Issue 131: March/April 2020
Nine years ago, the Robertsons woke from the American dream and took off to sail full time.
“Do you miss living on a sailboat?”
We traveled to visit extended family over the holidays, and I was asked the question a few times, in some form. The question was small talk that made sense, because for the first time in seven holiday seasons, we were boatless. The boat that had been our home belonged to someone else now.
“No, not so much, it was time.”
There was some truth in that answer. Also, I knew it was an answer that would make sense and satisfy, so the conversation could turn. But each time I said the words, my mind went straight to two weeks prior, early December in Mexico, where we took an impromptu trip across the border to bid farewell to our friends, the crew of Totem. We caught them at the fuel dock, all ready to cast off in the wee hours the following day.
Stepping aboard, the deck rolled ever-so-slightly and comfortably under my bare feet, the large upper shroud familiar in my hand. My eyes closed. I could have been aboard the boat I no longer owned, and I felt pangs of longing. I missed her and I missed living aboard her.
But practically, it had been time to move ashore and sell the old gal when we did, and I don’t have any regrets. That’s the truth in my answer. My kids have spent the bulk of their lives as sailing vagabonds, and my oldest daughter was ready for a change. I’d taken on this role as editor, and while it’s possible to do this full-time job from aboard a 39-foot boat sailing the Pacific, it’s impossible to do this full-time job and enjoy all the fruits of living aboard a 39-foot boat sailing the Pacific.
But still.
Now they’ve found a desertscape near the sea to make their home.
To most family and friends and acquaintances, we’re the only sailors they know. For more than a decade, it’s been who we are, first as the family with the crazy plans to sell everything and move onto a sailboat, and then as the family that lives on a boat and is always visiting from exotic places. That boat life was our identity.
Leaving the boat behind meant we needed new short answers for who we are. “I live on a boat and travel,” had been easy. It begged questions for which I had pat answers guaranteed to impress. I rarely had to explain or define myself further. It was my skin and it was comfortable. Our sailing lifestyle was the why of everything.
Now I’ve molted, and I’m just another guy who lives in a house, with a wife, with kids in school. I’m boatless. And that’s okay.
Thankfully, I haven’t had to fall back on, “I used to live on a sailboat, exploring the Pacific.” I’m too busy for that. Our challenge was to find lives ashore that provoked our interests and passions, replaced the uniqueness and vibrancy that characterized our lives afloat. We succeeded.
The pangs of longing I feel for the boat we left behind just means that we did it right, seven years on a tiny private island with my family. The beauty and magic of that, especially in retrospect, is something I’ll always be grateful for.
And it’s the reason we’ll have another boat, someday. It’ll be our fourth. I’m already yearning for the good times she promises. And at some future holiday gathering, the question will come: “I heard you bought another boat.”
“Yeah, it was time.”
Thank you to Sailrite Enterprises, Inc., for providing free access to back issues of Good Old Boat through intellectual property rights. Sailrite.com
