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I have always loved the water.  The earliest home I can remember was in a small seaside community, a view of the water from my bedroom, the sound of the waves crashing on the shore lulling me to sleep as a child.  I have lived in many places since then, most of them very landlocked, none of them offering me the peace and serenity that I found near the sea. Life is a series of changes.  Some of them small, some major.  But it's usually the ones that we are most afraid of, the ones filled with fear and doubt that pay off most in the end. And so was the change I made 2 years ago.  Moving from life on land onto a boat. When I was looking to purchase my first home in 1994, I immediately thought to buy on the water. The prices were astronomical here on Long Island and "someday" became my only option.  I settled on a house a few miles from the water and lived there happily for several years. In the meantime, I satisfied my insatiable love of the ocean by traveling down to the Caribbean a few times a year.

. On The Waterfront

The decision to move onto a boat came over a period of about a year.  My plan originally was to work hard for the next 10 or so years, sock away as much money as possible, then chuck it all and move to St. Martin in the French West Indies (I have a lot of history there, which is a story for another day).  I figured I'd buy a house, rent it to tourists to help pay it off while I was here working and then move to a mortgage free house, live off my savings and work only at what I enjoyed.
 

. Home Sweet Home

Going over my plan became an obsession, working and reworking all the details. I looked at homes in different areas, checked out living costs, etc.,  trying to come up with the perfect  situation.   A few months later the Island was hit with yet another devastating hurricane, this one doing the worst damage in years.  Hotels and businesses were shut down, cruise ships  stopped coming for almost a year.  Friends down there were utterly devastated, their homes destroyed, their businesses irreparably damaged, and the insurance companies hit with such financial claims that they couldn't pay for it all. This scared the crap out of me.  What if I had a house there?  With a big mortgage?  If it were destroyed, how fast would the insurance companies pay an American absentee owner?   I'm sure they would take care of their own first.  And even if I was lucky enough that there was no damage, gone for a long time were the tourists who would rent the place.

So, I needed to once again revamp my escape plan.   A few months later I'm down in the islands again, Antigua I think, at the airport waiting for my flight.  I read like crazy and was almost done with the last of the books I had brought along, so I went into the shop looking for a new one.  This was a typical dinky airport, with a typical dinky shop, filled with T-shirts and other souvenir junk.  I couldn't find so much as a newspaper.  On my way out I spot a little pile of books in the corner.  Three copies of the same book, dusty and sad looking.  At this point I was willing to read the labels on my toiletries, so I grabbed one and headed onto the plane.  I opened it soon after take off.  It's called "Home Is Where The Boat Is" written by a woman some years earlier, telling the story of her 12 years of travels around the world with her boyfriend on a homemade catamaran.  The picture she painted was amazing.  She went into all areas, from the places they visited and the people they met to how to do laundry and catch rainwater at sea.   My brain was flying with ideas by the time we landed at JFK; I had 
made a million notes in the margins.

Enter Plan B, buy a boat and travel the islands, instead of staying in one place.  I could buy it and leave it there, spend vacations on the boat cruising until it was time for the final escape and then sail off into the sunset.  Before reading this book, I really wasn't aware that people traveled the world on small boats, thinking it was just something you did for a week's charter or for millionaires on a crewed yacht, bored and jaded, traveling the world in style.  I started researching, devouring every bit of information about boats available, the how-tos, reading stories on the Internet of people actually living this lifestyle. Then one day, like a thunk on my sometimes-thick head, I came up with the ultimate plan revision.

Why not rent the house I was living in, buy a boat and live on it here in New York, until I could manage to finally escape?  I began my search and after a few months, I bought a boat, found dock space and offered my house for rent to friends, 4 single guys who I had shared a summer beach house with. Up until this point I was filled with nothing but excitement. Dreams of a peaceful, simple life filled my head.
 

Enter fear.  One morning I woke up with a sobering thought.  What if I don't like it?  Like cockroaches, fearful thoughts don't live alone.  This one definitely had a large family.  How was I going to live in such a small space?  Would I feel claustrophobic living in an area just a little larger than a one-car garage? And what about my stuff??  The accumulation of 30 years, the things just days before I was so willing to get rid of suddenly became oh so more important to me.  Like a small child, I picked up item after item and carried it around the house, not willing to put it down, fearful that someone would take it away. This went on for weeks.  I bounced back and forth between complete excitement and terrorizing fear until I couldn't stand it anymore.  I forced a new mantra into my subconscious, repeating it over and over until it stuck. - "You can always move back". As I started to pack, a strange thing happened.  None of my things seemed that important.  I looked at each item being put into the box and easily made the distinction between necessary and dumpster material.  In the end, I moved aboard with about a third of what I owned.  A few things, such as family photos, were put in the attic at the house and after many weeks of garage sales, give-aways and trips to the curb, I was satisfied that I only kept what I really wanted. One thing you might consider is where to put those belongings that do not fit on the boat. There are a wide variety of storage units and solutions available to fit anyone’s needs. Many people who travel extensively often choose a self storage locker to hold large valuable possessions.

. This life is one I wouldn't trade for the world

I began my new life aboard towards the end of the summer.  The place I found is a small boatyard, about 40 slips, with a homey feel to it, unlike most of the fancier marinas.  The owner (affectionately referred to as "the water lord") lives on site and takes care of us like family.  There are 10 of us here in the yard living aboard year round, divided amongst 7 boats.  Our little community is wonderful.  Someone is always around to offer a hand when you need one.  There's always a little get together going on, gathering at a picnic table in the summer, on someone's deck in the winter.

In the several years I have lived here, I have never locked the door to the boat (as a matter of fact I don't know where the key is) To me this is an incredible thing.  In all the years on land, I couldn't go to sleep without checking the doors and windows and making sure the alarm was on. 

The summers are filled with activity. The yard fills with seasonal boaters, friends we see only for those glorious months. Spending the weekends on the bay, or a trip to Fire Island instantly washes away the residue of the week's stress. Starting the day off with a cup of coffee on the deck, feeding the ducks and swans that gather noisily at the waterline makes all the difference in dealing with the upcoming day at work.

By fall, the rest of the boats come out of the water, leaving us to the peace and quiet that the winter brings.  Those months have their own charm, a time of silence and serenity, cozy and warm in our cabins.  The most beautiful time to me is during a snowfall. The only thing breaking the stark whiteness, interrupting the quiet, are the ducks that have stayed on, huddled in little groups, chattering on in strange tones. 

Looking back, I am amazed how much this life aboard has changed me.  The boat has become my little cocoon, sheltering me from both the weather and the stress of New York life.  I have reduced my possessions again by half, discarding the things that no longer add value to my life.  My wardrobe contains only the things I actually wear. I no longer have a desire, or the space, for the latest gadget, another seldom-used appliance or dust collecting knickknacks.  Now you'll find displayed a small collection of items I've picked up in my travels, each one holding special meaning. Typical American consumerism is rapidly becoming a thing of the past for me.

My free time is spent differently too.  Quiet has become something I crave.  The TV no longer plays for background noise, the programs seem fake and dull compared to the nature that surrounds me.  Evenings are more likely spent reading or listening to music. The silence offers me time to think, time to plan, to learn and to dream. 

I have gained an incredible amount of self-sufficiency also. A boat requires a different type of upkeep than a house.  I've never heard of a house sinking from neglect, but a boat needs frequent checking for wear and tear.  Inevitably, things deteriorate faster in the salty environment, and with each new repair to tackle; I come out a little more accomplished from the experience.  I have learned how to repair hoses, change engine oil, install new pumps, rewire electrical systems and a host of other skills.

I have learned a great deal of patience, accepting that things will go wrong, that I'll be able to handle the challenges that come my  way and even being able to laugh at myself in the process.  These new found abilities have spread to every area of my life.

All in all, this life is one I wouldn't trade for the world. For the next few years, until it's time to cast off the lines for different ports, I look forward to each day at the dock. When that day finally comes, I know it will be a lot less frightening, having this experience to look back on.