Seven at Sea

by Erik Orton

  Boat of the Day

  Upper Manhattan, New York

  11 Months before Fezywig

  ERIK

  I continued to send Boat of the Day listings to Emily. In my downtime at work I browsed boats online, trying to figure out what all the listing details meant. I learned all kinds of new terms like bimini (which has no relation to bikini), windlass (which has more to do with raising anchors than Irish ladies), and bow thruster (which I thought sounded rather saucy). I’d do my research and email Emily a link to the listing with some commentary. Sometimes I commented about the boat itself, sometimes the location (I was looking all over the world), and sometimes the price and how I thought we could afford a particular boat.

  The next Boat of the Day we toured was built by a major manufacturer within the past ten years. It was much more expensive than the Santa boat. I wasn’t sure how we could afford it, but I didn’t let that stop us from looking. I knew if we stared at the problem long enough, we’d figure out a way. I believe a lot of good can come from staring at a problem for a long time.

  At work, I shared a big double desk with Mark. He always said, “Life is not a dress rehearsal.” He wasn’t talking about me or my Boat of the Day emails, but it encouraged me. If my life was a movie and I was the hero, the cameras were rolling. I had no time to waste. I started building spreadsheets, with everything from timelines to budgets to routes. I like to have all the details in front of me. Then I tweak my spreadsheets. Mark—without looking over at me—would ask, “What kind of bomb are you building?” I revised and refined and reviewed and revised and refined. I was homing in on what would work best for our family and our budget. But we still had a major decision to make: monohull or catamaran?

  Maybe that should say: monohull vs. catamaran. Monohulls are traditional sailboats, with a single hull. Catamarans have two hulls connected by a deck and originate largely from France, so naturally they’re suspect. If you are not a boater, I warn you: this is a serious debate, not to be taken lightly, just like the French. We engaged in the debate, and our house was divided. Emily wanted a monohull. She liked the centralized galley like we’d had in the Florida Keys and the BVI. From there she could keep an eye and ear on everyone at once. She was particularly nervous about safety for Lily.

  I argued that a catamaran would be more comfortable for living and was equally safe. It wouldn’t bob side to side while at anchor. Catamarans were faster, so we could outrun storms. They had a shallower draft, making more anchorages accessible. They had the redundancy of a second engine as a safety feature. It was nearly impossible to tip a catamaran. It would be a lot easier to sell when we were finished using it.

  “Before we make a final decision, let’s try out a catamaran,” I said.

  “You want to take the kids back to Florida?” Emily asked.

  “No, let’s go back to the BVI. We’ll invite some friends and share the cost,” I said.

  Miraculously, three other couples agreed to join us. Emily and I decided not to renew our membership at NYSS so we could funnel that money into the BVI trip. I returned to the BVI wearing my own broad-brimmed straw hat, just like our instructor, Matt. I was getting serious.

  It was nice to be somewhere familiar. Going somewhere new can be exhausting. It starts out invigorating but requires a lot of energy to take in so much newness. No wonder babies sleep so much. I had plenty of newness to worry about. This was my first time captaining a big boat in big water. I was pushing myself. Part of me wanted to take a nap.

  We motored out of the marina, got the sails up, and pounded our way across the Drake Channel, the main basin of water between the islands. On the other side was the wreck of the RMS Rhone. One of the couples wanted to dive on the wreck. By the time we got there and tied up to a mooring ball, I was dog sick. Almost all of us got seasick—even on a catamaran, much to my chagrin—but we tried to look happy and reminded ourselves we’d paid for this.

  That night we anchored in the flat cove of Peter Island. Most of us, including myself, dinghied to shore, lay on our backs on the beach, and discussed the causes of and cures for seasickness while letting our inner ears reestablish equilibrium. I was responsible for everyone having a good time, and we were off to a rocky start.

  By the third morning, we all felt much better. We were exploring the Dog Islands and deciding whether to visit Anegada. Morale was high. I felt good as a captain. Because Anegada is extremely flat, it sits below the horizon until you are almost on it. I’d never sailed toward something I couldn’t see, and I liked the idea of that challenge. But as with all things in life, choosing to go meant we wouldn’t have time to visit other places that also looked interesting. There is always a trade-off. We sailed in the direction of Anegada with the caveat that we might detour to Virgin Gorda Sound.

  It was a beautiful beam reach.1 The trade winds came in from the east and the boat moved smoothly north toward the horizon. With perfect weather and conditions, I invited everyone to take a turn at the helm. They were tentative at first, so I stood alongside while they got the feel of things. It didn’t take long before they were comfortable. I took a break and walked around the boat while each couple took a turn steering. There was something satisfying about giving up control.

  Gradually little spikes appeared on the horizon. Those quickly turned into palm trees, and eventually we could see the island itself. There was almost nothing to do on Anegada except get a lobster dinner and take a cab to the beaches on the far end of the island. We’d had a nice sail but decided we’d rather spend our time in Gorda Sound. I’d done what I wanted to do. I’d sailed toward something unseen and watched it come into view. I knew I could sail us into port. I was satisfied. We turned the boat east.

  People tell you all kinds of things. They tell you what’s out in the world. They tell you how things are. Yet, you never know for yourself unless you venture out. I believed Matt when he told me Anegada was there. I even had a map that showed it. But heading out there on my own, pushing across the curve of the earth enough to see something that was previously out of reach, was important to me. If I could do that, what else could I do? What else could I discover? Something was starting to emerge for me. I was learning to trust myself more.

  We flew home and picked up our five patient children from my parents, who had graciously cared for them.

  “So . . . catamaran or a monohull?” Karina asked.

  “I really liked the catamaran,” I said.

  “I still prefer a monohull, but maybe after you kids move out,” Emily said. “You’ll like the trampoline on a cat.”

  “There’s a trampoline?” Jane beamed. She and Eli looked at each other with oval mouths.

  “Not that kind of trampoline,” I tried to clarify.

  “And there is less heeling2 on a cat,” Emily tried to finish, but Jane, Eli, and Lily were jumping up and down as though they were already on a trampoline.

  When we got back to New York City, Emily and I taped a picture of a catamaran to the inside of our bedroom door. We set our sights on something over the horizon.

  A couple months later a friend of Emily’s family called. He was looking for crew to help sail a big monohull from the Chesapeake Bay to Maine. They wanted to know if I’d be interested. I had already been to the Keys in January and the BVI in March. Now I wanted to take a week in August to sail to Maine. My workmates were getting jealous, and my supervisors were getting suspicious.

  “I’m not sure I should take time off right now,” I said to Emily. “We’re trying to save money for our own family trip.”

  “True, but this could be a chance to get some experience sailing overnight,” she said. “Neither of us has ever done that before.” She was talking me into this. It would be a chance to sail overnight, offshore, and for multiple days at a stretch. She continued, “At least one of us should have experience with that, because we’re going to have to do it when we go as a fami
ly.”

  “I would rather try it out on someone else’s boat first,” I said. I decided to take one for the team. Of course I wanted to go, but it would be a week on a new boat, in new circumstances, with new people. I’d need a nap.

  Jim owned the boat with his son-in-law, Tom. They assembled their crew by midday. We motored out of the harbor and turned north up the bay. The sun set as we settled into a watch schedule. Night watches were important—I learned—because despite being in open water, lots could go wrong. Responsibilities include tracking other ships, keeping an eye on the weather, and monitoring the navigation. Safety is strict. The worst time to fall overboard is in the dark. Life jackets and jacklines are imperative.3 Usually night watches were mellow, but when they went bad, you had to be on point. We would teach this to our kids later, but for now I was on with Jim for a couple hours and we had a chance to talk.

  “Night sailing is the best,” Jim said in his gentle South Carolina accent. “It’s a perfect time to think.” We talked about sailing and family and money and the world. Then I stepped in a turd.

  “We’re shopping around for a catamaran,” I said.

  Jim was nice about it, but he explained all the reasons catamarans were a bad idea and went on to extol the virtues of the best kind of boat money can buy: monohulls. I should have known better. We were in not just a monohull, but a sixty-five-foot monohull. We moved on to other topics and agreed to remain friends.

  Three days later we pulled into Rockland Harbor, Maine. I’d sailed farther offshore than ever before in my life. I’d stood watch each night. We’d navigated two canals, thick fog, and a thousand lobster pots as we closed in on the Maine coast. I’d made some terrific friends. I was grateful for everything about the trip.

  My work supervisors had good reason to be suspicious.

  EMILY

  6 Months before Fezywig

  “Let’s talk about money,” Jane imitated Erik’s bass voice at the breakfast table. Everyone smiled. Erik was in problem-solving mode. We had everything we needed to live on a boat—except a boat. We wanted a catamaran. We couldn’t afford a catamaran. Money was the solution, but how to get the money was a puzzle. Erik approached it by separating all of the pieces and putting them in order.

  “I know this is going to sound counterintuitive,” he said. “Just hear me out.” He’s really good at preparing me to hear his big ideas. I knew he’d been staring at this problem for weeks. I overrode my automatic defenses and listened.

  “I think we should buy a newer catamaran,” he said.

  “That’s going to be a lot more expensive,” I said. “How could we afford that?”

  “Here is my reasoning,” he said. I reminded myself we were only talking. “If we buy a more expensive, relatively current production-line catamaran, we could finance it, which would free up cash for our living expenses,” he said.

  “We can’t get a loan on an older, cheaper boat, so we have to buy a more expensive boat so we can get a loan?” I tried to follow. The kids cleared the table as an excuse to exit this boring topic.

  “Right. Banks only finance a boat if they can predict the resale value. So a newer, standard model makes more sense.” He continued, “It would also improve our chances of selling the boat when we’re done. The next buyer would also be able to get a loan. That’s not going to happen if we’re looking at boats made more than ten or fifteen years ago.”

  “Okay. That is weird, but it makes sense,” I said.

  “And . . .” he paused and smiled, “a newer model won’t need as much maintenance, which will be safer for our family given our inexperience in boat maintenance.” I agreed with his plan. The puzzle was coming together. We focused our search on ten-year-old catamarans and kept thinking about how to pay for one.

  Financing a boat requires twenty percent down, about the same as buying a home. This would be the first home we’d ever purchased. Erik sent listings of the most reasonably priced catamarans he could find, and the down payments were still beyond our reach. There was a price tag between us and our dream, so we got creative.

  “What if we split the cost between four families? We could each sail for one year and then sell the boat,” Erik said. That didn’t work out.

  “What if we posted a swap on the Women Who Sail Facebook page?” I suggested. “We could trade one year in our New York City apartment for one year on someone’s boat.” We got some nibbles, but no bites.

  “Maybe we could get a sponsorship from one of those outdoor companies,” I said. “Like, be an ambassador for Patagonia.” Erik loves our family, but he didn’t think we were that adventurous or going anywhere that dangerous.

  “What if we borrowed money from my parents?” Erik asked. He thought it was brilliant. I had reservations. We had both read The Richest Man in Babylon, which advises never loaning money—especially to relatives—unless there is a clear and likely plan for repayment. Of course, Erik had a clear and likely plan. He really did. In an earlier pinch, we had borrowed and returned with interest two thousand dollars from his parents, and it had been fine. Even so, we can be emotional about money.

  “It changes the dynamic in our relationship,” I said. “Right now we are independent. As soon as we borrow money, we become accountable to them. I don’t mind being accountable to a bank, but in a family it can be complex.”

  “I don’t think it has to be complex. We’ve done it before, and they’ve always earned a better rate from us than from the bank,” Erik said.

  “We haven’t done anything at this scale,” I said. “It puts both of us in a potentially uncomfortable situation. They would have a right to our financial records. They would be able to ask about ordinary unrelated purchases we make. When you borrow from family, it’s all related. For them, they might want to say yes and feel bad if they need to say no. Suddenly they become an obstacle. Or they might want to say no, and how are we going to feel about that?”

  “I know my parents,” Erik said. “I’ll let them know yes or no, it doesn’t make a difference to us. It never hurts to ask.” A classic Erik line. I yielded. He presented the plan to his parents.

  At one point we had thought sailing was for rich people. Sailing for a year was almost unfathomable. If you sold a business, retired, won the lottery, or inherited your rich uncle’s fortune, then you could go sailing. Average earners didn’t do that sort of thing. Now we knew better. We were far from money-rich, at least by first-world standards. By any other standard, we were prosperous because we had a happy marriage, a happy family, good friends, strong faith, a roof over our heads, clean water, food in our cupboards, and we were literate. For us it was important to remember those luxuries.

  Erik approached his parents with a spreadsheet. If they would lend us ten percent of the cost of the boat, we would cover everything else. We would make interest-only payments for the first eighteen months and then make payments at six-percent interest thereafter. By month thirty-six, we would make a balloon payment to pay off the balance and be done with the loan. Erik explained our rationale for buying a newer boat with a plan to resell it or keep it and simply pay off the loan upon our return. They agreed to the terms.

  Erik found a boat: a Lagoon 380 for sale in the BVI. They were asking $180K. We made a low-ball offer of $100K. Earnest money for boats is ten percent, so it was still a chunk of change. It’s tough to describe the feeling of wiring ten grand to an offshore island for a boat you’ve never actually seen before. You kind of hope you either get the boat or get your money back. We’d been suckered early in our marriage. The bad guy went to jail, but we were both tense about this deal. In this case, the offer was rejected and we got our money back. Honestly, we were relieved. We had made our first offer on a boat. The next time should be easier. Risk-taking requires emotional stamina.

  There were more Boat of the Day emails. Our kids were bored of the conversation. Their general feeling was do something
or don’t, but stop talking about it. Unfortunately for them, in our marriage almost nothing happens without lots and lots of talking. At one point Erik looked into canal houseboats in Amsterdam. I’m not sure if that was desperation or distraction. Then he found Longhi in Saint Martin. I wasn’t sure where Saint Martin was. I thought Longhi was a lame name for a boat, but that was the easiest thing to change. Erik contacted the broker. It was for sale through the Sunsail charter fleet.

  People who live aboard boats call themselves cruisers, and a lot of cruisers said charter boats were a bad buy. Inexperienced users have hammered them, they’ve suffered from hasty maintenance—whatever it takes to get the boat back on the water for the next customer—and they had no soul. This one was priced to sell, so Erik forwarded me an article by Zero to Cruising, a blog by cruisers who had been sailing the world for years. They argued that charter boats were sailed only in good weather, and were lightly used at that. The base quickly resolved any issues, so the boats were generally in good shape. It made sense to both of us. As for soul, our family had more than enough personality to make up for a boat’s pedigree.

  Erik emailed Pat on Bumfuzzle for a second opinion. Pat wrote back from Mexico: “Great choice. Ali and I loved our boat, despite its issues, but always said if we had to get another cat it would be the Lagoon 380. Perfect size, and a respectable company.” That cinched the deal for Erik. We discussed it at length, prayed about it, and slept on it.

  “Hey, will you join me in here while I email this offer?” Erik called from our bedroom office. I sat next to him at his desk as he clicked send. This time our offer was accepted.

  ERIK

  3 Months before Fezywig

  Oh, great. Now we had to buy this boat. Of course Emily and I had an out if we didn’t like the survey results. But that would be us looking for an excuse. One by one, our fear-based excuses to not do this were falling away. I found that disconcerting.