by Kim Petersen
After being interrupted all day, I snapped an irritated, “What now?” to the kid's inquiry of “Mom?”
Smiling up at me, they said meekly, “We've brought you some flowers.”
I don't like interruption because I have things all worked out in my mind. Even while my kids were still in utero, I had their lives mapped out, and mine by association. I imagined for them a fulfilled childhood brought about by wise and witty parents, followed by loving teen years, and their subsequent marriage to a polite, clean cut, hardworking person, with defined goals. Down the road, there would be a few cute, well-behaved, grandkids living nearby so I could see them whenever I wanted. In my script, everyone was healthy, stayed happily married, and lived well into their 90s, or at least long enough to care for me in my old age.
Interruptions to my script were a reminder of my lack of control. For a long time, I assumed these interruptions to be an affront, an oddity, to an otherwise “normal” existence. It won't come as a big surprise to find that I had a positive, albeit unrealistic, dream of what living on a boat might be like. It was full of space brought about by having much less housework to do and much less running around, space in which I could think all sorts of lofty thoughts, the result of hours of communing with God, nature and with family members who always did their chores and cleaned up after themselves. Profound insights would pour forth, and I would be able to write them all out while lounging on an inflatable raft drinking a mojito.
The financial reality of our situation dictated that living on a boat could not be a holiday or early retirement. Occupations would change but remain important. I determined early on to write. I got up each morning with the intent of churning out megabytes of pithy wisdom. Just before descending into our small “office,” currently used as storage for lumber, I would hit the galley and grab some breakfast. I mentioned to whatever family happened to be in the vicinity that I was going down to write and unless someone was being tortured by Jack Bauer or had an eye hanging out of a socket, no one was to bother me. Even then, best to think twice before knocking on my door. While I carried cereal down the stairs, Stefan called out, “What makes you think we'd call YOU if we were being tortured by Jack Bauer?”
Once situated at my desk, I would handcuff myself to the blank page and then try desperately to get away. I drummed my fingers on the desk. Watched the thin arm on my desk clock measure the seconds. I got briefly inspired and wrote a few bumpy lines, then found that even though it was only an hour after breakfast, I was starving. I went back to the galley for peanuts. I ate them one by one at my desk, but their texture and saltiness made me thirsty. Off I went to find something to drink. I was too hot. Too cold. I looked around at the disaster in the form of lumber and wall fabric laying around, and told myself no one could be expected to work under such messy and unorganized conditions. I putzed around at shuffling the clutter from one end of the room to the other. Several hours would end in a disgruntled sigh on my part. Writing was hard work, I told myself.
About the time I was hot on the tail of a quick moving Pulitzer winning tidbit scurrying around like a white rabbit in my brain, a husband, a daughter, or a son, take your pick, would knock on the door and inquire as to where the dish soap was or if I had taken their geography book. My attention diverted, the white rabbit escaped down a hole never to be seen or heard from again.
I told them calmly, sternly, “Creation doesn't just happen. You have to work hard for it. Now that I have been interrupted, I will have to start over. Please, LEAVE ME ALONE!”
Not a minute later, I looked at the clock and thought happily, “oh good it's time for lunch.”
It began to dawn on me that the dream of living on a boat was not going to involve a naval-gazing interruption-free existence. Living in tight quarters with three significant others and their stubbed toes, spilled milk, broken bones, and lost keys, was par for the course on sea as well as on land. This in itself was an interruption to my idea that by living on a boat I had discovered a magical loophole towards serenity. It was unfortunate that my script did not dictate to the Universe. The Universe would have its say. I came to the conclusion that interruptions weren't the exception to the rule. They were the rule. And living on a boat was no exception, either. In fact, living on a boat was the biggest interruption to my life so far.
For many years, Mike and I tried to teach our kids to think for themselves, and not just “full of knowledge” thinkers, but wise. You had only to take a cursory glance through the pages of history to know the dangers of not thinking for yourself. So we taught our kids to be suspicious of face value. Dig deeper, we told them. Don't be afraid to speak up. Ask questions. Even in matters of faith, politics, science, and history. Just because someone with big hair on television, in a pulpit, a lab coat, or a textbook tells you how it is, doesn't necessarily make it so. You think about it. Search for it. Conduct interviews. Compile various sources. Find the Pearl. Work hard for an ongoing friendship with Truth.
This meant that learning the ropes of life onboard was continually interrupted by four strong personalities, all with a lifetime of practice in questioning the status quo and thinking for ourselves, and all willing to share their opinion while attempting to dock a 65-foot power catamaran in a 20-knot cross wind. On approaching a fuel dock for the first time on our own, Lauren, Stefan, and I had a heated debate through clenched teeth and barely controlled voices, over which line should be thrown first. This diverted our attention from the stern, which proceeded to bang into a concrete piling resulting in a foot-long scratch in the fiberglass. Captain Mike was not pleased. He left the helm and stomped down the stairs looking as miffed as I had ever seen him, and proceeded to toss a line to the heavyset, bearded dockhand who asked us jovially, “And how is everyone today?”
We grumbled our salutations.
Docking, we discovered, could be a tricky endeavor. For the kids and me, it involved making use of two skills, line handling and fender placement. In subsequent approaches, we placed large fenders forward, midship, and aft with several small fenders close at hand because inevitably the large fenders were not quite in the right place and at any given time a barnacle-encrusted piling could be counted on to threaten our shiny, smooth fiberglass. We attached several lines to cleats, then through the hawsepipes, on the outside of the rail. Once this was accomplished, we threw a line to the dockhand, who might know what to do with it. Many dockhands would catch our line fine enough, but then hold onto it as Mike attempted to pivot thirty-five tons of power catamaran with twin 330 Cummins engines off the same line. I can tell you that in a game of tug of war, Chrysalis won every time. The sheepish dockhand would be forced to let go of the line and one of us would have to quickly draw it in, and Mike would have to reposition Chrysalis for a second attempt. We learned to instruct the dockhands to secure our line as quickly as possible.
Just when you thought you had everything under control, a gust of wind or a current could be counted on to push you right toward the lovely multimillion-dollar yacht about two feet off your stern. So far, I have not found much in life that instantly gets my heart rate into high-efficiency fat-burning mode as watching our stern float silently within inches of another boat. While sipping drinks along a boardwalk at a marina one night, Mike and I witnessed the docking misfortunes of a seventy-foot Sportfish who misjudged the amount of space at his stern and rammed into a gleaming 100 foot Broward. The resulting sound of crunching fiberglass and yelling was something we hoped to avoid.
We held a family meeting to assess the docking situation. It was widely agreed that in the future, stopping to hold an irate meeting in the middle of such a task was going to be impossible. We decided it would be in the best interest of all concerned, including Chrysalis, to hold our planning meetings prior to our arrival or departure. We assigned jobs: two on line duty and one in charge of fenders. This, we thought, would go a long way toward curbing impromptu pandemonium and facilitating a more team-like attitude.
We had decided earlier o
n that because Mike knew the most about our systems, he would assume the title of captain. I am all for equal rights in a marriage and everywhere else for that matter, but there is a longstanding nautical tradition that someone on board needs to have the responsibility of the final word. That person is the captain. In tense, sometimes dangerous situations, this is important. During maneuvers, if we could not come to a unanimous decision, we would defer to his judgment.
That we were bound to have differing opinions was a given. These opinions, however sacred they might be to us individually, had to take a backseat to the value of the person(s) we were attempting to persuade or debate. We might be mad, but yelling, rude gestures, and snarky comments pretty much flew in the face of this nugget and were squelched as a viable communication option. As incomprehensible as it might seem at the time, there was a slim chance our personal idea was not the best one. Keeping an open mind was essential.
“This includes you guys,” Lauren said looking back and forth between Mike and me. “If we are going to work as a team, you have to treat both Stefan and I as equals. We have good ideas and they should count.”
Mike and I looked at each other, bewildered, then nodded. She had a point.
We practiced docking at the fuel station a few more times that month. Even though we discussed approach and departure beforehand, we were still learning, and there were numerous times when we all screwed up. Afterwards, doors closed a little harder than usual. Things were said that were later regretted. I learned something those first few months aboard. Cruising makes a poor escape from a landlocked life. You can be sure that whatever problems you had on land will follow you right down the dock, over the gangway, and into the cockpit. The stress of living in such small square footage will fan the smoldering embers into a roaring blaze, and after that there is no point in attempting a cover-up.
It was at this very juncture, when there was nothing and nowhere to hide, that we discovered the value in being able to admit we were schmucks and that our love for our neighbor was more important than our own schmuckyness. After a humble apology, sometimes right away, sometimes later on in the day, there would be claps on the back. Hugs. Letting go. A hearty, “not to worry.” I could never have anticipated the important roles that respect, kindness, and forgiveness would play in the living-aboard learning curve. In the safety of the four of us, the borders of who we were began to expand. It was okay to mess up, be sorry, ask forgiveness, and move on. After that, life on board had mostly to do with being able to laugh at yourself and your neighbor and especially yourself while your neighbor was good-naturedly laughing at you.
Headway was made. The next time we docked in a particularly tight situation in large winds it went something like this:
“Laur, how many feet to the dock?” Mike said calmly but audibly from the flybridge.
“About ten feet. Five feet now, I'm throwing the bow line to the dockhand. Bow secure, I'm walking aft.”
From midship Stef's voice would call out, “Springline secure! Mom, we need a fender midship.”
“I'm on it, Stef. How's the stern fender, Laur?”
“Good, but I need another line.”
“I'm on it,” I said while scurrying to deliver both.
After the successful completion of our sixth docking in between two sparkly 100-foot yachts with about two feet to spare on either end, there were grins and high fives. It was a satisfying feeling, this delicate art of teamwork. The journey was shared. Confidence and trust in ourselves, in each other, began to grow. With incredulity, I thought, “we can do this.”
24
I am not a member of the Mothers Against Video Games Association. I am not even sure there is such a thing, although I wouldn't be surprised if there was. On the contrary, I appreciate the good folks at Nintendo, who go to great lengths to create new and engaging games. You just have to have all things in moderation. I once asked my Swedish grandmother how her large family spent their evenings on a farm in rural Iowa when she was growing up.
“Well,” she said, smiling as if some fond memory presented itself, “we spent a lot of time playing Yahtzee.”
In my grandmother's day, there was likely a group of protesters against Yahtzee. After all, it was played with dice, which could be associated with all manner of ne'er do well's and busty wenches.
An interesting thing happened to the social structure on Chrysalis. There was a meeting of minds in the middle among the four of us. It occurred to me one day, that with the responsibility of docking and learning to occupy themselves and be content in their own company, our kids were maturing beautifully. Mike and I, on the other hand, seemed to be regressing. We spent a lot of time thinking up pranks to pull on the kids. We teepeed their staterooms and covered their doorways in plastic wrap. We snuck outside with cups full of water and then urgently called one of the kids outside, only to douse them when they appeared. In the afternoons, we played a version of tag combined with hide and go seek. We ran, which you aren't supposed to do on the decks of a boat, up the steps to the flybridge or along the wing decks. A vague feeling was resurrected in my brain. A feeling I hadn't felt since the long hot days of childhood summers.
“Lauren? Stefan? What are you guys doing?” Mike would shout down into a stateroom.
“Go away. I'm busy doing chemistry,” Lauren would say in a monotone voice without looking up from her textbook.
“And I'm doing math. I can't play with you now,” Stefan would call up from the desk in his stateroom.
“Oh c'mon!! You guys are always doing work! Mom and I want to play MarioKart! C'mon, just a couple of games! You guys have been working all day!” I noticed Mike's voice bordered on whining.
“Oh all right. You guys are like a couple of kids!” Lauren said in exasperation.
In MarioKart, there was something artistically and relationally beautiful about sending a red turtle shell to halt a loved one's progress right before the finish line so you could pass them and end up in first place. In the realm of simple pleasures it ranks up there. A whole boatload of stress could be relieved under such circumstances. Living on Chrysalis had taught me this.
When playing video games, things can quickly deteriorate. Even the well chaperoned and instructed kid can take perverse pleasure in verbally wounding a grade school colleague. Early on in my experience as a mother, I witnessed children's cruelty on more than one occasion. One of my sweet and intentionally parented kids, incensed over some colossal injustice like their sibling's use of the Big Wheel, would yell, “You big stupid-head, it's my Big Wheel!” This was yelled while bashing their rival over the head with a plastic shovel and subsequently pushing them headlong off the Big Wheel resulting in a goose egg bump, tears, and further name calling and finger pointing.
I had little patience, then and now, for name calling in anger and forbade it. “And I don't want to hear you say ‘shut up’ in anger either,” I said.
“Why not ‘shut up’? Everyone says shut up!” they responded.
I told them: “What I want you to understand is that your brother or your sister is more valuable than, say, a Big Wheel or anything else for that matter. The words you use are important. They mean something. We treat each other with respect in this family, and there will be no saying “shut up” in anger, or any kind of name calling in anger, ever.
“You mean we can't ever get angry?”
“Yes, you can get angry. I just want you to remember that you are in control, not your anger. And also, that the person you are angry with is more important than the issue you are angry about. That is why we don't call names. Do you understand?”
They nodded obligatorily in unison.
A few minutes later I would hear the beginnings of a skirmish and yell up the stairs at them, “Are you being loving and kind to each other?”
“Oh yes,” one would respond, their tone dripping with honey through clenched teeth. “It's just that this sweet little dork, this darling idiot, won't give me the remote control. See Mom, I didn'
t say it in anger!”
When they became teenagers they developed an interest in verbally “slamming”each other. At first I was adverse to what seemed to be insulting behavior, but then one of them sat me down and took my hand in theirs and talked to me like I was about five. They explained that their insults were about being creative, not inflicting wounds. They brought up my own love of good stand-up comedy, and how it takes a great deal of attention to the small details of life to find the humor in it. One of them said, “You know how you're always talking about the heart behind the actions? Well, when we slam each other, we are really just joking around, and everyone knows it.”
“Doesn't it ever hurt your feelings?” I asked.
“Sometimes. But then we just stop and say sorry.”
“Yeah, Mom, it doesn't mean anything. It's just funny. You should try it,” said the other.
So I did. We started to keep a running tally of our best work in a small notebook we affectionately called “The Burn Book.” Anytime one of us said something creative or jovially insulted someone else, one of the kids would run to record it. With some dismay, I thought, we had no tangible photo albums, but we had a book of insults. What kind of a mother was I, anyway?
One night over tacos, Lauren decided to read what we had to date. She said, “Okay, I'm going to read you some of our best insults and creative comments.” In between bites of taco, she read: “There was that time Dad was flexing his muscles in the galley and said: “Don't you think I'm a bit like Samson in his strength?”