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.

The Big Trip: FAQs

At the dock at Hot Springs Cove

Many of our friends and family have wondered about our plans for a year-long trip on our sailboat. I've tried to answer many of the frequently asked questions. If I missed yours, leave me a comment!

When?

Weather patterns govern our departure. We have to leave the NW coast before the autumn gales hit toward the end of September but can't cross into Mexico until the hurricane season ends at the beginning of November. So there's no reason to leave until the beginning of September. That said, we will be at the mercy of the weather for the entire trip, so all schedules are flexible. We plan to be back in the summer of 2014, likely July or August.

Where?

Again, weather rules. Winds and currents in the North Pacific travel clockwise so we'll be heading south along the west coast. Over the last few years of boat travel, we've learned to be very flexible with our destinations. Strict timelines and destinations encourage stupid decisions. They say, "Schedules kill sailors." We have several sailing-specific guide books and will be making many destination decisions as we travel. So, while we're heading south, and plan to spend time in Mexico and several other Central American countries, we don't have a set itinerary. If you have any recommendations, though, we're happy to hear. Just remember that once we hit land, we'll mostly be traveling on foot!

Heading to town in Port Townsend, WA

Why?

If you really want to know why, you'll have to come help us pack the house and let us talk your ear off. The simple answer is that we want to spend a year with each other, exploring our amazing world and experiencing different cultures. Sailing is not the fastest or easiest way to travel, but we find the challenge and simplicity very satisfying. We don't expect this to be a relaxing vacation, though there will be relaxing moments. We do expect to learn a lot along the way—about ourselves and our world.

Bacchante Bay, the end of a fjord on the west coast of Vancouver Island

How?
We've been thinking about and working toward this trip for almost 15 years. We will be leaving our jobs (though Bryan may be able to go back to work at his company when we return), selling my car (the only vehicle worth selling), and renting our house (know anyone who needs a rental?) We have been blessed enough to put a little savings aside and would rather travel very (very) cheaply for a year than more extravagantly for a few weeks. Sailing can be a rich man's sport, but can also be done very simply. We hope to err on the simple side with a few creature comforts.

We often break out games and hot drinks on chilly evenings

Creature Comforts:

Our sailboat, LiLo, is a 1964 32-foot Islander. It is comparable to a 20-foot RV with a cockpit and an aft (the back end) storage locker. It's 10 feet across at the widest part but narrows toward each end (especially the bow—the pointy part) and underfoot. Though small, with less than 200 square feet of indoor living space, our boat has almost all the comforts of home.

We have places to sleep, spots to sit while reading or eating, and lots of nooks and crannies for storage. We also have plenty of outdoor space and exploring a new piece of shoreline every few days keeps us from getting cabin fever. Our 11-foot nesting dinghy, Splitpea, acts as our car for carrying us to shore from our anchorage. We will use it to cart groceries, laundry, water, and fuel for our stove and our auxiliary engine (useful for maneuvering into marinas).

Splitpea nested and tucked away on the cabin top for a long passage

Ed. Note: Meira deserves full credit for landing on the perfect name for the little green, 2-piece dinghy we built together a few years ago. LiLo is the original name for our sailboat and it seemed rude to change it after all these years. We like the Hawaiian meaning, “Generous One."

The galley has a small sink, an icebox, and a 3-burner propane stove with oven (as well as a small grill on the back deck). We have a toilet but no shower (don't freak out; people all over the world get clean without showers). We can do laundry on shore or by hand on the boat.

Look closely for evidence of the mundane in the midst of grandeur.

We will have occasional internet access and are still exploring the available phone options.

Snagging wi-fi from a B.C. coffee shop after hours. We bought plenty of their coffee, don't worry!

We have a solar panel (more to come) to charge the main batteries and provide power for LED lighting, radio/GPS, stereo, laptop, video/photo equipment, and our electric toothbrushes:-) We will take plenty of food with us, but people everywhere have to eat and we are looking forward to trying some new foods along the way.

New friends passed along extra salmon from the day's catch

Safety:

Driving on a freeway isn't safe. Sitting in a cubicle all day isn't safe. Life isn't safe. That said, we have done our best to consider how to keep ourselves well while we travel. We have (and wear!) lifejackets and harnesses. We have lifelines and safety netting. We have an EPIRB (Emergency Position Indicating Radio Beacon), several radios and multiple GPS units as well as celestial navigation equipment. We have multiple spare parts for our equipment and a substantial medical kit.
Guns? Many countries confiscate guns upon entry and don't return them until you leave. Given that we will be leaving from a different port we enter, that would be problematic. Also, in the unlikely event of an attack, we would be much more likely to have our gun used against us than have the skill and presence of mind to use it for defense.

What about pirates? We read the piracy reports. Though random attacks can occur anywhere in the world, including here at home, we don't plan to travel in the areas with pirate activity.

Meira calls herself the "high-maintenance" girl and tackles small repairs up the mast

Bryan takes care of the tedious repairs

On the go:

We've been homeschooling the girls since preschool and feel confident that this year will offer plenty more opportunities for learning. The girls will be 7^th and 8^th grade during our year away and we think this is a great age for a grand adventure. Hannah and Meira have a knack for finding interesting museums and asking great questions. We hope to learn a lot about the history and culture of the places that we go.

The Intrepid Explorer of Watta Creek

The majority of our time will be spent near shore but while out at sea, we stand watches around the clock. Cooking, navigating, and standing watch take up much of our time. We have 2 options for automatic steering, one electrical and one mechanical, but safety still requires a dedicated watch-person (possibly with an assistant) to pay attention to other traffic, navigation aids, and the radio as well as log our progress on the chart.

Hannah is well prepared for chart work

We all enjoy reading and I am hoping to do quite a bit of writing while we travel. Bryan is hoping to take lots of pictures and edit many hours of video footage into an accessible amount. The girls are infinitely creative and I expect much writing and many craft projects will clutter up the place before we return.

We won't have room for my baby grand piano or Hannah's guitar, but we have a few smaller wind instruments we like to have aboard. I'm hoping to run across a decently-tuned piano or two on the journey and would love to meet musicians in other countries. We look forward to learning more Spanish and attending church in towns along the way. We can't wait to experience the wonders of the wild world in a new way and expect to cherish most of all the unforgettable people we meet along the way.

Safe at anchor in Effingham Bay