I LIVE ON A BOAT

Roswell, NM -- While living on a boat is fabulous, fun and fulfilling and sometimes other "f" words, I have found that "I live on a boat" is an endlessly handy excuse.

I'm not dressed appropriately? Sorry, I live on a boat.

My luggage doesn't match? (What luggage?) Oh, I live on a boat.

My clothes are wrinkled?
I'm taking too long in the shower?
My hair looks a mess?
I smell bad?
I don't understand your cultural references?

It's a bit of a reach but worth a try for others:
I was speeding officer?
I forgot your birthday?
I can't remember your name?
I caught your hair on fire? Sorry. I live on a boat.

MOVE ABOARDS

I've developed a big crush on vacuum bags, so to speak. They make large, water-absorbing things small and waterproof. Awesome. That photo shows two memory foam pillows and a queen size comforter. (Every since I bought the extra-large vacuum bag, Chip has developed a strange fear of the shop vac.)

Slowly, things are finding new resting places inside the boat. The back bedroom is the staging area. One day it gets relatively clear. The next we bring in a new load. Sigh.

Very soon maybe we'll be live aboards, not move aboards.

THE NEW, WRINKLE RESISTANT ME

Beware of all enterprises that require new clothes. --Henry David Thoreau, Walden

My land wardrobe reflects the fact that I'm anti-athletic. Like for instance my career as a softball player, which lasted one game, a game where I pitched. They called the game when my team fell behind 27-0 -- in the second inning.

Then there was the time I ran a 1K (yes, one K, one half of a mile), a benefit for the Special Olympics where seemingly "normal" people ran alongside the "special" athletes. About midway through the course, I was passing a Special Olympian who seemed to be struggling, so I ran along with him trying to assist. He did fine. I fell and sprained my ankle. I felt very special.

So, since I haven't been all that sporty, I'm completely sartorially ill-prepared for this new sport. Especially since Chip and I have taken a vow not to dress like typical cruisers, who are notorious for dressing poorly, in tacky, wrinkled clothing.

However, when you look at the closet space on a sailboat, you start to understand that wrinkled clothing thing -- and even the temptation (necessity?) of going clothing-free. 

This is my closet in the new boat. And, yes, that's a tissue box for scale.

In preparation to move aboard, I've been scouring the internet for quick-dry, wrinkle-resistant clothes, waterproof jackets, UV protected fabrics. I've been ordering from online stores intended for hikers, mountain climbers and surfers.

Thus, I'm slowly piecing together a wardrobe for hiking the deck as we surf mountainous waves.

I've always said, what you lack in substance must be made up with style.

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 ...

ALL UNDRESSED AND NO PLACE TO GO

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.

ELECTION EVE

This election has been as slow in coming as Christmas to an 8-year-old. Right now, 25 hours before the first results come in, the whole country, maybe even the whole world is listening for Santa to land on the roof, wondering if he'll be the usual old gray-haired guy or a Santa of a different stripe.

Chip says if McCain wins he'll denounce his citizenship. (Actually, I think he's serious. He's been country shopping.) I say if Bush wins a third term, I'll denounce mine.

So what do we do? Go shopping. We bought Chip some pants to wear to a wedding next week and those hot hiking boots. It's all part of the buy-while-you-have-an-income plan.

He's also been bidding on Downtube folding bikes on Ebay. They cost $459 new, so he's trying to snag one for $350 or so.

Me? I've been working on my election spreadsheet. More on that tomorrow.

TODAY:
--bought Chip's hiking boots!
--did some more house staging

GETTING NAKED

It is not possible to take an entire land wardrobe onto a small cruising boat. Okay, technically it's possible, but it's definitely not advisable. To reach cruising weight, I've got to pitch about 80% of my clothing. As I sorted through my closet yesterday, the "keep" pile loomed large and the "ditch" pile barely qualified as a pile. I was following an equation something like this:

I/Is + G = K

I = Inertia. Doing nothing is the greatest temptation of them all. Without a sailboat in my near future, I would allow every piece of questionable cloth to hunker down and stay. Even WITH a sailboat out there, I was having trouble. If there was any doubt about whether it should stay or go, staying automatically became the overriding factor.

Is = Insecurity. A fabulous outfit can mask any number of insecurities -- emotional and physical. In fact, a good wardrobe helps you cover all the bases, even that pitcher's mound on your backside. Stripping away all those masking options was leaving me feeling naked and insecure.

G = Guilt. The contents of one garbage bag represents at least 500 bucks, probably more. Trying to justify giving it away racked me with guilt.

And the K = Keep it. Yes, do the math and everything stays.

In order to bypass this mental math, I instituted a measuring cup and the Archimedes Principle. I allowed myself a large plastic bin that can hold any combination of outfits, shoes, accessories, bathing suits, etc. However, once it was full, that's where Archimedes stepped in. If something went in, it automatically displaced something else as if the contents were liquid. No mounding, no squishing.

The new equation: PB = SA or Plastic Bin equals Sailing Away.

Then when I looked at those five sweatshirts, it was easier to ditch three, because they're too bulky. That cute red sweater? Too impractical. Black wool blazer? Too formal. Gray wool pants? Too hot. Doc Martens? Too everything.

If I was feeling indecisive, I just looked at that plastic bin and the decision got a lot easier.

Three sweatshirts, the red sweater, the black wool blazer, they all went in white trash bags. Before I had a chance to second guess myself, I tossed them --five bags full -- in my car and headed for Goodwill.

Bag #1, filled with Inertia, straight down the chute. Bag #2, jammed with Insecurity, whoosh. Bag by bag, all gone. As each bag emptied, the white plastic, now lighter than air, fluttered in the wind and turned into wings.