CAR-PAY DIEM

Two weeks ago -- and two days before I was going to list my car for sale -- I backed out of the parking garage and peeled the rearview mirror off the driver's side door. ARGH.

I took it to Luke, our awesome mechanic, with visions of a $300-400 bill. He fixed it for $180.

Yesterday a young man called to ask me if my car was for sale. He took a cursory look and called to say he would buy it.

This morning I met the guy's dad and mom (who turned out to be customers from the wine shop) at the bank. They gave me my asking price in cash. I signed over the title, just like that. Done.

"How did you hear about the car being for sale?"

"Luke our mechanic."

Aren't broken mirrors supposed to be bad luck?

THE GRIP OF THE LAND

Perhaps we underestimated the steely grip of the land.

Little things pile up and together become big things. Chores that should take an hour grow extracted and take many times that. Others get done but create five more in their wake.

We each had a list of people interested in buying our cars, but when we were ready to sell, the people disappeared.

The damaged grill had to be sent back and a new one shipped (slowly) to replace it.

The topper we ordered for the mattress will be here in three weeks.

That engine for the dinghy? Still waiting.

Ah, we wait -- a wait riddled with good times and good friends and no schedule. We are not suffering.

THE LAST LOAD

My car has been a hapless storage unit ever since before we sold our house. Everything that can't find a place anywhere else, anything that's being ferried from one place to another, trash, it's all in there. And today it was too much.

"We have to bring the last load in!"

What a joyous moment! We're in! We're in!

It's a jumbled up mess. The bed in the aft cabin (now dubbed the studio) is not visible through the junk, er stuff.

The next stage will be to make sense of the piles and then stow them, but, did I tell you? We're in! We have containment!

For the first time since July 2008, all of our stuff is in one place.

Home.


(I accidentally left my camera in the car last week -- in intense heat. That's why the photo of the last load looks so blurry. No worries. All it needed was a good lens cleaning.)

DISENTWANGLING

Chip describes selling the business like untangling a big pile of string. You methodically work out each strand until it's free, and then go back for the next one, hoping at some point to reach the last rope (insert your own "last straw" joke here).

Our chores include things like transfer the domain name, get a lease termination signed by landlord, cancel credit cards used for business purchases, notify phone company and power company of new ownership, file dba cancellation, copy and send email list to new owners, notify advertising contacts of change, pay final bills, collect invoices and receipts needed for tax purposes, find a place to store those invoices and receipts, get everything you do notarized (at least it seems like it), close LLC, close business bank account, pay final sales and use tax, closeout payroll.

Each day we get a few more things off the list. Step by step by step. Looking for that last rope, the one keeping us tied to the dock.

EXCHANGE RATE

Today we handed over the keys to the wine shop.

We can no longer go in early. We are no longer on call when the store is open -- or when it's not.

For five years and 23 days, we have been on-call 24 hours a day, even on vacation. For five years and 23 days, we got the call when the security alarm went off, even at 3 a.m., even when we were in Palm Beach.

Now, we no longer have to worry about POS software or internet connection, credit card service providers or cooler compressors, ballasts or heat pumps.

Now we can worry about furlers and GPS, diesel engines and zincs, rigging and solar panels. Bottom paint, harnesses, flares, sea cocks and through-hulls.

A fair trade?

REALIZING TWO DREAMS

Following is the newsletter that we sent to our Chip's Wine & Beer Market community.

YOU ARE INVITED...

... to a major celebration!

Thursday, June 17th
4:00-7:00 p.m.
Chip's WIne & Beer Market
MP6 Plaza

Wine, beer and snacks provided

REALIZING TWO DREAMS

What are we celebrating? Now there's a good story. And what could be better than a good story with a happy ending? How about two intertwining stories, both with happy endings?

Most of you already know that Chip's WIne & Beer Market has been for sale. We, Chip and Tammy, opened the store in 2005 to help finance our dream of sailing full time. You have watched and waited with us as we slowly (very slowly) sold our house, our belongings, sold our old sailboat, bought a new one and brought it down from the northern Chesapeake. The last thing we needed to accomplish before sailing away was to find new owners for the wine shop.

It was always important to us to leave our awesome community of customers in good hands, and if we could have magically conjured up the perfect people to leave you with, we could not have done any better.

Introducing Laura and Phil

It gives us great joy to introduce you to the new owners of Chip's: Laura and Phil Wayland.

Laura and Phil had a little dream too: owning their own wine shop, and just as the owners before them, they have done the hard work to accomplish their goal. We know you're going to love them, and they have great plans for improving the store.

Laura has six years of management experience in the wine business as an independent wine consultant. She repeatedly won awards for her work and just so you know how fabulous she is, her peers voted her "heart of the company" in 2008. She has marketing, communications and event coordination experience as well. Laura loves wine and loves hooking people up with wines they will love.

Phil has a degree in Integrated Science and Technology (we don't know what that is either, but he's fun and has a great sense of humor). He works in the information technology industry, but you'll be seeing him around Milepost 6 a lot. He will bring his knowledge of business operations managementto provide some back room financial oversight for the store. You might see him in the beer aisle sometimes too. ;-)

Laura and Phil are young, energetic, brilliant, snob-free and love to laugh out loud. They met in college (James Madison University), have been married 10 years and have two beautiful children, Tyler, 7, and Loxley, 6.

And by fulfilling their dream of owning a wine shop, they have enabled us to launch our adventures at the sea.

We hope you'll join us on Thursday to celebrate two happy endings, or, on second thought make that two happy beginnings. 

The Last Word

Finally, we bid you a big and tearful thank you. In part, dreams come true on the strength of a well-laid plan and hard work, but we know that we've been carried this far on the shoulders of our customers. You made this store a great success, and we have been grateful every day that you chose to shop with us. Thank you for being part of giving our dream life.

If you want to come along for the ride, you can follow us at:
http://ploddingtoparadise.blogspot.com/

Fair winds,

WINE SHOP SOLD

It has happened. Three days short of 20 months on the market, five years and 18 days into a five-year plan, we sold the store.

Shouldn't there be leaping and tears or high fives and delirium? In fact, we are still and quiet.

This, the last item on our TO DO list, has been mythical for so long, I think I lost sight of the possibility that it could be real. It had moved into the realm of unicorns and mermaids.

But there is nothing ephemeral about what we're feeling now.

Gratitude is as big as the heavens, fathomless and eternal.

WELL, YOU ASKED

Saturday night while we were slogging through inventory, Chip was fretting over some expensive Italian bottles on the shelf, bottles that had been there for four years.

He hates to saddle the new owners with expensive inventory that's hard to turn. We kindly took one of them (poor us).

Today, Chip was in the back room doing some paperwork when Mike, one of our employees, came in with a register receipt.

"You might want to check your high-end wines."

Someone came in and 10 minutes and $1255 later, left with all but one of those Italian bottles.

Did he have wings?

GALLEY HO!

Can I just say I am flummoxed by how to organize a galley? We've attempted to pare back our kitchen supplies to the bare necessities, which begs the question: What are the bare necessities?

And once you've figured out what they are, where do you put them? The galley has a lot of small cabinets and compartments, some easy to reach, others deep under and behind other spaces, some underfoot. How do you decide where to put things so you're not diving head first under the sink every few days?

Enter Chef Rob Mitchell, professional galley tamer.

Rob has been working as a chef on yachts for a lot o' years and offered to help us get organized -- hey, we're not stupid (usually).

In preparation for The Galley Master, I pulled out everything I had haphazardly thrown into the cabinets and hatches and unceremoniously dumped it all on the salon table.

Rob breezed in and after five minutes of looking at our gear, sorted out about a third of it and said, "Keep this."

He then picked up a notepad and made a list of things like stainless steel measuring cups and spoons, a colander without a handle, stainless steel tongs, among other things, and said,

"Buy these things."

In 10 minutes he had accomplished what would have taken me several years -- if ever -- to figure out.

Then he looked through the galley and started stowing. I knew he would find appropriate places for all the pans and utensils -- which he did -- but I didn't expect him to sort through all our food and organize it.

Isn't food just food and you jam it anywhere and everywhere?

Not if you're smart. He arranged all the food by how and how often we will use it.

We now have a baking cabinet, an everyday/snack cabinet, a hidden storage area for things we won't use often (like dried beans and canned goods), etc.

Can I just say Rob Mitchell rocks?!??!?!?!

BUDDHA, AN ASHTRAY AND A MOUSE IN A RED GINGHAM DRESS

home |hōm|
noun -- a place where something flourishes

All those big plastic bins holding the last of our belongings are starting to feel like so many Pandora's boxes. Every few days we pull another one out of the car and release its content, every time left to deal with the consequences.

The truth is, we don't want any more stuff on the boat, but once it comes out of the proverbial box, we have to remember its history, judge its value, weigh its role in our future, and if we keep it, deal with the increasingly onerous task of finding a place for it on the boat.

Tonight instead of the painstaking process of pulling out each item and debating its fate, we played a game of Top Ten, taking turns picking something out of the bin until we each had 10 items. The rest would go back in the car and eventually be dispatched to Goodwill.

The bin held tools, cookbooks, folders, printer paper, books, charts and fabric, but except for a putty knife, neither of us chose those things with practical value.

Instead, Chip picked a small stuffed rabbit I gave him one long ago Christmas, a dog-eared notebook of song lyrics in progress and a Queen Elizabeth II ashtray given to us by a friend. I kept a decorative wooden mermaid, a tiny Buddha that Chip gave me and a little stuffed mouse in a red gingham dress made for me by my great aunt Flora when I was nine.

We've spent months stockpiling the practical yet impersonal necessities of life on a sailboat, the things that will help us survive. But today, we both felt the need to bring aboard the sentimental and fanciful essentials of living, the things that will help us thrive.

THE PRICE OF PLAYING

It is apparent to me at this particular waypoint -- having quite successfully planned the disposal of a lifetime of belongings and stepped across the water onto a boat -- that I maybe failed a little bit at projecting the emotional impact of removing my entire foundation, of willfully flinging the carpet out from under my life. I thought doing it on purpose would make it all fun and lighthearted.

And, god knows, there have been happy moments and those dividends will be paying us back for years.

But there's the proverbial moment when the Pink Panther steps off a cliff but has not yet begun to fall. No amount of jaunty in-air paddling can stave off the inevitable. Where's the fun in planning that?

So, on this emotional plunge, I plummet through the emotional spectrum, anger then giddiness, then intense stress, then utter frustration. Chip and I go from hand-in-hand camaraderie at the sheer joy of accomplishing our goals to sniping at each other like siblings in the backseat.

We both feel scattered, shattered, fragmented, not in a tragic way but in an I-can't-find-my-pillow-and-I-want-to-cry and an I'm-falling-off-the-edge-of-the-world-holy-shit-oh-no-but-this-is-really-freaking-cool sort of way.

But doesn't that make sense when you think about it? Someone else lives in our house. Our old boat is now with new owners. Our belongings have been scattered far and wide, like little bits of us sprinkled all across the country.

I recognize that this sounds whiny and ungrateful, but what I'm leaving here is a blueprint for those who want to reboot their lives. Doing great things, making life-altering changes comes with sacrifice. It would be disingenuous not to acknowledge that.

When the stakes are high, so is the price of playing the game.

DEALING

I read recently that it takes 18 to 24 months to sell a business. Our store has been on the market for 20 months, so that makes it a sure thing, right?

In those 20 months, I have received several offers, low ones asking for ridiculous amounts of financing. In fact, I've been asked to finance hundreds of thousands of dollars by people offering me no credentials, no resume, no business plan, no references, just, hey, what do you think, can I run your store and maybe pay you for it later? I thought not.

We waited, because it's what we do.

About two months ago, I started noticing a change in the inquiries. It was my personal barometer on the health of the economy, my first sign that there was some life springing up out of the darkness. The prospects who contacted me were more serious, moving at a faster pace, and, perhaps most encouraging, they were more financially qualified. Several even grasped the philosophy of the store, and understood the steps we had taken to build and solidify the brand.

And so, I got hopeful.

And then I got an offer that was not low and was not asking for financing.

We are nearing a deal, but we are tiptoeing around like we've stumbled upon a deer in the forest, afraid to move or speak lest it gets spooked and runs away.

Will the deafening clacking of my typing cause it to bolt?

Nevertheless, here I type, quite loudly: We are about to sign a contract to sell the wine shop.

And guess what? It entails more waiting. The buyers must be approved for a loan. We should know in two weeks, three weeks, maybe four?

Life in the balance.

ISABELLA'S PASSING

We did not expect to gain new friends when we bought our cruising boat nor did we plan to gain more when we sold Isabella. And yet...

Our first hint that we might have a common bond with Suzanne and Pete was when they drove up in the car on the right, and Chip drove up in the car on the left.

The four of us spent a warm, springlike day on Isabella, working together to pass her from one hand to the next, a farewell and a maiden voyage in one.

Suzanne and Pete plan to take Isabella south to Beaufort -- one of our favorite ports in North Carolina -- to live aboard and sail her on weekends with their kids and grandkids.

"Are you sad?" Suzanne asked, just as I had asked Nancy about our new boat Good Company.

Of course, I'm sad, but at the same time I'm so happy that she's going to people who will honor her -- and sail her.

I've already written an Ode to Isabella, and now I can only repeat:

She will surely sail away with a new owner on water mingled with my tears, tears of sadness that she sails without us, tears of hope that she will always sail on fair winds and kind seas.

We have not told Isabella goodbye yet. Pete and Suzanne will be here to take her south in April. Until then, even though we do not own her, we're still on watch. 

LET IT GO, GIRL

"I can't find my spoon," I wailed.

Today we were moving the last of our things out of the apartment, standing amidst the half-filled boxes and cleaning supplies where I'd been searching for my missing spoon.

"Why does that upset you so much?" Chip asked, clearly confused that someone who has been gleefully throwing out belongings would be so upset that one left on its own.

But, this wasn't just any old spoon. This spoon was a miniature, two-inch work of art, sculpted of pewter with an intricate little face carved in the handle. I loved it, treasured it, used it every day to sprinkle salt on my food -- whether the food needed salt or not, because that spoon was awesome.

Through tears I lamented, "I've kept so few things, and now I've lost one of them."

All those belongings that I've pitched this past year were items I willingly -- but sometimes reluctantly -- released when I knew they were standing between me and the water. But this one? It met all the marine requirements: it was tiny; it wouldn't rust; it was durable, guaranteed to survive the rough and tumble life on a sailboat. And the most important requirement of all: I loved it. This was one of the precious few items I had chosen to keep.

And in that little spoon I had been precariously balancing some part of every one of my discarded possessions, all my things that were too fragile, too breakable, too bulky, or somehow uniquely inappropriate for life onboard.

Maybe that was just too much for a little spoon to bear.

ON THE MOVE

The vagabonds have a new temporary shelter. After several weeks of looking and weighing options, we moved into Raven's Roost.

It's a summer rental, fully furnished, so we can shed the last few pieces of furniture: a love seat, a chair, a mattress and a table. And since the kitchen is geared up, we can divest ourselves of a few more household items.

What do we have left?
--4 bins of tools, sandpaper, paint thinner, paintbrushes, fiberglass repair gear, stuff
--4 boxes of books
--a folding bike
--a marine sewing machine
--2 mast pulpits
--a briefcase with our files for selling the wine shop
--bedding and linens
--clothing
--4 bins of miscellaneous stuff like a first aid kit, flashlights, bags

And a fully furnished house is something we're relishing. We have a new appreciation for a dishwasher, a washer and dryer, a bathtub and even TV. Our first morning here, we had toast, not because we wanted it, but just because we have a toaster.

So, here we are, lightening the load and once, again, in the "last" place before moving onboard.

First task in the new house: Christmas tree.

BETWEEN A ROCK AND THE WATER

You'd think we've taken a vow of poverty.

Our near-empty apartment has no comfortable place to sit. I huddle in a slack purple chair that passed its prime about the same time I did, because the couch sends my post-prime back into spasms. Our dorm-worthy desk chair groans and creaks, just like we do if we sit in it. My car, which should have been sold two years ago, has peeling paint, a broken radio knob and a smear of rust on the door.

My clothes are so pared down, it's a struggle to keep up a good land front, and last spring I actually turned down an invitation to a party in D.C., because I didn't have shoes to wear.

A normal person would buy new shoes and furniture, but we're not normal. We've taken a vow of sailing and any step back, be it amassing furniture or clothing, would be an admission of defeat.

And yet, in addition to that discomfiture (discomfurniture?) on land, I feel almost as ill-equipped for the next life too. I read about new radar technology, wind-speed indicators and navigation software like I'm trying to decipher the Rosetta Stone. And even though my clothing is ill-suited for land, I don't know if it's well-suited for sea living either -- because I'm not there yet.

When I talk about sailing with land people, I sound like a senior talking to a freshman. When I talk about sailing with sailors, it's me that's the rising freshman.

That's what we are. Rising sailors. One foot on land, the other in the water.

UPDATE:
--Isabella gets better by the day: restitched the whole canopy; oiled the interior wood; cleaned the portholes; replacing the starter. We'll be painting the deck soon.
--Looking at financing options for purchasing an Island Packet soon.
--No winner in the house search yet. We have until the end of December ...

FINDING FOCUS

 Have you ever played that game Concentration where all the cards are face down and you turn them over two at a time, trying to find a match? That's what our second bedroom has been like for the last three months.

All the stuff we're keeping -- taking on the boat with us -- has been in three extra large bins. Every time I needed something, I would open one of the bins and pilfer around inside it, hoping to unearth a hidden treasure.

In fact, four times since we moved here in July I have scrounged through those huge bins looking for a waterproof bag for my camera. Four times I came out without the bag but not empty handed: a set of prayer flags, a stuffed rabbit, a pair of sailing gloves and a tea strainer. But no waterproof bag.
Last night we disgorged the contents of the bins into the middle of the floor sorting it into somewhat sensible piles: first aid, knives (we seem to have a lot of them), flashlights, bags, kitchen stuff, etc. We then stored those piles together in bags and boxes in hopes of happier hunting.

Then we dumped out all six boxes of books. On Round One, we picked out the books that were NOT optional: Sailmaker's Apprentice, Sailing Alone Around the World, Knots. Round Two, we chose the books we really, really wanted: To Kill a Mockingbird, Kon-Tiki, Treasure Island. In Round Three, we heartlessly cast aside the books that hadn't made the team, some of which are now on our bedside tables (crates) waiting to be read: American Lion, Iraq War Report, Leaves of Grass.

Can we get rid of any more stuff? Never say never.

Oh, and I found that waterproof bag.

ODE TO ISABELLA

I cried the day we bought Isabella. Tears of joy, relief. Tears of hope for our future onboard.

When Chip and I met, the kids were only 8 years old, and the happy years of raising them stretched out far into the future, almost as far as the mind could comprehend. But the day we bought Isabella was the first crystallized moment when it was about just the two us, about building another life beyond school lunches, band concerts, soccer and visitation schedules.

The day we brought Isabella home, the kids were sixteen and so wrapped up in their own teenaged world, that they hadn't paid much attention to our cruising plans. But that day Casey took one look at the new boat, eyes wide, and said, "You're really going to do this, aren't you?"

It's what we were thinking as well, our first major step toward the water, and every step after became more focused and purposeful. Isabella, we believed, would be our next home, and all our time on her was taking us closer to realizing a dream.

It was a sad moment when we decided last year that she would not be our cruising boat. The decision was about needing a bigger boat and not at all about our feelings for her.

People frequently ask us if we were sad to leave the house or if we'll be sad when we sell the store. The answer is always a resounding no.

But will we be sad when we sell Isabella? She is our only "belonging" that holds our emotional investment. She was, after all, our first mental ticket to board a dream.

We know all her strengths and weaknesses, and she taught us so much about our own.

The day we wave goodbye to her is one I can hardly bear to imagine. She will surely sail away with a new owner on water mingled with my tears, tears of sadness that she sails without us, tears of hope that she will always sail on fair winds and kind seas.

UPDATE:
--Weather permitting, we are taking Isabella to Wanchese tomorrow for new bottom paint. If it's blowing too much, we'll take her on Tuesday.
--We continue to be deafened by the noise about the wine shop, but no real news to report.

DEFINING FOREVER

When I got up Sunday morning and trudged into the kitchen, I found a small note tacked to the refrigerator door. It said, in Chip's handwriting, "No thing lasts forever."

I marveled that so small a magnet could hold up such a weighty thought.

There are entire books written about waiting. And now an entire blog...

UPDATE:
--Sold the Windvane (self-steering). Thanks, Jim!
--Got hotel reservations for the boat show.

YOU'VE GOT MAIL!

Our culture just isn't set up for leaving the dirt behind. Take mail for instance.

For the last year, we've methodically tried to cut back on the volume of mail that we receive. Every time a piece of mail came in, we would call and ask the sender to delete us from their list. It always got tedious when they asked why. The lady at AARP was particularly flummoxed. I don't think "Moving onto a boat" was on the checklist. She said, "I'll just put 'going to sea,'" which I'm sure must be the AARP metaphor for "deceased."

Despite our constant attention to mail issues, when it came time to move out of the house in July, I had not thought about how to handle the remaining mail, things we couldn't legally leave behind like IRS information and car registration. In a last minute effort to avoid actually dealing with the issue, I had the post office hold our mail until I figured out what to do. That was working great until I realized they were also holding the mail of the new owner of our house.

I didn't want to pay for a post office box. Our new apartment doesn't have a mailbox. So, again under the gun, I had the mail forwarded to our work address. Our official residence is now a wine shop.

You might ask, like I do, what happens next? When we sell the store, we can't exactly forward the wine shop mail. I look forward to a life without catalogs of wine diva t-shirts and wine glass flip flops, and the new owners will likely want things like wine license renewal notices.

There are mail handling services for people doing what we're doing (cruising, I mean, not waiting to cruise). This year we might actually have to talk to them at the boat show before I get our mail any more twangled than it already is. Please don't drop us a line.