my dad's chauffeur service on the way home.

We can control many steps in this process or work a little longer if we need. We can't control the wind and waves, though, and we are so glad we managed to cross this off our list as planned. Next step: move out and paint the house!

How to...

Hammock Break!

I've been trying to come up with a helpful metaphor for our trip.

It's not just like a move, though we are sorting and packing and leaving our house.

It's not like getting an advanced degree, though there are hints of the same kind of deep learning and sense of accomplishment I see in my friends who choose that route in mid-life.

It's not a permanent downsize, since we're coming back. But we do have to drastically reduce the amount of stuff we will be living with while on the boat and that process naturally prompts other purging. We know we're going to wonder about some of our choices as it is. (If we knew which ones, we would have made different ones!)

Maybe it's more like parenting, in the way that it upends all aspects of our lives and is a journey no one can take for us. Though many cruisers uproot even more completely and travel for years, we only plan to be gone for a year. But still, there's not a lot in our lives that will remain unaffected. We are reconsidering communications and wardrobe, sleeping arrangements and laundry, shopping and income and cooking and worship and banking and entertainment and plumbing.

We've followed several other people on the same journey through their writing, both in books and online. Some friends have recommended that we write a how-to book, though I feel like anything but an expert. Just like parenting, there are already a good number of books with vast amounts of wisdom and advice on this topic. And we have learned so much from the cruising community. But also like parenting, reading the books (and the internet forums...and the magazine articles) doesn't get the job done.

We still have to work through our own set of difficulties and find solutions to our own problems. That's true about it all, right? We have to live our own lives. This year, we have to figure out which methods, gear, etc will work for our boat and our family on our route. And then, we still have to do the work. After all the gear choices are made, we have to install it. We have to choose to pack or donate or trash everything. And when we move out, it will be our arms carrying the boxes. And when we say goodbye, no how-to manual will be absorbent enough.

Unmade Bed

I'm sitting on my bed as I write. It's the most comfortable piece of furniture I own. We've signed a lease and are only a few busy weeks away from moving out so I'm getting a bit nostalgic. People ask me if I'm going to miss my piano and I'm sure I will. But I may miss reading, relaxing, and sleeping (sleeping, people! This is a family blog.) in my square bed even more. At my writer's group last week, we were given the suggestion to write about an unmade bed and what emerged highlights some of the many differences between living in a house vs. living on a boat.

I don't have a good photo of our bed. Maybe this old picture of Meira huddled on the locker just aft of my pillow will give you a sense of the space.

He looks so weary tonight. I dip into my energy reserves and summon every last bit of my generosity and offer to make the bed. We're on the boat, so it's not as easy as it sounds.
Our bed is in the bow; only the anchor is forward of our feet. The sharp prow made for cutting through waves is not well-engineered for sleep. Our heads rest on either side of a chasm. It's called a V-berth for a reason. If you open the door of the head all the way, this tiny space converts into a dressing room, the only place to change your clothes in private.

We say goodnight across this gap, "The Grand Canyon," I call it. Or some nights "The Great Divide." Our bodies hug the walls, the changeable sea lapping or slapping just on the other side. The foot of the bed is the only meeting place and I often wake to a tangle of socks and ankles. The ceiling is low (don't try to sit up in the night or you will find out just how low!) and morning dew condenses on the glossy paint, converting our bed into a temperate rain forest. Our breath turns liquid and falls back on us at dawn.

Getting in and out is a pas de deux, a Cirque du Soleil audition for 2. I trace an arc with my legs, over his hands, past his face, horizontal until the last moment, then tip down, reaching to find the cold floor with my toes without whacking my head on the hatch above. The girls are still asleep in their quarterberths, heads and arms shooting out of the tube-like bunks like half-launched torpedoes. I start a kettle for coffee and tea, open the curtains on another picturesque anchorage and begin another morning afloat.

No one keeps score on who made the coffee yesterday or who volunteers to straighten the covers at night, turning them carefully on point, intentionally kitty-corner so they don't bunch up in the pointy end, tucking the excess back and piling the layers so we'll stay warm through the night.

We wouldn't last a week if it was about fairness.