Kelly & Scott Foss
"Living aboard is a crummy lifestyle." Her remark was punctuated by 35 knot gusts from the breeze du jour and by the freezing rain that pelted our faces as we stood at the head of the ramp. Just another Southeaster. From our vantage point, we could watch our floating homes bobbing and heeling, threatening to lock masts, and bumping against their flattened fenders.
I had to laugh. In none of my previous exchanges with fellow livaboards had I ever heard anybody express the negative side of the lifestyle quite as honestly or succinctly. Most of us would admit to a few minor flaws and aggravations, but some strange mixture of pride and stubborness prohibited us from confessing, even to ourselves, that life aboard was less than idyllic. It was like someone saying the emperor wore no clothes.
It's pretty easy to figure out why some of us try it. Inspired by the exotic maritime writings of famous world cruising folks, we tend to forget that even those intrepid sailors lived ashore between voyages. Fueled by our desires to drop out of the world of mortgages, commutes, nine-to-five jobs, and lawn mowers, we set ourselves up for The Dream. We sell our homes, pile our belongings into storage units, say goodbye to the laundry equipment in the basement, and home deliveries of mail and pizza. It's a lot easier now than it was when my husband, Scott, and I made our debut in the world of liveaboards. Living without a home address is simpler, and cell phones and the internet have made communication a lot easier. Through all the preparations, we dream of that future bright morning when we cast off our mooring lines and point our bows towards that life of freedom and fun and adventure that lies just beyond the horizon.
Summertime afloat is a joy here in the Pacific Northwest. The livin' truly is easy. The socially minded can harbor hop among the San Juans and the Gulf Islands, shop, see the sights, dine out and all that. They can squeeze into beautiful, if overcrowded anchorages and share the wonderful marine parks with dozens of other happy campers. It's a great way to spend the summer. Others, like us, sail northward to sample the delights of British Columbia, and move on to Southeast Alaska and beyond. Uncrowded anchorages, fascinating wildlife, spectacular scenery, an occasional encounter with fellow cruisers... ahhh, this is living aboard at its finest. A comfortable boat, fine weather, plenty of leisure time. Those late afternoons in the sunny cockpit, the boat gently swinging on her anchor after a pleasant sail, a fresh-caught salmon awaiting its turn on the grill. Those long, long summer days, filled with beauty, excitement and variety. Since we live aboard year round, we can stay anywhere we like and leave whenever the spirit moves us. We once spent two weeks dockside in Auke Bay, near Juneau, where we encountered so many sailing friends from years past and made enough new ones that we kept putting off our departure.
The rainy days have their own beauty - fortunately, since there are plenty of them. After six or nine hours of sitting in the cockpit in clammy rain gear, senses deadened by the throb of the engine, one eye on the radar and the other on the autopilot, it feels soooo good to drop the hook and dive below for some hot soup and an evenig with a good book, listening to the rain pattering on the cabin. In port, it's a good time to round up some other boaters and swap horror stories.
However... all summers are finite in these latitudes, and all too soon the time comes to head for home port and settle into the winter liveaboard mode. This is the time of year when the more sensible sailors migrate south to Baja and points beyond, to extend their summer indefinitely. We discussed this option for some years, listened to lots of sensible advice, and always chickened out. I have this mental picture of standing interminable lone watches throughout six week passages, complete with gales and storms, failing equipment, loss of sleep, and all sorts of discomfort, real and imagined. We eventually make landfall on some fabled tropic isle. We inflate the dinghy and paddle ashore. We explore the pristine beach for a mile or two admire the swaying palms, collect a coconut or two, maybe a seashell, then lie on the sand and enjoy (endure?) the hot sunshine. Well, that took about half an hour. What do we do next? If this is a quiz, you've probably guessed it. We start scrubbing mildew, killing insects, and varnishing teak, I expect. Don't get me wrong; that lifestyle is wonderful for lots and lots of folks, and my tongue-in-cheek description just points out my own lack of imagination. But it isn't for us. I lived aboard a very small sailboat in Italy for nearly a year, and spent two years on a Caribbean island, and I've sort of been there done that. Scott and I just happen to be upper north temperate zone people. I for one am quite lazy enough in our cooler climate, and my energy level plummets in inverse relationship to the temperature and humidity.
So how do those of us who stayed on fare in the Northwest? It depends a great deal upon attitude and expectations, perhaps one's age, and the winter weather of any given year. We spent a winter in Desolation Sound, British Columbia, some years ago, and I remember it as a happy adventure, with all sorts of unexpected pleasures and rewards. A few years older and a bit more blase', we found the winter of '90 and '91 in Anacortes, Washington, very different. It was so bad that it completely scotched our plans for moving about Puget Sound and spending weeks in different ports. Our boat was emprisoned in her slip with all the mooring lines and fenders we could muster for months. The water was turned off because of the freezing conditions, and we had to haul it in jerry cans down icy docks. Another feature that took a lot of style out of the lifestyle was the problem of sewage when high winds prevented moving one's boat to the pumpout station. That translates into many, many long slippery hikes to shoreside facilities through rain, sleet, snow and wind. "Crummy lifestyle" indeed. Six months or more spent crammed into a small dark hole in the water, however elegant the hole, can induce a severe case of cabin fever in otherwise stalwart souls.
So what kind of people are these who elect to live afloat? Kind people, mostly. Nice people, even. Married and single, couples with infants and small children, retirees in their seventies and eighties, rich and not-at-all rich, yuppies, aging hippies, baby boomers, artists and writers, drinkers and teetotalers. Most of those we've met, however, fall into the category of those who have paid the requisite dues and waited until they had the leisure time that messing about in boats demands. Many have cruised the oceans of the world, and they have wondrous and scary tales to tell. Just as many have never left their home cruising grounds and still have wondrous and scary tales to tell. Whatever their background, they seldom fit the common stereotype of the yachtie. Liveaboards are a slightly different breed.
Floating homes are as varied as their owners. Some can live the good life quite comfortably aboard a 28' or 30' boat, but sizes range up into the 50's, both power and sail, though there do seem to be more sailboats. Their styles range from state-of-the-art yachts with shining brass and every conceivable electronic toy to a motley collection of oil drums, logs, and canvas held together with baling wire and chewing gum. (Yes, it floats, even sails! We've watched it.) Aboard that small sloop in Italy years ago, I was the only person who had standing headroom down below. Jammed into 32' LOA with a 6' beam was a tiny galley sink, a two burner camp stove, two bunks with seagrass mattresses, a quarter berth, and a small hanging locker. No refrigeration, not even an icebox. The toilet was just forward of the mast, wedged between the two bunks. Well, I was a lot younger then.
The question most often asked of live-aboards is, "How do you spend your time?" Everybody has an individual answer. Readers read, mothers mother, fishermen fish, birdwatchers watch birds... you get the picture. Trading books and magazines, fishing tips and lies is a social ritual enjoyed by most. A single hander friend enjoys spending his mornings in a favorite cafe' with coffee, muffins, and a newspaper. A writer finds a warm haven in the public library of almost any port town. One skipper has embellished his cabin interior with beautiful hand carved locker doors and panels, while his wife has knitted a collection of quality sweaters. A young couple we met in a remote anchorage in the Queen Charlottes spends rainy days baking cookies. I have filled a number of sketchbooks with watercolors that no one will likely ever see, but the doing gave me a great deal of pleasure. We women can always amuse ourselves in the galley, for people never tire of eating. Anybody who has spent six hours on any boat, whatever its size, knows that anything one does takes twice as long as it would in a house, or even an RV. Stowing groceries can take half a day; and locating and retrieving the ingredients and utensils for a simple casserole becomes an excercise in memory retention, patience, and gymnastics. Of course there are standard maintenance chores that provide both sexes with a sense of fulfillment. Of course you don't have to live aboard to enjoy such sensuous pleasures as sandpaper and wet varnish, metal polish, engine oil and fiberglass cleaner. You may no longer have to mow the grass, but there's plenty of it clinging to the waterline, waiting to be patiently scrubbed off. No car to wash? Scrape the mud and fish scales and seagull droppings off your deck and cabin. Swabbing out the bilges and engine sump is just as satisfying as cleaning out the fridge or oven at home. The major differences between boatkeeping and housekeeping seem to be that on a boat, equipment is more inaccessible and more expensive.
So, given all of the above, the question reappears: Why does anyone choose to live aboard in the Pacific Northwest? We have to find our own answer to that one. Many have indeed given it up after a time and moved back to land; but the diehards persevere, each for their own reasons. After our last stint of a year and a half aboard, we too capitulated and returned to terra firma. You should have seen the waterline rise as we hauled away load after load of stuff. It took much airing and laundering to divest clothes, bedding, even books of that boaty aroma, redolent of diesel fumes, mildew and mustiness. We enjoy our landlocked home with its view of the waters we sailed for so many years. The puzzlement is that no sooner had we given up our beloved ketch than we started missing her and the life she afforded us. We miss our beautiful boat, we miss our boat friends the ambience of life in the marina, the casual get-togethers. We miss the screech of herons in the night and the merganses paddling by in the daytime, and the call of a loon in a lonely anchorage. And we miss being able to cast off and GO whenever we want to (weather permitting.) A lot of people find an agreeable moorage and settle in for months, even years; but for others like us, that style misses both the freedom and variety of cruising and the comfort of a permanent home. When a boat is used as it was designed to be used, living aboard is a wonderful and stimulating way of life.
Does anybody out there want to rent a house?
