by Kim Petersen
I knew he was trying to get me comfortable with the idea of boating without having to immediately commit. Sly. Even when we visited a boat show for the first time, he shrugged his shoulders and said, “Maybe someday.” I was on to him from the beginning.
One morning after the kids went off to school, I pondered free will. For the first time in many years, I did some dead reckoning on my position in life. I discovered that I had been paddling down a fast moving stream, the scenery passing by in a blur. Most of the time I didn't even bother to steer my ship, I let the current take me where it willed. I was too exhausted to care. I had been lulled by errands, traffic, and beer commercials. Reading about living on a boat reminded me that there were options. This was both enlightening and unnerving. If there were options, then what was I doing here?
I went to the library and checked out books. I read about living aboard as if I was a voyeur, sitting on a tree branch looking with binoculars in a window, captivated. Right then, there were families with kids sailing around the world. They were visiting Istanbul, Tokyo, Dubai, and the lesser known Dalap-Uliga-Darrit in the Marshall Islands. Some wrote books for a living, but most saved up funds in their landlubbing years, then sailed around until the money ran out. At that point, the siren song captured them and they became addicted. They returned to land only long enough to work in order to save up for the next offshore journey. They home-schooled their children and climbed volcanoes. Swam with dolphins. They didn't watch television and played a lot of Monopoly. In their spare time, which was plentiful, their kids read books on Sir Edmund Hillary and went spear fishing.
Sailing yachts were a liveaboard's primary means of transportation. I learned that there were varying types of yachts including monohulls (boats with one hull), catamarans (boats with two hulls), and the less popular trimaran (boats with three hulls). A catamaran was a new idea to me although I had seen a few larger versions used as car ferries while living in British Columbia. My interest was heightened one afternoon by Stefan who picked up a magazine that had a catamaran on the cover and said, “That's one munchin boat, man!” I thought he was on to something and decided to look into it. In several magazines, I read that these long range power and sailing catamarans were able to travel great distances at a decent speed, with a safe, smooth ride and lots of room in which to enjoy life aboard. The phrases: “travel great distances,” “decent speed,” “safe, smooth, ride,” and “lots of room,” spoke to me like Confucius’ words of wisdom. One catamaran builder even touted their yacht as “unsinkable.” This, I thought, was brazen. Wasn't a similar claim made by another boat builder whose yacht subsequently sunk in the North Atlantic after striking an iceberg?
There was a burgeoning debate developing that I had been previously unaware of. A new movement of boaters had begun to extol the virtues of power boating. Many sailors, tending toward tradition, scoffed at noisy, smelly, expensive diesel engines upon which power boats depended, but other sailors said they spent most of their time motoring anyway. One such sailor turned power boater, Robert Beebe, wrote extensively about passagemaking under power, describing the advantage in weather watching as a key element in a safe journey. In offshore passagemaking, sailors participated in a tricky wind dance. They wanted just enough wind to fill their sails to get them where they wanted to go. Too little wind and they would be forced to motor. Too much wind and they could find themselves in a gale. With a powerboat, there was no question about wind. You avoided the dance altogether. The dead calm, the horse latitudes and doldrums, these were your holy grail. No wind for days on end meant smooth seas, great fuel mileage, and a happy crew. This, I learned, slightly made up for what you paid in fuel.
Vivid descriptions of the romance of living aboard captured me: quiet anchorages in deserted bays, nights filled with a million stars, the ability to hear yourself think, and travel to exotic destinations. I let my guard down and allowed myself to be seduced. I decided that living on a boat, when we were retired, might be a viable option. Mike was thrilled. The very night I pronounced it, he went to the library and checked out more books. When he returned, he said, “I have been thinking lately that living on a boat with the kids, even for a short time, might be a good idea. You know, we could reconnect as a family. Explore together.”
I had anticipated his response. I told him, “Let's just deal with retirement for a few minutes and see what happens.”
On a rare, quiet evening, Mike and I sat close together on the couch reading the same book. It was an anthology of sorts, containing small chapters about people's boating experiences. I had just been enjoying a bit about one couple's journey in Australia, when Mike, a good page ahead of me and into the next chapter, suddenly snatched the book out of my hands, closed it with a thump, and moved to the other end of the couch.
“Hey, what's the big idea?” I said annoyed.
“I'm pretty sure you shouldn't read this next page,” he responded gravely.
“Why not?”
“Because you have an imagination. A vivid imagination. If you read this next chapter, you'll have all sorts of negative thoughts about boating and, in reality, these kind of things hardly ever happen.”
“What things hardly ever happen?”
“You sure you want to know?”
“I'm sure,” I lied.
He handed me back the book. I read silently.
A family with three adults and two kids were in the middle of the Atlantic when their sailboat was rammed by a whale, which tore a huge hole in the bow. Water began to flood their staterooms. The galley. Within two minutes they realized that the boat was sinking. They grabbed what they could and got into their little life raft before their sailboat turned belly up and sunk below the surface. They spent several weeks adrift at sea, eating fish and drinking the blood of turtles, surviving several storms, and wasting away to almost nothing, before finally being picked up by a tanker.
“You might as well read this, too. You'll happen upon stories like this sooner or later. I'm surprised you haven't come upon these stories yet in your reading,” Mike said and he handed me a different book open to the page and pointed to a line. “Start here.”
I read something like: Despite a fair weather prediction, clouds began to form on the horizon and within four hours we were in midst of a strong squall. The seas went from calm to upwards of 20 feet. The boat heaved and we were worried about capsizing. Green water poured over the bow and into the cockpit. Things spilled out of cupboards. The inside of the boat was a mess. Sometime around midnight, while I tried to rest, my husband must have been swept overboard. In the middle of the Atlantic, I awoke to find I was alone.
Horrified, I closed the book and slowly pushed it away.
That night I lay on my back in the darkness and stared wide-eyed at the ceiling. I pictured the four of us in a boat during a storm. It was dark. We were in waves of hurricane proportion – thirty feet, maybe more. The boat was vertical and water was pouring in through shattered portholes. Lightning flashed. I could see the kids, crying and afraid. The boat began to sink. Maybe, while attempting to leap into the life raft, I would be thrown over the side and lost at sea. Worse yet, it might be Mike or one of the kids. A sheer and razor like panic seized me. I wondered what it would be like to drown, the moment of knowing, sucking in burning gulps of water for air, followed by an oozing blackness.
Or it was not storming at all. We were simply traveling along in calm seas and clear skies. I would look for one of the children to help me set the table, but would not be able to find them. Frantically, we would search, opening hatches and calling their name. I would scan the miles of bluish grey water behind us looking for a tiny head bobbing, arms reaching, voice calling out. We would attempt to retrace our path. I would try not to think that the longer it takes for someone to notice a crewmate has fallen overboard the more impossible it is to find them. The current would take them at a different speed and direction than the boat. They would be swimming somewhere, alone, crying, trying to fend off sha
rks. Oh god.
At breakfast the next morning, I arrived bleary eyed in the kitchen and told Mike there was no way I could live on boat with the kids. He nodded as if he had been expecting my pronouncement and didn't look up from his eggs.
10
It was nice to be in such voluminous company. According to the Anxiety Disorders Association of America, forty million Americans, 18% of the population, are afflicted by some kind of anxiety disorder, which can be defined as a prolonged, irrational, and debilitating anxiety. Nineteen million have a specific phobia that might include things like bugs, heights, water, storms, and closed spaces. I realize that for most of my life, I have not been keen on all five. It has only been debilitating insofar as it has limited, without regret on my part, my interactions with each. At the root of each phobia is fear. Fear, I am told by numerous written authorities, is a natural part of life. Without it, we would all walk the concrete edge of a city building twenty nine floors up or play water polo in the Niagara River.
Over the course of several years, I had given fear a little more leeway in my life. I had become a little phobic in this area. I still flew in airplanes, but I didn't like it one bit. Each time the plane sped along the runway, I prepared myself for the worst. While clutching the armrests, I would lean over to Mike and tell him that since he had been such a devoted and kind husband, (aside from the small fact that he had made me board this aircraft which would now result in my unfortunate demise), I would pass on to him the secret location of my stash of chocolate which had plagued him for some time. He was to use this knowledge wisely and guard its contents until their use was absolutely necessary. By all means, never tell the children. He could have it all except the block of Godiva which could be buried with me or the parts left of me after the crash.
In reality, and there's a relevant term, I was fairly certain that Fate would take someone I loved, and leave me alive to deal with the fall out. In light of this, it could be said that at times I was a mite overprotective of the children. But in my defense, this was only in relation to a husband who thought walking the concrete edge of a city building on the twenty ninth floor to be a grand idea. Why not push kids outside their comfort zone? Get them to try new things? Expand their horizons? Fly, little birds, fly!
I was forced to be the voice of reason. This meant I was continually saying things like, “No you may put the Slip and Slide on the roof so you can coast off it into the swimming pool. I don't care if all the kids in the neighborhood are doing it,” and “No, you may not play in that abandoned condemned warehouse even if dad told you it was okay.” I was constantly reminding them to “look both ways,” and “don't talk to strangers.”
Unwise ideas aside, while I appreciated the fact that my fear might “save” us in the short term, I wondered if I could be passing on my fear to my kids. Would they shrink at life's challenges, or would they rise like their dad, albeit rather foolishly at times, to face them? Did I want to be the kind of person who shrank from life's challenges? And if ever Mike and the kids wanted to spend time on a boat, could I live with myself for holding them back?
While reading a book on lessons learned from legendary adventurers, I came upon a section called: “Animals that Can Eat You.” It was important, I learned, that if you were trekking through Africa, as Livingston did, to be aware that there are many unseen dangers. You must be alert. Pay attention to the small details. Study the tall grass. Lions love to hide there. If you notice a group of water buffalos or gazelles watching a clump of grass there could very well be a lion hiding there. If you do come across a lion it is best not to run. This will be difficult because when you are afraid, instinct takes over, and you will want desperately to get away. However, this will only cause the lion to chase you, and you can be sure he is much faster than you are. It is best to muster all your courage and stand still, face him, and try to look aggressive. Defiant. Stare him full in the face even as he charges at you. He is testing you. He may run at you several times, stopping a feet few away, growling, but if you stand your ground, he will often turn away in the end.
I was more than a little irked that Fear had been calling the shots in my life. I decided to stand my ground. I met Fear on a bleak battlefield in the desert of my thoughts. There were two camps, mine and the enemy's. They sat at opposite ends of a dry, rocky valley. Fear was a giant woman. An older woman, surprisingly well dressed in a tan Donna Karan suit. Every day I went about my business, she called across the valley, taunting me, saying things like:
“Hey! Hey you there! Just what do you think you're doing?”
“I'm considering living on a boat,” I muttered under my breath, avoiding her gaze.
“What? I can't hear you! Speak up over there.”
“I'm considering living on a boat, OKAY?!” I yelled loudly attempting to sound confident.
“You can't be serious? Oh that's rich! What a laugh! Do you have any idea how dangerous that is? Ever watch a little movie called The Perfect Storm?”
“Yes, yes, I have seen it. Let me point out to you that those types of things hardly ever happen,” I said, wincing. It was weak.
“Yes, but those things happen more frequently to people who have no experience! Let's see… how many times have you and Mike been boating on a yacht larger than 20 ft. in a body of water bigger than a swimming hole? None! How do you ever expect to survive living on a boat out on the ocean with no experience?” she scoffed.
I was irritated. “Look,” I shouted in her direction, “can we at least call a truce and talk like grownups?”
“Fine,” she said.
A small tent was erected in the middle of the valley, and a folding table with chairs were set up inside. Upon sitting, I requested some wine from the waiter, but Fear said she didn't drink and probably I shouldn't either. Typical. Fear had the advantage and she knew it, but I had a few weapons of my own.
I intended to reason with Fear. I would blow her away with my logic. My self awareness.
“Here's the thing,” I said quietly leaning toward her. “I know Bethany's death woke you up. It doesn't take a Ph.D. in Psychology to figure out that I am afraid someone else I love will die and I'll be forced to suffer through grief again. This is why I am afraid of situations that are outside my control, like flying, for instance. I get that. What you are is a coping mechanism I have developed to protect myself and, while I really appreciate your efforts, I'm fairly certain that when I haven't been looking, you have developed a power hungry ego. I need you to let up. Besides, I don't think I need you so much anymore. I'm a lot stronger now.”
Fear leaned forward and looked directly into my eyes as if sympathetic to my wretchedness. “Sweetie,” she said calmly, “you need me now more than ever. You don't know what you're getting into here. There are forces at work beyond what you're capable of dealing with. I am the voice of reason that will save you, and I am telling you it would be prudent, wise, if you could keep life manageable. Why stir up trouble by living on a boat if you don't have to?”
At this point, she reached forward to gently take my hands in hers. “Look how upset you are just considering it! I don't have to tell you that there is a probability that if you do this, somewhere along the way you will run into a huge storm on the open water. Someone is bound to get hurt. Maybe die. Why willfully subject yourself to such suffering? It is not worth the risk. You are far safer doing what you know. I am just trying to protect you after all.”
Pulling my hands away, I said, “I have no doubt that you have your own perceived idea of what you think is best for me, but I'm not so sure that what you have in mind is truly what is best for me. And I think you forget that just because something is comfortable doesn't mean it is safe. I feel pretty comfortable driving seventy miles per hour on the interstate or carrying laundry down the stairs, but that does not make it safe. Besides, don't you think it is far more dangerous to keep drifting downstream in my life with no thought as to my whereabouts or destination?”
Fear, confident as
ever, changed the subject, “What about the children? Will it be good for them to be separated from their friends? Won't they miss out on all the opportunities that school can give them?”
“I don't know,” I said. I was frustrated. Things weren't going the way I had hoped. I stood up to leave.
Fear shook her head sympathetically. “And another thing. How can you give up a financially secure future? You would be risking everything. For what? Some crazy, out of control dream? You must reconsider.”
What I really needed, I decided, was bigger guns and better ammunition with which to fight fear. Knowledge would be my weapon of choice. With it, I would shatter Fear's objections into shards of meaningless drivel.
11
I figured that I might as well begin with what scared me the most: storms at sea. In a boating store, I found Lin and Larry Pardey's book, Storm Tactics. Here was a couple who, having voyaged for 26 years in their sailboat, covering 5 ½ circumnavigations, seemed knowledgeable about what to do in a storm in the open water. I felt relieved to learn that storms at sea were rarely a part of the cruising experience. During a stretch of eleven years of cruising they had only encountered one serious storm at the end of the season, and because their ship was well prepared, they made it through with little inconvenience. I also learned that in addition to the soundness of your ship and the overall preparedness on board to face certain scenarios as they arose, weather was one of the deciding factors for success and comfort on the water. Recognizing weather patterns and waiting for optimal conditions greatly increased your chances of a positive experience on the water.
I started watching the Weather Channel, which proved to be almost as addictive as chocolate. I watched as a meteorologist stood in front of a giant map and pointed to a series of low or high pressure systems as they marched east across North America. There was a lot of talk about barometric pressure. This I researched. I gathered that generally low pressure systems ushered in less stable weather and often involved storms. High pressure air masses typically brought warmer, stable conditions. A weather “front” involved the colliding of two opposite air pressure systems resulting in changes in the weather, sometimes violent, wherever the two happened to meet.