We're attempting something that's not that easy: living a land life with only boat belongings.
Hand-grinding the coffee beans and living out of plastic bins is no big deal, but imagine living your daily life out of the suitcase you packed for a tropical vacation. A sun hat and sarong to a business meeting? No.
I managed to get through this summer without embarrassing myself too badly, but now I'm faced with the specter of the approaching seasons.
Last fall I disposed of 80% of my winter wardrobe, keeping just enough to eke through what we imagined was our last land winter. When we moved here to Camp III, I pitched another 10%, and now the remaining 10% of my winter wardrobe is hunkered down in the trunk of my car, the last stage before going to Goodwill -- I hoped.
"Just bring it in," Chip said, sounding so logical, when I was fretting about the thought of spending another winter on land.
But I'm already struggling with the realization that I have too many clothes for life at sea, even without the useless winter stuff. On top of that, something in my brain is telling me that if I bring them in, we're locked in to staying for another winter. If I would just take the load to charity, the last obstacle would be removed, and we could sail away.
Of course, that load of coats and long pants has nothing to do with when we'll go sailing, right? Right?
Icky Choice One: Chuck it right now. If we're somewhere cold this winter, I can either mummify myself in sarongs or buy more clothing.
Icky Choice Two: Find room for it here at Camp III, which seems as inappropriate as taking bikinis and flip flops to the real Camp III at 24,500 feet.
Icky Choice Three: Leave the clothes in the trunk and my head in the sand.
Hand-grinding the coffee beans and living out of plastic bins is no big deal, but imagine living your daily life out of the suitcase you packed for a tropical vacation. A sun hat and sarong to a business meeting? No.
I managed to get through this summer without embarrassing myself too badly, but now I'm faced with the specter of the approaching seasons.
Last fall I disposed of 80% of my winter wardrobe, keeping just enough to eke through what we imagined was our last land winter. When we moved here to Camp III, I pitched another 10%, and now the remaining 10% of my winter wardrobe is hunkered down in the trunk of my car, the last stage before going to Goodwill -- I hoped.
"Just bring it in," Chip said, sounding so logical, when I was fretting about the thought of spending another winter on land.
But I'm already struggling with the realization that I have too many clothes for life at sea, even without the useless winter stuff. On top of that, something in my brain is telling me that if I bring them in, we're locked in to staying for another winter. If I would just take the load to charity, the last obstacle would be removed, and we could sail away.
Of course, that load of coats and long pants has nothing to do with when we'll go sailing, right? Right?
Icky Choice One: Chuck it right now. If we're somewhere cold this winter, I can either mummify myself in sarongs or buy more clothing.
Icky Choice Two: Find room for it here at Camp III, which seems as inappropriate as taking bikinis and flip flops to the real Camp III at 24,500 feet.
Icky Choice Three: Leave the clothes in the trunk and my head in the sand.
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