by Kim Petersen
When the 7 o'clock news came on and a perky, blonde meteorologist said, “Tomorrow we'll see a drop in the barometer as low pressure moves in from the north bringing higher winds and shower or two,” I felt like I was finally comprehending a foreign language. I translated for the kids, who sat on the couch opposite me: “This is because low pressure air is colliding with higher pressure air, causing moisture to rise, condense, and be released as rain.” This resulted in blank stares and a thrown pillow aimed at my head.
On the way to the grocery store, I noticed a wall of heavy, dark, clouds, and said to Lauren, “Check it out, cumulonimbus clouds. We're in for some rain.”
“What kind of clouds?” she asked.
“Cumulonimbus. Cool word eh?” We tried saying it fast over and over again until we laughed.
I learned about something called the Beaufort Wind Scale. Developed in 1805 by Admiral Sir Francis Beaufort of the British Royal Navy, the original scale was based on the effect of wind speeds on the amount of canvas a full rigged frigate of the period could carry. It began at zero and rated winds in increasing knots up to twelve, twelve being a hurricane. I decided that if I ever lived on a boat, it would be in my best interest to avoid weather higher than a Force 4, which was described as: winds “moderate” and its effects observed on the water: small waves of .5-1.25 meters becoming longer; numerous whitecaps. This, I thought, I could handle.
The more I learned about weather, the more I came to realize that weather patterns, far from being a mysterious entity beyond my comprehension, was a subject I could grasp, at least rudimentarily. I was not at the whim of a world that directly dropped Force 5 hurricanes from the sky in the middle of October. In fact, if I went out into the Atlantic in the middle of February, I was guaranteed not to run into one. And even if I was traveling by boat during hurricane season, June through to November, meteorologists had the technology to provide ample warning enabling people to get to safety. By keeping abreast of the local weather patterns and up-to-date forecasts our chances of running into bad weather were slim. But even if we did run into a squall, keeping a well prepared boat would greatly increase our ability to come through it just fine.
The knowledge I was acquiring on storms and weather, as well as reading other peoples boating experiences, which were mainly positive, was proving to be formidable artillery against Fear. She had become less yappy. Less sure of herself. Intent on silencing her for good, I thought it would be a good idea to understand the nature of Fear. I read a lot of books like, “Three Easy Steps to Overcoming Your Fears,” and “Fear Today, Gone Tomorrow.” These I purchased or checked out of the library with great hope and practiced with little success.
A breakthrough happened while reading a book called Feel the Fear and Do It Anyway by Susan Jeffers. Here she promoted the idea that while we might be able to reason somewhat with the fear in our lives, there was a good chance we would never get rid of it altogether. All this time I had been trying to get rid of Fear, waiting until that happened, before making a decision. Instead, I needed to accept that Fear might be around for a long time. Those who accomplished their dreams, according to Jeffers, did so with Fear as their companion.
It didn't take long for Mike to figure out there was a battle going on in my brain. Seeking to up the ante in his favor, he attempted to persuade me of the values of living on a boat with Lauren and Stefan. He approached me in the same manner I approached the giant woman Fear. He had stats and research. Pie charts, graphs, and probability distributions as to why doing it now with the kids would be a good idea. When that didn't work, he used words like simplicity, solitude, and togetherness.
“Don't you feel like our lives have been so busy lately that we have become disconnected with ourselves and each other? Living on a boat, say, for a year or two, would give us a chance to get to know our kids in the teenage years, when it is probably most important. We have some experience homeschooling, so we know we can handle that aspect. We can expose the kids to a broader reality. A reality outside of the mall. And don't you think it would be good for our relationship as well?”
It was a card well played. When I asked him how we would survive financially, he said, “We could sell everything, bank most of it, and attempt to make a living from home. You could write. I would continue to trade stocks online. As long as I have internet, I can do that anywhere. I know we would be giving up a financially secure future, but what we really have to ask ourselves is: how much is enough? We may return with considerably less cash, but with a legacy of memories and a relationship with each other and the kids. How much is that worth? Isn't that worth everything?”
There are moments in life when you are keenly aware that you stand at the vortex of two paths diverging. Choosing one over the other will affect not only your own destiny, but the future of your children and even their children. I weighed the two paths. I could ignore the dream Mike and I had written down back in college. Perhaps I could construct a different, less drastic, dream. But I had the feeling whatever I chose outside my comfort zone, Fear was going to be there citing all the reasons why I should keep life safe and comfortable. I also knew that should I decide against living on a boat, it would be the decision that would forever haunt me.
Life, I thought, was one big game of Let's Make a Deal. I could hear the host, Monty, saying, “You can keep this perfectly good life with all its benefits: security, comfort, and predictability or….you can choose what's behind door number three.” The crowd yelled for door number three. They always did. They had nothing invested and loved the drama. There I stood in my chicken costume, plumes of feathers going in all directions, looking back and forth with the same conflicted countenance I had seen on a hundred contestants.
I was wary of what seemed like greener grass over there, but the unknown behind door number three was attractive. If I chose it, I would be banking on the fact that growing past my fears, living a simpler lifestyle, giving the kids a broad perspective of the world and the memories created on such a journey, would be worth the risks of storms, seasickness, sharks, giving up a financially secure future, and living with two hormonal teenagers and a risk- happy husband. The potential for growth, painful as it might be, was tempting.
And, for me, God was mixed in there somewhere. I wondered if I could, outside the normal confines of religiosity, find God again, or perhaps allow myself to be found. I felt pretty cautious bringing God into the equation of a big decision. I knew that God could be used to justify any cockamamie scheme. But let's be honest here, I told myself. I wasn't about to set off with a sword intending to convert or slay. I was interested in paying attention to what my journey, the journey of others, and the world around me might teach me through a season of pilgrimage.
In recent years I had tended toward a sort of theistic agnosticism. I believed it was impossible to prove the existence of God, or for that matter most of the Bible, but was inclined toward belief in a Divine Being anyway. There wasn't enough evidence to demand a verdict in my opinion, but there was evidence to suggest, and for the time being it was enough. I had patiently investigated atheism, but believed that altruistic acts were more than instinctual impulses designed to further the good of society under the umbrella of evolution. There was a spirit involved I couldn't bring myself to discount.
Time had gone a long way toward healing the initial shock of loss I had experienced in losing a child. I had yet to comprehend the need for suffering, and in this regard, found myself in good company. I had begun to make peace with the idea that there were not many answers to my questions, and that the questions themselves were, at least in some ways, part of the point. Releasing the confidence I placed in many of my previously held beliefs had initially freaked me out. When you spend your whole life with the idea that believing the right things will eternally save you, letting go of some of them is terrifying. It required that I throw myself at the Divine and beg for mercy in a way that I never had when I thought I had all the answers. I had come to believe that faith
centered a great deal on the simple message: love God, love your neighbor, and love yourself. I clung to the vestige and figured I could spend a lifetime, let alone a season of pilgrimage, plumbing its depths. Living on a boat, I hoped, would provide a season of simpler living in which I could reconnect with God, myself, and my family.
“I choose door number 3,” I told Monty hesitantly. The crowd went wild, but I knew I was a sucker. I was rolling the dice and the stakes were high. I was messing around with chance and probabilities. Starting up a game of pipe bomb blackjack. Unlike the game show Lets Make a Deal, with its instant gratification or disappointment upon lifting the lid or sliding open the doors, whether or not I had actually won anything of value would likely take years to reveal itself.
12
Mike and I discussed the best way to tell Lauren and Stefan that we had decided to sell everything we had, the house, cars, their bedroom furniture, the television set, and move onto a boat. The problem would not lie with Stefan, who was ten and found walking down to the river to fish an adventure. Our concern was with Lauren, who was twelve and up to her eyeballs in the seventh grade. Over the course of raising her thus far, I had thought numerous times how unlike each other we were in the realm of social aptitude. While I had been self conscious, awkward, and a people-pleaser at her age, she had a devil-may-care attitude, oozed confidence, and questioned authority. She lived for the telephone, IM, and weekend trips to the mall. Just the kind of kid who likes being uprooted from interpersonal connectedness.
“We have a couple things going for us,” I told Mike privately. “She loves adventure and dislikes convention. I wonder where she gets that from?” I continued, looking in Mike's direction.
The reason, I believe, that thousands of people flock to boat shows every year is that many of us have the secret desire to become a turtle. Pushing off from shore to swim lackadaisically through the water any time you please captures our imagination. It is travel at its finest: no luggage to pack and you can take all the comforts and familiarity of home to any number of exotic locations.
Mike and I decided the best way to get Lauren to consider living on a boat was to give her a taste of the potential by taking her to the Toronto Boat Show. Even as an amateur boater, I figured boat shows were about as close to an amusement park and as far from reality in the nautical world as you were likely to get. In a cavernous, carpeted convention center, we found different types of boats: powerboats, sailboats, and catamarans, in varying lengths. There wasn't a speck of dirt anywhere. There were no dents or scrapes from botched docking attempts; all the hulls were smooth and shiny. The numerous systems were in prime working order as displayed by the suit-and-tie salesman who handed me a sheet listing about $125,000 worth of extras. The engine rooms smelled strangely of lavender, and since there wasn't a drop of slime or oil to be seen, I could actually see chrome and stainless. The polished galley tables were set with fine bone china, crystal wine goblets, and decoratively folded napkins. The whole thing smacked of the Love Boat, and I expected Captain Stubing to walk out of a pilothouse at any moment and ask me to join him at the captain's table for dinner.
For the kids, stepping on board a sixty-eight-foot power monohull was similar to shoving their way through fur coats in a wardrobe and finding themselves in a sort of Narnian parallel universe. They emitted small shrieks of pleasure upon finding life lived out in miniature: dishwasher, sink, bathroom, barbeque, washer and dryer, and tiny odd-shaped latching cupboards. The winding, circular stairways reminded them of secret passageways. These led to hideaway staterooms with low ceilings and enchanting portholes.
When Lauren, Stefan and I found ourselves together at the bow, I worked my magic. “Imagine this boat in the water, bobbing up and down, taking us to a faraway, deserted island.”
“Wouldn't that be amazing?” Lauren whispered breathless.
I felt kind of bad about this. Like Mike and I were manipulating our kid's impressions which, if I am honest, is so much a part of what it means to be a parent. I made their favorite dinner a few nights later: angel hair pasta with chicken, sundried tomatoes, and Alfredo sauce. It had been a busy day and it was the first night all week that we had been able to sit down together.
Mike introduced the idea of living on a boat casually, as if it was no big deal. He said, something like, “Can you believe we got snow so early in the year, and how about those MapleLeafs, eh? They lost again last night… and oh hey by the way Hon, what would you think about living on a boat for a year?”
Without hesitation, I said in my best June Cleaver voice, “Well that is just a terrific idea! I think it would be kind of fun, dear.”
“You know,” he continued, wiping his mouth with a napkin, “we could travel to some pretty interesting places. We could go to the Bahamas. There is great fishing there I hear. We could get our scuba diving certificates. Or maybe learn to spear fish. Swim and snorkel. What would you think of that?”
“I think it is a fabulous idea,” I said, but I was a little nervous about that spear fishing.
There was a bit of a lull.
“Are you serious?” Stefan finally said looking back and forth between Mike and me. “Because you guys shouldn't joke around about something like that.”
Lauren kept silently shoveling noodles into her mouth, but I knew the electrical synapses going off in her brain would be similar to a fireworks display on July fourth.
“We are serious,” I said quietly.
Lauren opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, Stefan interrupted with, “So what you are telling me is that we could move onto a boat, for a whole year, and I could learn to snorkel and spear fish in the Bahamas, AND get out of school? You guys are the best, man, the best,” he said shaking his head back and forth.
I countered with, “You won't get out of school. You would have to do school at home. Dad and I have looked into several good correspondence curriculums and found one we think would be great. This online correspondence high school would send you all of your supplies and you could take classes over the Internet. You could study at your own pace and we could learn about the different places we visit while living on the boat. This school will keep track of all your records so that if you need to transfer back into regular school, it would be no problem.”
“Where would we go on the boat?” Stefan asked.
Mike said, “Well, we could go to the Bahamas for sure. Then maybe head up the Eastern Seaboard and visit Norfolk, Boston, maybe even New York City. We might be able to cross the Atlantic Ocean and go to the Mediterranean. Visit cities like Rome and,” here Mike looked in Lauren's direction, “Paris.”
“What about leaving all my friends?” Lauren interjected suddenly, keeping her eyes on her plate.
I said quietly, sincerely, “Dad and I have thought about this and we know how important your friends are, Lauren. You can keep up with them over the internet, which is so great these days. And you can go to camp in the summertime. If you and your friends save up their money you could have some of them down for a visit. I imagine it would be pretty exciting for your friends to visit you on a boat.”
She raised her eyebrows, interested, and nodded. After a time, she said, “What about the fact that we don't know anything about boating?”
“We will have to learn together, how to use charts, navigate, anchor. Weather will be important. But we can learn together,” I said trying to sound confident.
“I do like the idea of traveling,” Lauren offered.
“The thing is,” Mike continued, “In any decision you make in life you will be giving up one thing for another. Mom and I have tried to weigh the good and the bad with this decision and we think the good outweighs the bad. It is true we all will miss out on some social stuff, but I think we will gain in other areas. Important areas like reconnecting with family and the environment. Learning about the world we live in and living simply. Mom and I think it will be worth giving up some things that are important to us, for a time, in order to
experience what living on a boat might have to teach us.”
Surprisingly, Lauren didn't flip out. She didn't think she would hate living on a boat. She told us she was interested and open to the idea, but not ready to commit. We told her to take some time and give it some thought.
In the following days, Mike and I gave her space and tried not to discuss the issue when she was around. I noticed that boating magazines ended up in her bedroom on the night table. She spent a whole Saturday on the couch reading a book about a Canadian family who lived on a sailboat for four years and circumnavigated the globe.
Several weeks later, we were having a picnic at a park. Lauren took a break from Frisbee and came to sit with us at the picnic table.
“I have decided,” she said, smiling. “I want to give it a try. I'm actually pretty excited about it. “
Mike called Stefan over to the table. Without saying a word, Mike put his hand out, palm down, into the middle of the table. Stefan, grinning, immediately thrust his hand out and placed it on top of Mike's. Lauren confidently put her hand on top of Stefan's. I looked each of them in the eye, and put my hand on top of the pile.
“Well,” I said, “there's no turning back now.”
That night, after the kids were in bed, Mike and I pulled out a recently purchased Oxford Atlas. We thumbed through it and ended up looking at the Atlantic Ocean as it stretched from the East Coast of the US across one page, crossing over the crack in the binding, and continuing to stretch across the other page all the way to Africa and the mouth of the Mediterranean.
“Look how far it is from one side to another,” I pointed out quietly.