by Erik Orton
Well, they wanted my attention when they were around. Being near so many friends still felt like a special event. The kids from all three boats spent as many hours together as possible, so Sarah Jane was surprised when she hailed Discovery and Kate said, “Our mom says we can’t play. We’re having Discovery day: no friends and no electronics.” Michelle was a pro. She had cycled through traveling friendships before. She realized that if this friendship was going to carry on-–and who knew when our engine would be fixed—she needed to set some boundaries. I appreciated her example. Jaci sat on the bow of Discovery and SJ sat on the stern of Fezywig, looking at each other across the water, wishing they could play together.
Family relationships are like doing yoga on a boat, trying to stay balanced while the floor is constantly shifting beneath your feet. This may come as a surprise, but as a newlywed, Erik—Mr. “Our family of seven on a boat is enough universe for me”—was reluctant to even discuss having children. He assumed it would require sitting at home every night staring at the baby. He didn’t want to be tethered to a tiny theoretical tyrant.
“We are the nucleus,” I said. “Any children we invite into our family will be the protons and electrons. We are the center, and they’ll join us. If we want to do something, they can come with us.” That must have resonated with Erik, because before long we had a handful of children and he was sharing his parenting philosophies with me. I had subscribed to the idea that parents sacrifice to give their children a better life. Erik had other ideas about what we as parents could give our children.
“Marriage and parenthood include plenty of sacrifice,” he said. “But the best thing I can give my kids is for me to live the fullest, richest, most productive, generous life I know how, and bring them along for the ride. My job is not to tell them how to live. My job is to show them.” Together we were cultivating a lifestyle of family-centered experiences.
Erik and I were figuring out how to claim our space as a couple, too. We tried sitting in the dinghy and letting the line out so far the kids couldn’t hear our conversation, but Lily stood on deck crying the whole time. The relationship equation was always changing. Our first month in Saint Martin had been all urgency and high-stakes decisions. We were together constantly, but under a lot of pressure. As those pressures eased, we divided the various life responsibilities between us. That lightened the load but kept us apart much of the day. If we were together, there were usually children around so no real privacy. And we’d added all these great friends. This was too important to put on autopilot; only manual steering would do. We tinkered with the balance of work, play, time together, and time apart. We shifted between kids, friends, and each other. We tried to balance commonalities and divergent interests. For now, Erik and I followed Lisa and Peter’s example and started taking evening walks along the beachfronts at the Flamboyant Hotel, taking turns talking and listening.
On our boat my older kids did most of the cooking, but I was still the buyer. I joined Michelle and Lisa for grocery runs. Discovery inherited a local mid-size car from a Swedish family that had sailed back to Sweden. The trunk was permanently locked. While we drove we made up stories about what might be in there. We never found out. We did figure out how to fit a two-week supply of groceries for three families—eighteen people—inside that beater.
Between them, Michelle and Lisa had nearly two years of local shopping experience. They initiated me into their routine of hitting three or four different grocery stores and taught me what to look for at each spot. They’d go in with three separate carts and stay together through the produce aisle, comparing deals.
“This is a decent price on strawberries, but they might be cheaper at Simples,” Lisa might say. Some of the money we saved on produce we spent on chocolate. We ate our chocolate and talked as we rode with giant packages of toilet paper or heavy bags of rice on our laps, my cruiser version of a Girls’ Night Out.
Our new neighbors helped us with food and water. I used to wonder what cruisers did all day. Now, I knew. A lot of time was spent buying groceries and ferrying them to the boat. Lots of time was spent making three meals a day from scratch. Our boat didn’t have a microwave or refrigerator, though most did. And twice a week we spent a few hours getting water.
ERIK
I’d always taken water for granted. Turn on the faucet and there it was. Not so on a boat. On the boat I would say it became a preoccupation. My kids would say it became an obsession. Let me explain.
To be at anchor meant we had 160 gallons of water available at a time. The average shower in America uses seventeen gallons for a single shower. There were seven of us. Those 160 gallons had to be used for drinking, cooking, cleaning, and bathing. Thank goodness the toilets used seawater. Unless we were mindful, we’d go through our water in a day. If we were mindful, we found we could stretch it to three days. I helped the kids become mindful.
After one of Nick’s recurring engine visits, he asked if he could wash his hands. “Sure,” I said. He then stepped into the kitchen, turned on the water, and proceeded to let the water flow unabated while he washed and talked, talked and washed. The kids stood around silently shifting their eyes from the faucet to my face and back. What was Dad gonna do? What was Dad gonna say? If it had been one of them, it would have been, “Have you freaking lost your mind?! You don’t need a gallon of water to wash your hands!” But this wasn’t the kids. I let Nick finish, thanked him, and bid him farewell. Next time he could wash up at his shop.
Each water day we pulled anchor, motored to a dock, sometimes ran aground in the mud on our way, tied on the bumpers, tied up to the dock, put a hose into our tanks, filled up, untied from the dock, put the bumpers away, motored back to our spot, and re-anchored. I know moving a boat every three days may not seem like a big deal, but with one engine, it was a pain.
Discovery and Day Dreamer helped us establish a simpler routine. When Discovery was on the dock, John and Michelle let us raft up to buy water from their dock. At anchor, they used a water maker.2 I wished we had a water maker, but that would be a $7,000 project that included drilling holes in our hull. Emily and I weren’t ready to commit. Day Dreamer didn’t like to pull anchor either. They had perfected their water collection system so they could gather rainwater off their large, hardtop bimini—which we didn’t have and couldn’t get—and also had large containers they used to ferry water from a dock to their boat.
They lent us their containers: several jerry cans and a large two-foot-by-five-foot flexible bladder. Originally Discovery let us use their dock water. When Discovery anchored near us we found another source, but in either case, every three days we would spend five hours moving 160 gallons of water from a dock to our tanks using Day Dreamer’s containers.
So when my kids saw the profligate Nick blithely letting water run down the drain, they read my mind and knew I was doing the math. He was wasting my time.
On the flip side, after a particularly soaking rain, Emily collected one cupful of pure water in a metal bowl set under the drippy edge of our cockpit table. Each of us got a sip. It was delicious. Karina and Alison were discussing elaborate plans for catching more when the Day Dreamer girls pulled up in their dinghy and surprised us with four full jerry cans of rainwater. It wasn’t quite chopping wood and smoking meat for the winter, but boat life was taking on a Little House on the Prairie feeling. Little Boat on the Lagoon, shall we say?
EMILY
Each boat added something to the community that made life better for all of us. Fezywig could bake, make music, and fold origami, but we needed help when it came to electrical wiring. Erik had learned to solder for the Wi-Fi booster, but now he was installing a battery monitor—a digital readout that would show how full our batteries were. We’d accidentally drained them and been in the dark a couple of times. It was a lot more complicated than setting up the Wi-Fi booster, so John, who had built robots, came to guide Erik’s efforts.
Erik
cut the hole on the navigation desk for the digital readout. They mapped out the wiring together and John left Erik to run the cables between the nav desk and the battery bank under Karina and SJ’s bed. He would come back once Erik had everything ready to wire. Erik pulled up all the cushions and boards to access the space underneath.
I got out of the way with Eli and Lily. Lisa and I talked homeschooling on Day Dreamer while the kids played on the swing. When Karina hailed my VHF to coordinate a dinghy ride home to make lunch, I returned to a full report of Erik’s project.
“John took like half-a-dozen electrical shocks for us today,” Erik said. John was packing up his toolbox.
“That’s a true friend,” I said.
“Twelve volts is no big deal,” John said. “It’s the 110/220V that hurt.”
After John left, Erik kept talking, using all the science terms John had just reviewed earlier that afternoon: ohms, amps, resistance. I had learned those words in high school physics. But what I heard was, I love you guys and I’ve been stressing out about how to keep you safe. It’s lonely, but now this other dad has showed up. Just having someone who feels the same pressure helps, and he also has really good ideas. Now, I feel better. Erik spelled out the next steps for the project.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“It sounds great, love,” I said. “Let’s do that.”
Our rhythm accelerated. Every couple of weeks we gathered for Taco Night on one of the bigger boats. Discovery was forty-five feet and Day Dreamer was forty-seven feet On Discovery all twelve kids watched movies, danced, and drank water with ice. On Day Dreamer they took turns swinging or playing with Pippin. In either place, Lily roamed from group to group with a full plate and the parents told stories.
Sailors have always told stories. Epic storms. Strange customs. Dodgy bureaucracies. Drunken sailors. We got to know each other and we got glimpses of dozens of lives all over the world. Peter regaled us with tales of Grenada, an island about 300 miles south down the Caribbean chain. If Sint Maarten was the repair shop for cruisers, Grenada was the amusement park. Peter said every day the net buzzed with information about game nights, tours inland, grocery shopping trips, beach volleyball, and yoga. Peter told us about a drink stand where he bought exotic syrups for his famous smoothies.
“You’d love it there!” Peter said. Then, leaning back, he asked, “Would you consider heading south?” John, Michelle, and Lisa sat silent for a moment, like they were waiting to hear our answer. I had never considered heading south. But Erik and I had also never considered staying in Saint Martin for three months, yet here we were. We felt less rushed or rigid than ever. It was becoming obvious there are many templates for a happy life, not just the ones we imagined. I was more open to the beauty, adventure, and challenges of each day. I was flexible.
“Maybe. We’ll have to think about it,” Erik said, looking at me. The others leaned back, seemingly happy it was on the table. “One thing I definitely want to do is play Lagoonies’ open mic night this week. Anyone interested?” Discovery was up for it.
And John had an invite of his own: “What would you guys say to a day sail out to Philipsburg Bay for Carnival? Traffic will be bad, but we could motor over on Discovery and walk in.”
“I think that sounds fun,” Michelle said. One of the Bigs overheard our conversation, and soon all of the kids were in the cockpit begging to go to Lagoonies and Carnival.
That weekend Discovery joined us at Lagoonies and kept our plates full of nacho chips until our set. Eli sat right next to the platter. They clapped for us while we played a few songs. We didn’t know it was a competition, but the crowd cheered us to victory—first place out of two. We won an old-fashioned orange life preserver ring. Lily worked the crowd and kept checking in at the bar to grab mints from the candy dish. When the nachos ran out we took the kids home for a late bedtime.
“Aw, man!” SJ said, “It’s just getting good.” The retiree crowd at the bar put shiny fish hats over their bald or graying heads and were dancing around like teenagers.
A few days later was Carnival. John was right about traffic. The streets were in absolute gridlock. I was thankful to arrive by boat. There were semi-trucks full of blaring speakers preceding flocks of women famously clad in high heels and thousands of colorful feathers. I don’t know how they managed. I was dying in sandals. It was so hot. Erik made a rope harness for Lily so I wouldn’t lose her in the crowd. She tended to wander off. Even Lily was ready to escape, so we all left to get gelato.
I collapsed into shaded seating under thick striped umbrellas. I was too tired to make decisions, even about ice cream flavors. I asked the Bigs from each boat to sort out the orders.
“So,” John said, stirring his vanilla shake, “Once your port engine is sorted out, are you heading south to Grenada or north to the BVI?” Was he reading our minds? Had he planted some tech hacker device on our boat under the guise of helping Erik install our battery monitor? No. We’d been thinking about it ever since Peter had asked at Taco Night. It was an obvious question. We used to have an obvious answer. We used to have a plan.
Our financial hourglass was emptying. Every month on Fezywig moved us closer to $0. Erik thought he might find a way to make money remotely. Discovery and Day Dreamer both had mobile jobs, but we hadn’t cracked that code.
Yet we were attached to these cruisers. We wanted to stay with them. I don’t think we realized maybe they wanted to stay with us, too. Maybe they were hanging around because they were waiting for our answer. Day Dreamer was definitely going to Grenada, but would love to go together. Discovery was planning on Grenada, but would consider heading north to the BVI if that’s where we were going. When you’re not alone in the world, people care about what you choose. We felt the pressure to make a decision.
“We’re not sure,” Erik said. “My parents are coming to visit next week for Alison’s birthday, so we won’t go anywhere until they leave.”
“They’re not coming until next week?” John asked. “What if all three of us get out of the lagoon and go to Anguilla for the weekend? You’ll be back before your parents get here.”
* * *
1.These awesome folks blog at thenonconformist.com, a wealth of information, experiences, and long-pondered thoughts about the live-aboard lifestyle.
2.Water maker: if you want to get technical, it’s a reverse osmosis contraption. A series of pumps pull in seawater, push it through increasingly refined filters at massively high levels of pressure, and output clean water.
Chapter 8
Everything but the Engine
Simpson Bay Lagoon, French Side, Saint Martin
82 Days aboard Fezywig
ERIK
Fezywig hadn’t pulled anchor in over a month. Anguilla, a British territory, sat a few miles north of us. It was visible from Saint Martin, but it wouldn’t be a day sail. It would mean leaving the lagoon for a few days. All three crews, the other two captains, and Emily were thrilled with the idea, but I needed some convincing. I was most worried about getting through the bridges on one engine. Catamarans are not meant to be maneuvered in tight spaces with one engine. They’re designed to be symmetrical. John did a good job winning me over. “You only really need your engine for the drawbridge and anchoring. We’ll sail the rest of the way. If anything happens, we’ll be there.” Knowing I’d have backup made the difference.
All three boats pulled anchor and queued up for the drawbridge. Having one engine is a problem only if you lose your momentum. With enough momentum it’s possible to keep the boat straight regardless. Michelle drove their dinghy in the canal, ready to help in case we had any problems. We did. There was a long queue at the bridge, so we came to a dead stop. The water shallowed quickly around us. As we sat still in line, we started to drift toward the shallow mud. Michelle motored around and nudged our bow to keep us in the channel. Once it was our turn
to proceed, she gave our bow a solid shove as we got up to speed. Then she zipped back to Discovery, tied off their dinghy, and climbed aboard. All three boats were on our way.
It was a gorgeous day and a beautiful sail. It was like the day sails we used to do in Long Island, but on a much bigger boat and with a stereo system. Everything was on full blast: the sun, the wind, and the music. This was definitely feeling like a good idea. We arrived in Anguilla in time for lunch and anchored near each other.
That afternoon, we took Lily ashore to stretch her legs. She was immediately attracted to live music playing at a cafe. When she realized the cafe was full of people, she wanted to stay. Emily and I spotted John and Michelle and sat with them. Within five minutes Lily started walking from table to table saying hello to perfect strangers. She snuck a sip of wine before any of us could stop her. We spent the rest of the time trying to prevent her from charming and beguiling well-meaning tourists with her cuteness. Lily is slow in some ways, but in others she is wicked fast.
The next day, we established a protocol we would come to follow for visiting a new island. Once the boat and the kids were settled post-journey, the adults would dinghy to shore to clear-in at the customs office. Then we would scout the town. We would circle around—on foot, in our dinghy, or in a rented vehicle—to see what was available. We looked for amenities: groceries, water, fuel. We kept an eye out for items of local interest. Peter and Lisa always packed spoons in their shore bag in case ice cream was a possibility. We thought this showed wise foresight and came to adopt this practice. Once we had a general idea of the territory, we’d return to our boat, discuss with the kids, and make plans.
