We’ve been underway two and half days and just like that, we’ve set up temporary housekeeping in Miami Beach. It’s a wonderful and strange thing, to travel from place to place with your home fully intact. Our routines, our possessions, our habits simply follow us. Like a turtle’s shell, John always says.
Spot is frustrating me with it’s odd inability to upload our positions automatically. But I will continue to work out the bugs. For now, here’s our map!
Tomorrow is a day off for some shopping and boat projects, in hope of making a long passage outside the Intracoastal later this week. We need the East winds to abate- universe, send us good vibes!
Speaking of which, we had a big karmic moment on Monday afternoon. We were trying to get off the dock and out to an anchorage, just to set ourselves up for Tuesday’s run. Just after four o’clock John tried to start the dinghy motor and it wouldn’t run. Diagnosis: a clogged carburetor (thank you, Ethanol!). He raced up to the outboard shop owned by a friend of ours, Eric, who we met on our trip south five years ago. We led Eric and his family through Biscayne Bay, and across to the oceanside via Angelfish Creek. As we retraced those same steps today, almost exactly, it reminded me of how the universe had paid us back. Our little bit of help was paid back in spades, as Eric took the carburetor apart and got us back underway in less than an hour. You never know. You just don’t.
For a while there, I thought the universe might be conspiring to keep us in the Keys, forever. The autopilot parts got delayed. Then after days of rigging the darn thing, with its sensitive and expensive compass, the autopilot wouldn’t steer a steady course. We tried to make the GPS talk to the autopilot and bypass the compass altogether.The GPS doesn’t even speak the same language as the autopilot. And on and on and on.
But today we had success. What had become a monstrosity of a electronics issue, boiled down to two wires being mixed up in a wiring diagram that came with the darn thing. We didn’t need GPS. We didn’t need an expensive technician. We needed to look at things in the simplest way possible. Eliminate one problem at a time. And the biggest lesson of all? Never assume the literature is 100% spot on. Even if you are.
So off we go in a day or two, bound for cooler waters, if not a cooler summer (wow, the hot hot heat is everywhere, it seems). You can follow along if you wish. We have a SPOT on board, which is a nifty little GPS beacon that we will set off every evening at anchor. It sends our position to our SPOT Adventures page, which shows us on Google Maps and has a few boat pics too. I will try to update from our logbook as we go. Thanks to our 5-Mile Wifi, it just might happen!!
That said, while we are more than ready to leave, we have some missing to do. Our dear friends, playmates, babysitters, confidants, the people who threw Sophie a welcome party when she was born, the people who brought me food when Rosy arrived (it was SO good). Many have already left (what a transient place this is), and many we leave behind. Come and visit- stay in touch! Thank you for being a part of this chapter in our lives. We grew a family here, restored a boat, and feel very blessed to be hitting the Gulfstream and heading north, richer than when we arrived.
John and I are avowed humanists, so without traditional religion in her life, Sophie always thanks the Earth for the good things that come her way. “Thank you Earth for this cloudy day that wasn’t so hot and had swimming in it.” There’s something deeply satisfying about taking our girls out on an adventure with us, our boat, “and the Earth.” Send Earth your good vibes for fair winds, following tides and happiness on all fronts. Maybe it wasn’t the universe conspiring against us. It was just Earth telling us to look right under our noses. A good lesson for the days ahead.
I’ve had some memorable Fourth of July fireworks experiences in my adult years. Seeing both the harbor and the Lake Washington displays from a highrise condo in Seattle. Being high in the hills in Portland and looking down on them- never have fireworks seemed so tiny. We saw them on July 3rd in Boston on year, a huge display being taped to show to troops overseas. I remember having to wake a dozen teenagers and move a pulling boat in the middle of the night for fear of some landing on us.
But last night was the first fireworks experience we’ve had with kids. They are a bit daunting, and loud, and late. But also quite special. Sophie was alternately mystified (”how do they MAKE those?”) and secretly terrified of the sound. Our friend Joe, who was gracious enough to take us out on his boat, offered his commentary: “Now we’re really getting into it. They’re bringing out the four-color DOUBLE sparkles!!” Rosy was as entranced with the anchor lights all around us as she was with anything else, “Oh mama, there’s STARS!” It was a beautiful night. Simple, sweet, and yes, a little bit loud. One more fireworks experience I won’t soon forget.
It’s been over four years in the making, but this baby left the dock!! We went out for a spin! Our boat MOVES under her own power. And gracefully at that! How good it felt to wake up Friday and get out a chart, plug in a GPS, stow the accumulated junk on the table, throw off some lines and GO SOMEWHERE IN OUR BOAT. We took two trips on Friday- the first, for us, while the girls were with a babysitter. And the second, with them. They were totally nonplussed. Sophie read a book in the cockpit and barely looked up, like this was the most normal thing in the world. Rosy relaxed into the motion and nearly fell asleep, even after a two hour nap. While we hollered and high-fived around them, they were simply at home.
And that’s all we’ve wanted for them. We did this for them, but also a little bit for us. One thing parenting has taught me is that they will never understand what we do. There is no way for them to conceive of the hard work involved. The constant meeting of needs. The sleeplessness, the working, the taking of walks when all you want to do is lie down. The four years of boat projects, just to make a floating home.
They won’t understand it, until they have kids of their own, and renovate a house or a boat or an RV or canal barge while parenting two small kids. And when the work is hardest, I have to remind myself that we chose every bit of this. We chose to make this our home, because before there was a Sophie or a Rosy, there was this part of us. In the midst of living with and loving them, we’ve also made something for John and Ellen. This is who we were, who we are, and who we will continue to be. Leaving the dock on Friday, that fact is what I was most thankful for.
We told my Dad we were going to dinner, and look where we ended up!
When we arrived, Paul, the pilot greeted us with a mouthful of what were possibly the most disgusting teeth I’d seen in a long time (and mind you, this is not a rare occurence in the Keys. Our last auto mechanic had about one tooth in the front . . .). We were all averting our eyes, wondering in dental issues had any bearing on small plane safety. Paul muttered something about Obama promising dental insurance and out popped the mouthpiece. We were won over.
I love that my dad loves stuff like this- gliders and floatplanes and helicopter rides. I love that occasionally I get to do something like this with him.
Happy Father’s Day, JoePop!
I know I’ve belabored the heat of the last month, but I felt somewhat justified when I heard today that after one of the coldest winters on record in South Florida (and no complaints about that!), we had the hottest May ever. Ever. This morning the heat index was well over 90, before 9 AM. We look forward to a climate where winter is the time to batten down the hatches and cozy up around a fire. To make slow-cooked food and loaves of bread in an oven. Right now the oven is off limits. In fact, I have cooked little other than coffee this week, trying to keep the boat at a reasonable temperature in the late afternoon. It’s a good challenge- finding ways to feed a family with veggies and salads and bread baked in someone elses’s oven. If anyone has a favorite no-cook recipe, I’d love to have it. My sister’s black-eyed pea salad is on the list for this week.
These are time I miss my grandmothers. Peachy would have had an entire compendium of recipes fit for the Southern heat. Granny Ross would have had practical suggestions, and maybe a jar of homemade pickles from her sister’s garden. When it starts to feel hot on our little yacht, I try to imagine not so long ago, living in the southern part of Georgia, in the summers without air conditioning. Or living in Houston, Texas, where my mom grew up, lying under the attic fan on hot nights, running across hot asphalt, barefoot. East Texas can be a very hot place.
Recently I came across a recording of my grandfather, telling the particular circumstances of his birth, on August 20, 1917. He was born in a small town in Eastern Alabama, not far from Columbus, Georgia, where he lived as an adult.
“I have often wondered what it was like to birth an overweight baby in Camp Hill, Alabama in August of 1917. Must have been terribly hot. All the windows would have been open. I think the house had screens, as I was told. There was a spigot over the porch, with fresh water. That was the sum total of the plumbing other than chimney pots and a privy in the backyard. Dr. Louis Hamner presided over the proceedings, I’m told, and apparently they went quite normally for those times.”
Quite normally for those times. As hot as hot can be.
I wish I could channel some of that normalcy, just to ask a few questions. Get some advice, and continue to feel grateful for my particular situation, with wet kids every night and the cool confines of our boat to slip into.
This is the last of your month-birthday letters before the big TWO! I wrote twenty four letters to Sophie and I swore up and down that despite the fact that you were second in line to the throne, I’d do the same for you. We did it! We have reflected on nearly two years of milestones and stories, hard months and lovely ones.
This month? A lot of both. Two is coming on like a freight train, in all the textbook, headstrong ways. “I do it” is the endless refrain, from putting clothes on, to buckling carseat straps, to using sharp scissors. I do it. Most times you actually do, and I’m the one who needs to be reminded to slow down and let you savor the accomplishments. “NO!” is another fun refrain. Most times you say it just to say it. Just to remind us that you have a say, a voice, in the matters of the day. The opposite of NO is this breathy, wonderful, “Yah.” Never yes, just “Yah . . .”
On the other end of the spectrum, this has been the month of cuddling, loving, hugging, lip kissing. All day long there are proclamations of “I wuv you, Daddy. I wuv Sophie.” Sometimes you’ll roll over in the middle of the night, looking for a stray Binky and then say, “I wuv you Mommy.” When you’ve done something wrong, the “I wuv yous” come out like a weapon. My, you’ve learned fast. It makes me feel good to see you giving us love, as it means we’re giving you plenty of it.
And love there is. So very much, for our impish, mischevious, wonderful you. For you, singing “Puff the Magic Dragon” in the car. You, and your “cool cool shoes” (everything is “cool, cool”). You, eating yogurt raisins. You, holding Sophie’s hand as you walk down the dock saying, “Wook at dat boat, Mommy! Wook at dat!” Always questioning, always noticing, endlessly you.
We love you Lily B, Rosy Roo, RooBot, Roobee, Bobo, Chachi, Baby, Biggirl, Rosy Wandrum.
xo,
mama
I just finished the National Geographic issue about water. It had the usual scary receding glacier pictures (there are few things that sicken me more), and a half dozen fascinating maps of the world’s rivers. But the one statement that has stayed with me was the fact that the average American uses 100 gallons of water at home every day. Albuquerque, New Mexico, recently brought their per capita consumption down to 80 gallons, from 140 gallons per day! Where does it go? As I was filling up our drinking water jugs the other night I tried to do the math for us. As a family of four we go through about 58 gallons of freshwater a week, on the boat, for dishes, drinking, washing and cooking. Our toilet/head uses saltwater exclusively. Our tank is pumped weekly by a local pump-out boat to keep it out of the Keys waters. The girls and I shower together at the marina, with a low-flow shower head. Between ourselves and John, we use about 40 gallons a week to keep ourselves clean. We do two loads of laundry a week, which we estimate to be about 80 gallons total. That brings our total family freshwater usage to 178 gallons per week. If you go by National Geographic’s numbers, the average American family of four (like ours), uses 2800 gallons of freshwater per week.
One of the pieces in the magazine profiled a community in Ethiopia where women spend eight hours of their day walking to and from a dirty river to fetch drinking water. They wash their clothes once a year. We are clean, healthy, and well-fed. We drink all the water we want. In fact, we’ve banned juice and other sticky beverages from the boat, so water is just about all our kids drink. John and I supplement with beer. But the numbers seem staggering to me. How is our weekly total just 78 gallons more than the average American uses on a daily basis?
I found a water use calculator for Tampa, Florida and entered some guesstimations for the average family of four- two showers a day, a few baths a week, a lawn to water occasionally (in Florida, for sure!), four loads of laundry per week . . . and sure enough, I hit the 100 gallon per day mark. It must come down to a few things. Our faucets don’t run. They can’t run, as I have a foot pump to feed water to my galley sink. We don’t have a lawn or a garden. If we do in the future, we will most certainly collect rainwater for the plants. The toilet seems to be an enormous consumer. Here in the Keys, we’ve been short on water for so long that public restrooms will often sport the sign, “If it’s yellow, let it mellow . . .” I’m not advocating drastic measures, but for land-based homes, a composting toilet is looking better and better. I’ve seen dishwashers that recycle graywater/rainwater, but they seem to be fairly efficient appliances to begin with. Far better than handwashing. I have made a concerted effort to cut down on our laundry- making sure that the girls clothes are actually dirty. Rosy being out of diapers has helped. And I suppose showering is a state of mind. We don’t shower every day. If we worked in an office or got particularly gross at a job, we certainly would, but years of sailboat living have robbed us of that need. We do spend a lot of time in the pool.
We didn’t move onto the boat to save water. It is a wonderful by-product of our lifestyle, in the same way that energy conservation comes naturally on a boat fueled almost entirely by wind power and solar panels (when we’re off the dock!). But crunching numbers like this makes me truly appreciate how much we were taking for granted. Freshwater truly falling from the sky. Everywhere you look, with every faucet you turn on. And yet it defines entire existences in other parts of the world.
My friend John sent me this picture a few days ago and it has jogged all sorts of memories. It was early in the morning, in Boston Harbor- I love the city and the sunrise behind him. We were packed into zero-degree sleeping bags on the stern of an open pulling boat. A big storm was coming in. John was not amused. I can almost hear the voice of the NOAA weather operator on his radio. So long ago, and not so long at all.
I wonder if everyone has a John Vonk in their life. A perfect stranger, then a friend, who had a hand in truly shaping the trajectory of my future. I met John Vonk eight years ago, my first day of work in Everglades City, not far from here. He was going out on course, leading a bunch of preteens into mosquito country in a canoe. We often hijacked the school sailboat and tried to short-tack our way to Chokoloskee. We had a grand few months, and then the season ended. The “What, now?” began. He suggested I come to Boston for a WFR class and Watch-O training (Outward Bound sailing instructor training). I had no idea what those acronyms meant. No earthly idea. He even called me an acronym- ERL, “Earl,” my initials. In Boston we froze out butts off on a pulling boat, rode out the worst weather he’d seen as a captain, and then he flew off to his future in Seattle and left me to discover my own. My own John- his friend, and now my husband.
Were it not for John Vonk, I’d never have gone to Boston, not in a million years. He planted the seed, met me at the door, and then left me to my own devices on that tiny island. He invited my John for a beer, encouraged me to dig a little deeper. He was the backstage manager, all along.
I just noticed that he shares a birthday with my littlest girl.
A Friday ritual. A single photo – no words – capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. – via soulemama
