Our Cruising Stories

We invite you to read our cruising stories here, ordered newest to oldest.

Latest Story

Overcoming Obstacles (By Ronna)

April, 2026

One month ago, Mike could not get out of our bed in Brookline following a scheduled, but very miserable surgery. He is ok, and I promised not to get into the gritty details here, but he was pretty much completely debilitated for two weeks. I was the caretaker extraordinaire (if I say so myself), though I might have vented (by which I mean complained) a bit too much to friends and family. Just weeks ago, Mike and I were under the covers (it was cold in Boston!) watching what seemed like 400 episodes of Seal Team. While I knit, he moaned. He stayed in a semi drugged-out state while he very, very, very, slowly recovered.

We delayed our departure back to Antigua for a week to give Mike additional recovery time, which I can promise he would not have taken unless it was completely necessary. On the other hand, I happily accepted the delay, as it gave me more time with my grandson.

On April 11, Mike and I were finally able to fly back to Antigua, with four fifty-something pound bags in tow. Our bags were filled with boat parts (shhhhhhh), winter clothing, coffee, sunscreen, Fiber One, granola, protein bars, our favorite shampoos and conditioners, contact lens solution, a new handheld VHF, two repaired stereo speakers, Basil Hayden Bourbon, and god knows what else, but I can promise it was all stuff we did not want to live without, and could not get in the Caribbean. We do not plan to be back in Brookline until September, and as I write that, a shiver goes up my spine.

Back on Exodus, we had plenty to do.

We unloaded and unpacked.

Mike successfully changed out the gear box on the windlass, contorting himself in the anchor locker while I collected and handed him tools.

Together we installed a new Starlink and cable.

Together we scraped 4" of green beard growth from Exodus’ 57 feet of water line.

I provisioned from the local market and fruit stands.

Mike spent four and a half hours on the phone with wonderful and patient folks in British Columbia while updating firmware for our inverters (it should have taken 20 minutes), missing dinner plans with a couple we hadn’t seen in months.

But we were finally ready to leave the dock.

We went to check out of Antigua at 8:45 AM, as Customs and Immigration opens at 8:30 AM. We were told to go to Port Authority first. We knocked on the door. No answer. Apparently, the Port Authority guy arrived at 8:30 but, having worked for 15 minutes, he went for a coffee break. He came back at 9:10 AM, coffee in hand. Only an hour and a half later to get through Customs and Immigration, and we were legally ready to go!

We called the marina for assistance with lines, and they told us to “stand by” as the key to the dinghy they use broke off in the ignition switch. We listened as about a dozen boats called the marina asking to enter or leave, to no avail. Island time, man. Pure entertainment!

A couple of hours later, we powered up the engine, checked the thrusters, and slowly pulled out of the dock space. Halfway, nose out, Mike said quietly into the marriage savers, “we have very little thrust and no reverse. This is not good.” This was REALLY not good as we were just drifting. We managed to miss the pilings, drift and thrust over to the fuel dock, which luckily was empty and downwind, and we managed to dock there without a “dock encounter”. Mike checked the shaft and all looked good, so he jumped with mask and snorkel into the very uninviting fuel dock water to look at the prop. It was covered in barnacles after weeks of growth. We hired a diver who took 20 minutes to take a rake to the barnacles, and voila! Power!

We motored out of the harbor, anchored around the corner, and after a quick swim around the boat, I tackled the barnacles covering the rudder, while Mike got those at the bottom of the keel. To anyone who has never had the pleasure of scraping barnacles off the bottom of a boat, it is really satisfying (like picking a scab) and at the same time, totally disgusting, as little sea creatures get in every crevice and it totally creeps you out. It’s a job I love to hate.

A good shampoo and shower, a drink and dinner, and we fell into bed exhausted.

At 7:30 the next morning, the anchor was up (gear box replacement successful, btw) and we were full sail on our way to St. Barts. The sun was out, the wind was blowing hard on a broad reach, and if Mike had not opened the refrigerator while the boat was lurching and had a dozen (or maybe it was just 10) eggs fall out and break on the floor of the galley, the sail would have been perfect! It was one of those fabulous days though, and we were lucky enough to do 76 miles or so in 10 hours. We pulled into Colombier on the North side of the island and set the anchor just as the sun was setting. That Old Fashioned sure tasted delicious that night!

Another perfect day today as we sailed just a couple of hours to Grand Case, Saint Martin, (on the French side.) We got settled, and I made a challah, because it is Friday. Shabbat Shalom! Sadly, we have no friends in the anchorage to celebrate with. We will be here on anchor for almost a week before we move to the IGY dock on the opposite side of the island, the Dutch side (Sint Maarten). We will swim, snorkel, provision, start cooking for upcoming passages, go out for dinner (Le Pessoir and La Grande Auberge) because we are in the foodie capital of this part of the world. We will pray for no drama.

And of course, as always, there is a list of boat repairs to be done.

Scotty Joins the Crew (By Mike)

March, 2026

Over the past year, something unexpected has changed the way I maintain my boat. It is not a new piece of hardware, another device, or a subscription service. It is not a system upgrade or a refit. It is artificial intelligence.

More specifically, it is my use of ChatGPT as a technical assistant while working through the inevitable mechanical and electrical challenges that come with owning and maintaining a modern cruising sailboat. I have even embraced my inner nerd and named it Scotty and insisted that it talk to me in a Scottish accent. After all, maintaining a sense of humor in the midst of cascading failures is important.

At first, I was skeptical and hesitant. Do I really need this? Is it going to help, or will it become another time-consuming distraction? AI is being characterized simultaneously as an amazing transformative tool and a troubling technology. We hear about automation, disruption, and job replacement. Popular culture has not exactly been reassuring. Think, Terminator and Matrix. Setting aside the larger issue about whether AI will ultimately save civilization or accelerate its decline, my experience has been far more focused, practical, and personal.

My “aha” moment came during a davit repair. What began as a mechanical issue led me into the electronics box mounted inside the system. Wires, relays, circuit boards, the sort of space where you move carefully and hope you are interpreting things correctly. It is also the sort of space where, historically, I would close the lid and declare the problem “electrical,” which is my boat-owner shorthand for, “we need to hire someone.”

I took a photograph of the inside of that box and uploaded it to Scotty. The response was not a guess. Each component was identified. Each part’s function explained. The system logic was described calmly and methodically. In that moment, I realized I was experiencing something new: a knowledgeable 21st-century engineer looking over my shoulder, minus the hourly rate and scheduling delays.

The second defining moment came during a generator calibration project. A small circuit board required delicate voltage adjustments. It was the kind of fine tuning that, done improperly, could easily create more problems than it solved. I was hesitant. But Scotty asked me to send him a close-up photo. What followed was steady, step-by-step guidance: first what not to touch, then what to adjust, by how much, and when to stop. The pacing mattered as much as the information. It slowed me down and gave me confidence to proceed carefully rather than retreat out of uncertainty.

Those experiences were pivotal. Since then, I have used AI to interpret wiring diagrams, troubleshoot a windlass issue, add security improvements in the galley, think through inverter behavior, navigate Raymarine calibration menus that appear only briefly after startup, and refine weather routing decisions. I still turn the screwdriver and assume the risk, but I am no longer reasoning alone. That matters, especially at 10 p.m. in a dimly lit engine room.

Eventually, I uploaded all the construction plans and manuals I could access about Exodus so that the guidance would be grounded in the specifics of my boat. Context matters. Boats are individual systems with individual histories. The more information available, the more thoughtful the analysis becomes. Preparation still matters, even when you have what amounts to a digital chief engineer on call.

Cruising has always required self-reliance. We pride ourselves on solving problems far from shore support. What artificial intelligence has done for me is not replace that ethic but strengthen it. It has increased my willingness to engage with systems I might previously have deferred to a yard or a technician. It has helped me ask better questions. It has made me more methodical, and occasionally more patient. I am still learning. I am still making mistakes. I am simply making fewer avoidable ones.

This does not mean blind trust. AI can be wrong. It does not replace experience, judgment, or common sense. It cannot hear a vibration, smell overheating insulation, or sense when something simply feels off. Seamanship remains human, as do errors in judgment.

But used thoughtfully, it becomes something powerful: a tireless analytical partner and seemingly infinite resource.

Years ago, we embraced chart plotters and routing software, and more recently satellite internet. Sextants gave way to Loran. Loran gave way to GPS. Paper charts now share space with multifunction displays. Each new tool expanded our capabilities without eliminating responsibility. Artificial intelligence feels like a continuation of that evolution. I can only imagine what’s next, replicators? Wouldn’t that be nice.

For me, the greatest change has been confidence. Instead of feeling isolated when facing a complex system issue, I feel supported.

Exodus is not performing better because of magic new technology. She is performing better because I am more engaged with her systems. I maintain more proactively. I am calmer when something goes wrong. Confidence grounded in understanding leads to better decisions and steadier hands.

Every generation of sailors adopts new tools. The responsibility remains the same. We are caretakers of vessels operating in demanding environments. The tools evolve. The obligation to use them wisely persists. Artificial intelligence is simply another tool in that progression.

In a life defined by distant shores and self-reliance, having a steady chief engineer in the cockpit, one who does not sleep, does not complain, and tolerates my inner Trekkie has made this voyage a little more doable, and a little more interesting. I have likely only tapped the surface of what AI can do as I embrace this new technology with cautious enthusiasm.

Passage Anxiety: The Ocean Is Big, But You’re Not Alone (By Ronna)

November, 2025

You signed up for the Salty Dawg Rally to the Bahamas or to Antigua months ago, probably with a lot of excitement, maybe with a little liquid courage, maybe both. But now it’s real. It’s happening. You’re doing it.

And suddenly, you realize:

Your tiny boat = a speck.

The ocean = vast, dark, and scattered with random floating objects.

Your emotions = somewhere between “YAY” and “What did I get myself into?!”

Whether this is your first big passage or your fifth, the lead-up can feel overwhelming. Honestly? It’s terrifying. Also, totally normal.

Before our first passage to Antigua with the Dawgs in 2017, I’m not sure I slept the entire week before we left Hampton. I didn’t know what I didn’t know. I worried about health issues, safety issues, crew issues, seasickness, boat issues, weather issues, boredom, provisioning, fuel consumption, rogue waves, waterspouts, and about the 10,000 engine parts that could fail at 2 am. I was afraid of starting the trip overtired... which made me more anxious... which made me more tired. You see the spiral.

Our longest passage before that had been three nights. And I clearly remember staring out sailing into a moonless, pitch-black sea, the kind of black that feels like you’re sailing through printer ink, thinking: Why am I doing this? Do I want 12 days of this? Who does this anyway? Am I insane? Are we all out of our minds?

Spoiler alert: We are not insane. (Mostly.) Everyone’s just like you. We are prepared, vigilant, adventurous people with dreams, charts, and a stash of ginger chews.

I was, and still am, scared of big winds, high seas, broken parts, and bad forecasts. But here’s what I’ve learned: fear doesn’t mean you’re not ready, it just means you’re paying attention.

A Little Magic Happened in Hampton

A few days before that first passage in 2017, I was walking down the dock, and I caught myself mindlessly singing. Not humming, singing.

The song? “I Think I’m Gonna Like It Here,” from Annie.

I stopped in my tracks. Who was this woman suddenly feeling... hopeful?

What had changed?

That morning, I’d gone to the Salty Dawg Women’s Roundtable.

At that session, I sat with a mix of seasoned sailors and first-timers like me. Some had logged tens of thousands of miles. Others, like me, were still wondering if we packed too many cans of chickpeas or too few cans of tuna fish.

There’s something deeply comforting about being in a room full of smart, salty, slightly nervous women who are willing to say:

“Yes, I’m scared too.”

No bravado. No judgment. Just real talk.

We talked about everything, from our deepest fears, to whether we could find decent crackers in the islands, to what to do when you want to throw your husband overboard.

(Answer: Have a secret stash of dark chocolate, and don’t forget the Marriage Savers.)

One woman asked if we’d exercise during the passage.

The collective response: “No way.” (Though someone did say, “chair yoga... maybe.”)

And then there was the woman with a very strong British accent who gave us this excellent advice:

“During the passage, take an hour and go below and have sex!”

Wait, what?!

I swear she said “sex.” Turns out, she actually said, “a rest.” (Sorry, Mike. My bad.)

Your fellow cruisers?

They get this life.

They don’t bat an eye when you say you live with your spouse on 45 feet of fiberglass.

They talk openly about sacrifice, resilience, joy, and the crazy adventure that is boat life.

And over the course of the rally, they become not just friends, but lifelong sailing soulmates. They’re not replacements for your land friends, but they are the kind who’ll help you troubleshoot your chart plotter and pour you a stiff drink when your holding tank backs up. (Ask me how I know.)

But the emotional roll coaster is real.

Just when you think you’ve got your nerves under control, someone, probably a well-meaning seminar presenter, will explain about “heaving to in 50 knots,” or “rudder failure,” or “Gulf Stream eddies,” or “deploying a sea anchor.”

And boom.

Good mood: gone.

Anxiety: back, big time.

One minute you’re journaling about personal growth, the next you’re calling your family to say goodbye and “I love you,” just in case. All totally normal.

So... What Can You Do About It?

1. If you are a newbie and have a mentor, use them! Call them up. Talk about everything!

2. Whether you are leaving from Newport or Hampton, go to social events. Come early, leave late. You will find like-minded souls.

3. For all the women who will be leaving from Hampton, come to the Salty Gals session on Tuesday at 2:00 PM. We’ll talk openly. We’ll laugh. We’ll vent. You’ll get real advice from real women who’ve been there, and you’ll realize that you are far from alone. Also: wine. Lots of wine.

(Men are also welcome for the drinking part at 4, but they aren’t usually open about their feelings or vulnerabilities anyway, so go find another venue. Maybe Mike will hold a session about men and exposing their feelings, now there’s an oxymoron.)

Final Thoughts from a Once-Nervous, Still-Often-Nervous Dawg

Yes, this whole thing is big.

Yes, it’s hard.

Yes, it will test your patience, your stamina, your relationship, and your wardrobe.

But also: it is so damn rewarding.

You’ll arrive with salt in your hair, stories in your back pocket, and a spark in your eye that says, “I did something brave.”

And that... is worth everything.

See you in Hampton,

Ronna

Sometimes a Girl Just Needs Her Mommy. (By Ronna)

November 16, 2024

It's been ten years since my mother died. I figured that out as I was writing- TEN years. How is that even possible? My mom died on November 11, 2014. It's now pretty darn close to November, 2024, and while my math skills are a little rusty, I quickly figured out that's a full decade. It seems impossible that a decade has passed.

And yet, I am not the same person I was when my mother died. I have a whole new life on a sailboat that my mother knew nothing of. I have my home in a different town (I didn't go very far, mom, just down the street to Brookline, which you always liked better than Newton anyway). My kids are launched. Each have partners, each are happy, fully formed adults. I have a grandchild. My back hurts when I get off the couch.

I have been feeling particularly anxious these last couple of weeks. Mike had a kidney stone attack while we were on the boat down the Sassafras River on the Chesapeake, at anchor about 30 miles from the nearest large hospital. One kid had a plan for the Jewish holidays I didn't quite agree with. One was traveling overseas. One had just moved to a new city. I had not started cooking my passage meals, and a friend told me she was already done with hers (this drives me nuts!) We traveled back to Boston with Mike's two kidney stones just kinda hanging in limbo (but not causing any pain), knowing that he needed surgery to pulverize those stones before the next attack, but not having had secured a urologist to do just that, knowing that unless he had the surgery and time to recover, there was no way we could go offshore as planned in a few weeks.

I needed my mommy.

Luckily, I had jury duty (said no one, ever.)

It just so happened that I was called for jury duty about a year ago, and I had delayed the date for service until this year when we knew we would be in Boston for the Jewish holidays of Rosh Hashana and Yom Kippur. Even more fortuitously, my jury duty was in Wrentham District Court. And even more fortuitously, besides Wrentham being the home of Wrentham Village (with its fabulous outlet shopping,) Wrentham is quite close to Sharon, Massachusetts, where my parents are laid to rest. And luckiest of all, at my jury duty all jurors were dismissed by the judge by 10:00 AM. What a gift!

I wish I could say I went straight to Sharon to visit mom and dad, but of course I had to stop at the mall. It was on the way.

But Sharon was my next stop. I stopped by the graves of my parents and do what I always do. I gave my mom updates of my life, my kids, my grandson, my mother in law's passing (she didn't know) while my father just lay there (I presume he also listening.) I really talk just to my mom, even though in many ways I was closer to my father. I told my mom of Mike's upcoming surgery and asked that she and my dad look over him and keep him safe. I told them about the passage, how Annie was coming with us. I asked that they please watch over us out there and keep us safe too. And then I had a good cry.

When I got back home, I called my daughter. "Sometimes, you just need your mommy," I told her. "And after I am gone, I know that you will need me sometimes, but I hope not that often, and when you do, just tell me stuff."

"It's not so much that I'll need you, I think," she said, "but I think I will miss having you be a witness to my life." And we discussed how, at least in our family, our mothers are a witness to our lives, every detail, every moment. Who else cares what she had for dinner last night, what she wore, how she felt, how was her work conference, how was her commute home, who did she talk to on the phone, what she was planning for the weekend? I want, I crave, I need, every detail of her life that she is willing to offer. Being a witness to my kid's lives is a job for me, my favorite, most important job, one that I want to continue doing for many, many years. And this conversation comforted me too, as much as a visit to my dead mom.

Sometimes you need your mommy, but I think sometimes you need your daughters too.

When it’s good, it’s very, very good (when it’s bad, it’s pretty ugly) (By Ronna)

Sunday, April 30, 2023

When I last wrote, I was at my desk aboard Exodus looking out from my porthole at the boats passing by, longing to be "out there". Well, we are out there now, sailing around the beautiful Exuma island chain in the north central Bahamas. On the one hand, it is the life portrayed in my Instagram feed- playing cornhole and drinking margaritas on the white, sandy beach with fellow cruisers. Yes, the water is an impossibly gorgeous aqua blue, the snorkeling amazing, the days hot and sunny. There are wonderful dinners with friends and every so often a lazy day when we are not fixing something and can enjoy a swim around the boat. Magnificent, magical, memorable.

But of course, all is not as perfect as it seems.

At times, I live with--not fear--but a general anxiety about all the things that might go wrong. And, of course, there are the things that do go wrong. And those things feed, amplify and create new anxieties. I am a newbie again, getting used to a new boat, getting used to life on the water, getting used to the boat breaking and bad weather.

Today, it is overcast and bleak. To be fair, since we arrived in the Bahamas over a month ago, we have only had warm, sunny days, filled with friends and beach parties. Before today, it had not rained once. But now I am back at my desk, looking out at that same porthole, feeling just a touch of sea sickness as I try to concentrate on writing, while the boat is tossing on its mooring as the wind whips around at 25 knots.

We are in Warderick Wells, which I believe could be one of the most beautiful anchorages on earth. The surroundings of white beaches and gin clear waters fading into aqua and deep blues are amazing, but the wind blowing like stink makes it hard to appreciate where we are. While we are in a protected spot from the waves (hidey holes from north/west winds in the Exumas are few and far between for a sailboat with a 6.6 foot draft) we are a mere 12 feet from rudder destroying shallows should the mooring not hold (and yet that is what makes it so charming). So, while we dove the mooring and feel it is secure, and we have a second line attached as a safety, it is unnerving when a gust comes and our mooring line stretches. There is no room to maneuver if something goes wrong. Honestly, I would like to take a Lorazapem to calm my nerves this afternoon, but I won't-- I'll power through. Just another five or six hours and the winds will (hopefully) subside a bit. This didn't used to bother me so much.

For now, I worry that we will run aground on one of the many coral heads;

I worry that our mooring will break free;

On other days, I worry that our anchor will drag;

Every day, I worry that our generator will crap out (because this has happened);

I worry that our dinghy patch will not hold (our brand new dinghy got slashed on a sharp part of the boat that shouldn't have been there);

I worry that our refrigerator will stop holding temperature, all our food will spoil, I will have to eat only pasta, and I will get fat;

I worry that I will once again scrape the scab off a bad burn (incurred while taking a challah out of the oven), leading to blood all over the teak, then infection, then an inability to get to a hospital and then.. yes, death from said infection.

I worry that my kids and mother-in-law won't be able to reach me because Starlink cuts us off (Please Elon, keep us connected!) and then my grandson will forget what my face looks like and I will lose my mind.

I worry that the flies that have adopted Exodus as their home will eventually drive me further into insanity.

I worry that something will happen to Mike (there is only about a million things that could happen to Mike) and I will have to get him and the boat to safety by myself.

I worry that we will be hit by lightning.

I worry that I will go another week before I see a fresh vegetable.

Eventually, I know that the wind will die, and as it dies, I will stop ruminating. As we start moving again, I will begin to rebuild the confidence I lost during life on land.

Post Script

Early May, 2023

We did not break free of our mooring during that period of bad weather, though the wind certainly did not subside that day; in fact, it got worse. It rained like crazy. Then the winds accelerated as the evening progressed. Then came an extremely impressive three hour display of lightning (which awed and freaked me out simultaneously). The icing on the cake was inverter trouble right before we retired to bed, which Mike finished fixing around midnight. It was not a great night.

But since that night, everything has worked. The weather has turned benign. All is good, and this life, when it is good--it is very, very good.

We have had a few incredible sails, with wonderful, strong winds. We have so much confidence that the boat can handle a lot of wind and sails beautifully.

We have anchored off incredible white sandy beaches, watching the sun set in calm seas.

We found fresh vegetables (never mind that a head of lettuce was $7.00 and bunch of asparagus was $13.)

We have had morning dips in the ocean. We have cleaned the stainless steel in the sunshine, listening to The Bridge. We have walked on the beach. We have had many cocktail hours socializing with old friends and new. We have laughed, commiserated, and planned for upcoming voyages.

Every so often, you are reminded what a small, wonderful community this is.

By complete chance the other day, we ran into friends that we met in the San Blas islands (near Panama) four years ago. Last we knew, they were headed through the Panama Canal and we were headed in the opposite direction. While we have often thought about these people, we never thought we would see them again. And yet, there they were, at a random restaurant in March Harbor, Abacos, headed North, just like we are. This cruisers world is so incredibly small and wonderful.

Tomorrow morning the two of us make our Exodus from the Bahamas as we leave for a 3-4 day passage to either North Carolina or Virginia, depending on the weather and our stamina. I am excited to bring Exodus north to meet our family and friends. I can't say I'm looking forward to the passage, but I believe I am ready. It's all part of the adventure. Got to climb that mountain to appreciate the view.

Commissioning Exodus (By Ronna)

April 8, 2023

I am sitting at my desk in my cabin looking out my porthole. A sparkling silver, black and chrome superyacht powers slowly by, followed by a blond dude on a speed boat texting as he drives, clearly not looking where he is going. Then comes a Cigarette boat playing loud music as bikini clad twenty-year-olds holding red plastic cups overhead flaunt their (incredible) bodies. Then comes a dinghy filled to the brim with strollers, parents, and kids waving and smiling. They are waving at Bikini, the Boston Terrier who runs up and down our deck protecting us from potential visitors (sadly, she is not mine; she belongs to the Hylas Service Manager.)

We are dockside, and my writing area is private, and I love this view. I watch the endless parade of swanky new boats, maneuvering into slips, doing 360s or just turning around, with names that never fail to amuse me, and promise adventure, risk and excitement - Tasty Waves, Dealer's Choice, Contender, Totally Hooked, Love Her Madly.

We have been living on "new" Exodus for about a month now, having left our Airbnb in early March. The boat is everything we hoped for and more, and we have made it home. The plastic is off the salon cushions. The pictures are hung. The rug is down. We have moved almost all our 80 items (60 boxes) aboard and thrown out or donated what we didn't need. I have arranged the galley. Mike has somehow found a place for all his tools. But up until recently, we were not close to leaving the dock other than for test sails. We have a waterfront condo in Fort Lauderdale, but what we really want is to sail away.

Aside from the hot, sunny days and visits with my college friend and his wife, this Bostonian does not find a lot to like about Fort Lauderdale. I can't tell one strip mall from another- which one has the Home Depot, TJ Maxx and Publix, which one has the Container Store, Best Buy and Whole Foods. The red traffic lights in town are interminably long, causing people to read a book, check their email, or take a nap, and delay moving on the green. We were warned not to beep (which for Boston drivers is like holding back horses at the start of a race) for fear some enraged driver might take out a gun and shoot us (I know, I know, but that is what we were told.)

To make matters worse, the traffic stops for trains, of which there are many, and for bridges, of which there are also many. It takes a long time to get to the highway, and when you finally do get to the highway, it is interstate 95 which is bumper to bumper, seemingly any time of day or night. If that weren't enough, 700-pound alligators come out from nowhere and eat grandmothers and pythons are invading the neighborhoods! And if THAT weren't enough, the No See'ums have found me! And Florida politics? Shoot me. Oops, I don't really mean that literally!

But like it or not, we are here for a while. The commissioning process of a new boat is long, hard and often frustrating to the new owners (us), who are impatient to get out sailing, meet their friends, and watch the sunset from the stern with a drink in hand. The boat ships without a mast or sails, so we needed all the rigging installed, and inevitably there are a myriad of problems that arise with any new boat because no one has yet lived aboard to work out the bugs. Some of the stuff I understand, but many, I haven't a clue. Apparently, the batteries are not "talking" to the inverter/charger or to the voltage regulator and there is "cross talk" along the bus (huh?), and the whole system needs updated firmware. What is firmware anyway, and when did batteries start having computers in them? It's all very complicated. And just when you think you are making progress, either more items get added, or items that you thought had been crossed off randomly stop working.

But the experts tell us that work will be finished on our timeline to leave the dock early next week, and today, it seems we are making progress. Today, the list seems to be down to a few small items. Today, it seems as if we will leave the dock shortly with everything (mostly) working. Today, we couldn't be happier with our choice of sailboat.

So, early this morning, we checked the weather, excited to finally "get out there."

According to our weather forecaster, there is a "relatively high-impact weather potential" for next week. This, I do understand, and do not like. A big front is coming in. North winds. Gusts to 40 knots. No way we are leaving the dock to cross the Gulf Stream in that.

We call all of this "boating". Doesn't it sound like fun?

A Year Ashore and a New Chapter - Fingers Crossed (By Ronna)

February 6, 2023

I have lists galore on my iPhone, on an app that my highly organized friend Shiera introduced me to, called "Anylist". On this app, I have a list for everything- from boat inventory, to medications, to birthday gift ideas, to the menu for Thanksgiving Dinners since 2019. They are all on my Anylist app, just a finger swipe away. I am more organized than I ever was, although that is certainly not saying much. I sometimes forget that I have created a list as I wander around the grocery store, the tech equivalent of leaving your grocery list on the kitchen counter.

As I was cleaning out and editing some of my old lists the other day, I came across a list I created while still living on our sailboat, named "Year Off Things to Accomplish". I created the list because I did not want to squander the opportunity of living on land while retired. Certainly, great things could be accomplished in a year, living in a city where same day Amazon package delivery is a "thing," with a washing machine and dryer steps away. With these modern conveniences, I would have lots of time to fill, and boy was I going to get things done. I planned to kick butt (literally and metaphorically), and somehow make a difference.

Reflecting on the list, it was mostly personal and doable: lose 10 pounds (although when I finally weighed myself after four years, it turned out to be more like 15), take an iPhone photo class, create a family recipe book, knit sweaters for the new grandbaby, volunteer at a place that does some good, and take a safety at sea course. I got to cross most of these off the list. But I fell short in numerous ways- by not join a writing group, by not making any progress on a children's book that I had started years ago, and by not writing. I basically continued my long hiatus from writing; I have no idea why I couldn't write; it just didn't happen. Am I ok with all of that? Not really, so here we are (it's never too late!)

In many respects, it seems like it was yesterday that I was living on the boat, creating the Anylist, afraid of the freedom of living on land rather than at sea, where just the necessities of life keep you busy all day. But now the end of my time on land is closing in on me. And now is not the time to add things to the list or feel remorseful about things not done. It is a time to anticipate and plan our next stage and anticipating (or some might say "worrying") is what both Mike and I have been doing.

Mike and I worry about whether the boat will arrive on time and undamaged. So much can go wrong at sea, and we have planned so much around her safe and timely arrival in Florida. We compulsively track UHL Focus, the cargo ship that carries our new sailboat. We tracked her as she left her birthplace in Taiwan at the beginning of January, traveled in the wrong direction to pick up more cargo in China, then headed across the Pacific. As ridiculous as it might seem, Mike and I both worried that China might take this exact opportunity to impose a sea blockade against Taiwan and stop the cargo ship from leaving the South China sea. It didn't.

We worried about bad weather and difficult seas across the Pacific, and yet the weather was benign. When the cargo ship made it across the Pacific and arrived in and then departed Ensenada, Mexico safely, we briefly breathed a sigh of relief. But just the other night the ship simply stopped her 14-knot progress toward the Panama Canal, coming to a complete stop for over six hours off the Pacific coast of Guatemala. Mike and I just about lost our minds. Was there an engine problem? Was there an accident? Was there a pirate in control of the helm declaring "I'm the Captain now!"? We have no idea. She just started moving again.

Will our stuff get there? For the fist time in our lives, we hired movers to move our boxes to Florida. We have no idea where our stuff is. Did the movers leave our boxes in a truck out of doors when the temperature outside was minus 17? Our boxes could be in South Carolina, but they also might be in Chelsea. Again, we have no control.

But mostly, I am anxious about moving back on the boat, to a life I remember loving very much, but now seems like a lifetime ago. Did I really love it that much? I have become reliant on the conveniences of land living: Trader Joe's down the street, a CVS on the next corner, boarding a plane if I want to go somewhere new, popping over to see my grandson.

Will we love her, this new Exodus, this sailing life? How long will it take to get to know this new boat like the back of my hand? Will we still have our dear friends in our sailing community? Will my grandson remember me when we are gone? The worries are piling up, as they tend to do with big transitions.

I do not sleep well.

As Carly Simon once sang, "we can never know the days to come, but we think about them anyway...Anticipation is making me late, is keepin' me waiting."

Our new adventure is imminent (I think). Stand by and stay tuned.

Don’t Talk to Me - I’m Knitting! (By Ronna)

October 24, 2022

I am sorry for being a bitch right now, but I'm knitting. I can't be bothered. As in, whatever you do right now, DON'T BOTHER ME...please. Don't tell me where you are going, I don't care. Don't ask me a question, even if it's simple. Do I want to walk with you to CVS? No! Do I want to go buy some food for the empty refrigerator? NO! I don't want to go out- ever-- I just want to stay home and knit.

Please, don't sit down next to me on the couch. Don't even sit on the far end of the couch. And certainly do NOT put on the TV. Actually, can you simply stay far away any room I currently occupy as I sit and knit? Don't you have somewhere to be? I love you, but you are very distracting, and even though I know you have the right to be in the house with me, I am not sure I accept that right now.

Oh, why did I listen to them, these Women Who Knit? They said I could do it. They said I would learn new techniques. They said it would be hard, but not too hard. And I believed them.

I joined in on the fun of the autumn Westknits Mystery Shawl knit-a-thon on the day it started three weeks ago. Basically, I have done nothing else since I cast on those first i-cord stitches. We are knitting a shawl, in parts. Participants have picked their three colors, but don't know what the entire shawl will look like. A new section of the pattern is revealed every week for a month. Three sections have been revealed so far. I am halfway through the first. They say it's not a race. Good thing.

Admittedly I have gone off the deep end, and I might be there for say, oh, maybe 6 months or so (if I able to continue with my current frenzied rate of progress, which is doubtful). I want to quit, to go back to the relaxed knitter I once was, making baby sweaters and blankets. I could knit and talk, listen to a podcast, or watch TV, and I would happily rise off the couch, as long as I was allowed to "just finish this row." But now that I have started this project, I can't quit. I am on a mission to completion.

I am counting the stitches until the next slip slip knit, pass one over. I am concentrating on the slip, slip knit. I am trying to remember what row I just finished, what pattern repeat I am on. I might lose a stitch. I might split a stitch. I might skip a make one left. I live in fear of messing up and having to stop everything and spend an afternoon at the knitting store, losing precious hours while waiting impatiently for the owner to fix what I have messed up. And as all knitters know, knitting stores do not hold emergency hours.

I don't want to exercise, I don't want to clean up my breakfast dishes, I don't want to answer emails, I don't want to visit your mother. Do I even want to babysit my grandson? I take the fifth. And the worst of this is that I idiotically convinced my best friend to do the knit a thon with me. Now she hates me. I sure miss her as my best friend. But I have no time for friends anymore, so maybe it's for the best.

I might lose everything I love, but in the end, I will prevail. I will have a new shawl, replete with mistakes, in colors that I am not sure I really like. When I finish this shawl, it will be the only thing I ever wear, even if it is hideous.

Enough with this writing! I want to be knitting! I want to finish pattern repeat four thousand and seven. I am sure I could have done another row or two instead of dithering on about my misery. The typos and mistakes in grammar be damned! I may make one right, but it won't be in this essay.