We recently took a road trip. We had several errands to run—family to see, shopping to do in our storage unit and at Costco, friends to visit, cars to take care of, a life raft to pick up, and so on. It was a lovely trip; all the things we have missed were present in spades, and after having done without, were more appreciated than ever. The air conditioning was colder than we remembered, the date night was more pleasant and the French food more delicious, the family more precious, the friends more dear, and the Costco full of more things than we could fit in the back of our vehicle.

In short, we crammed a lot of enjoyment into four days. We were not, however, without concern or thought for Take Two and the two cats aboard. We had left the generator in an automatic-run state, secured hatches so they let in air but not rain, left extra food and water for the cats, and had asked a few friends to keep an eye on things. We were not sure what, if anything, would happen while we were away, though we could easily imagine a few worst-case scenarios.

We returned on a sunny afternoon, bailed out the dinghy, which had filled with rainwater, and unloaded the truck, heading back to our mooring ball at a brisk pace. We cautiously peered around inside the boat, looked at the battery monitor and checked on the cats (who meowed ceaselessly, “where have you been???”) but everything appeared in order. What a relief!

We all found ourselves a cool drink and stood around on deck, surveying our small domain. It was so good to be home, surrounded by the water, the sky, and the wind. They all felt like familiar friends welcoming us back. After being so comfortable in air conditioned rooms and fed so well at restaurants, I thought the readjustment to life afloat would be difficult.

Instead, I realized how happy I feel here, how cozy and comfortable our floating home, and how much we belong out on the water. It was a comforting confirmation that we are still on the right path.  Though this life costs something, it is worth every sacrifice. In the words of the old song, be it ever so humble, there is no place like home.

Have you ever gotten up in the middle of the night with your children? I mean, on purpose, when no one was barfing or crying or peeing the bed? To go stare at the sky, say, at one in the morning? That’s not a requirement, as far as I know, for being a good parent (though there may be some minor statute regarding homeschooling parents). But it is a delight, and not to be missed.

The first time I woke my children, it was just Eli and Aaron and they were very young. I coaxed them out of bed on a chilly winter’s night with the promise of meteors and hot cocoa in a thermos bottle. We tried to find a dark patch of sky under which to place our tarp and heavy blankets, but the lights of Clearwater, Tampa and St. Petersburg made for abysmal star viewing. We saw (maybe) one meteor, and that one was a long shot. There was just too much light. It was disappointing, though the fun of getting up in the middle of the night to drink hot cocoa makes for a good memory anyway. We always talk about that as the meteor shower that wasn’t.

This time, I planned ahead and came prepared. Every summer, the Earth’s orbit takes her through a field of debris from the comet Swift-Tuttle, and even sand-size particles can produce fireballs with long, streaking tails. I read up on the shower, studied the star chart so I would be able to easily find the constellation Perseus, for whom the shower is named. The meteors can be seen all over the sky, but if you trace their origins, they appear to be coming from the region Perseus inhabits. It’s well worth it, by the way, to find some illustrated Greek myths for children and read the story of Perseus defeating Medusa, the birth of Pegasus, and that celestial family including the easy-to-find Cassiopeia, Cepheus, and Andromeda.

There is very little light to compete with the stars and planets here in Marathon, so I spent some time a few nights in a row, watching for meteors, to make sure we would have success. On the night they peaked (early a.m. August 13th), I woke everyone up at one, as planned, and we brought pillows and cushions to the top of our main cabin and stared at the sky. At two o’clock, we took a snack break, and went back to bed around three.

In that time, we saw, on average, a meteor a minute, or “shooting star” as Sam likes to say. Sam saw, on average, two each hour, but that is because he was so excitable and chatty that he didn’t actually lie still and look at the sky. Sarah would exclaim, “I just saw a fireball!” and Sam would reply dejectedly, “I didn’t see it!” We would then chant, in unison, “You have to look at the sky to see it.” It was more like a meteor trickle, to be more accurate with our metaphors, but it was marvelous all the same. In addition, we observed the Pleiades in all their beauty, up close, and Jupiter and his moons through the awesome binoculars Jay got me for my birthday last year. And we laughed about everything, because, evidently, everything is funny at two in the morning. Especially farts.

It was so successful that I got multiple requests to try again tonight, but I am too tired!  We decided to make it an annual tradition instead, and bake star-shaped cookies in preparation for the midnight snack and star party. Even if you don’t live where you can see the Milky Way on a nightly basis, it would be worth it to go out on a clear night and throw your own star party. I know I’m not the only one who gets these hair-brained ideas, but I am often handsomely rewarded for following through with them. Happy sky watching!

I know I have to get used to it, but I don’t have to like it. The hard part about being nomadic is making new friends and then so quickly saying goodbye. Sometimes it is I who do the leaving, but sometimes a new friend sails off and leaves me feeling grateful, but forlorn. We have recently befriended another sailing family with whom we discovered common values—Davina is a fellow mom who has courageously left the dirt and submersed herself in the sailing world. But it is time for them to move on, and I’m so grateful for even that short time we shared. I’m hoping we’ll see them “out there” before too long. If I’ve learned anything about the sailing community, it is that their world is small and they keep bumping into each other at opportune moments.

In looking back over my life, I see how the right girlfriend has always been there at the right time, and so this is my humble tribute to those women who have helped make my life full and satisfying.

I don’t even know when it started. I have always had a friend—and I don’t take that for granted, because the world doesn’t promise that you’ll always have a companion for the journey. But I’m still friends with the girl who walked with me to school when we were six. I consider this a blessing.

I moved a lot as a kid, but everywhere we went, I made a friend. Of course, I’ve lost touch with many of them, but they all made the transitions to new places easier. There was Amanda in Texas, Jeni and Aubrey in Florida, Susan and Rebecca in high school, Heather during my college years in Vermont, and Kim and Amy in Paris. The same has been true in my adult life; Ellen, Kim, and Rhianna were there when I was a newlywed, figuring out what it means to be a good wife. Jen, Debbie, Angela and Sharon helped me as a beginning teacher. There were fellow moms like Becca and Annie to help me adjust to motherhood. Nicole helped me through a tough year when we moved back to Florida and I felt so lonely. And my neighbor, Tarin, went out of her way to make me feel welcome in Clearwater, and became like a sister during our time there. There were the homeschooling moms who met me when I was just getting started. Joan, Tina, Tracy, and Mindy had older kids that helped me see that the investment was worth it, and Kim, Mary and Margo were—and are—in the trenches with me. There were others who mentored me, or prayed with me, or just took me under their wing, people like Kim, Mary, Linda, Janice, Jan, Anne and Betty. And countless others. It’s starting to sound like an Academy Award acceptance speech. And how could I forget my sister, Sascha, sisters-in-law, Tennille and Robin, my cousin Gretchen, my mom, and my two mothers-in-law? Maybe I do take them for granted, but how fortunate I am to have that luxury…I know they love me no matter what, and they are never farther than a phone call away.

With this fruitful history, I shouldn’t be surprised that the transition to living on our boat came with the introduction of new girlfriends, but somehow it is always amazing when I find a kindred spirit. I am surrounded by the five people I love the most in this world, but I still get lonely sometimes for a good girlfriend. And just when I am missing the old ones the most, a new one turns up.

Learning to sail brought Josie, a teacher who became a friend, and Lupe and Leighia helped me figure out how sailing families adjust to living aboard. I met Kristin when our family was divesting itself of our worldly goods—including a vast children’s library and teaching supplies. I know that stuff will not go to waste, and how lucky I was to share the time in Bradenton with her and her precious family. When I was feeling lonely and isolated, a family with four boys sailed into our marina last winter and I found instant fellowship with Vicki.

It was Vicki’s advice, and example, to pray for a friend when I come to a new place, that I will take to heart. I don’t consider it an accident that my life has been interwoven with others’ so seamlessly. And whether we get to travel together for a few days or a few years, I will be grateful for the time we’ve got. I can just say, like that rambling award winner—Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!

Today marks several anniversaries for our family. Jay and I were married 13 years ago today (my brother and his wife were married 12 years yesterday—happy anniversary T&T!). They have been, quite honestly, blissful years for which I am very grateful.

Our cats, Sugar and Spice, also turn 13, as they were acquired as 8-week-old kittens about 2 months after we were married. I am not sure if their years have been blissful, but they have been eventful. Every time we brought home a new addition, they seemed to roll their bright green eyes and retreat further under the bed. They have, since we moved aboard, become much more outgoing, and our kids seem to have calmed down enough to even befriend the cats. Or maybe the cats can’t avoid interaction in such a small space; who knows?

Last, but not least, today marks the one-year anniversary of our having moved aboard Take Two. In this year, we have learned what difficulties we can live with and what luxuries we can live without, how to coexist in a small, moving space, and how to laugh together more often. We have definitely become more flexible, and as time goes by, we care less about making a plan happen and more willing to let the plan happen to us. We have transitioned from being dirt-dwellers to live-aboard cruisers, which is no small feat for a family of six in the span of a year.

I propose a toast—to the two people who made this family what it is, and who, despite their fears, followed a dream. And to two intrepid sailing cats, who miraculously “made the cut” and seem to be thriving. And, of course, to Take Two and her adventurous crew. Happy anniversary!

Every journey starts somewhere. Our hailing port is Clearwater, but our journey really started in Bradenton, at the end of "G" Dock at Twin Dolphin Marina, where we were lovingly referred to as “the Robinsons” (as in Swiss Family).

A rebellious and fun-loving lot to whom the normal rules do not apply, our friends there on "G" named the dock-end “H” and proceeded to put up a tent for shade (with twinkly lights for holidays), fans, grills, football games on TVs, Corn Hole, water balloon launchers, robotic dinosaurs, wading pools for dogs, fishing poles, and tables replete with everything from Low Country Boil to Sunday morning Bloody Mary makings. There is only one way to describe the mayhem that happened there every weekend: fun.

At a time when Jay and I had tired of the suburbs and were ready to try something new, we bought a boat, found a place to dock it and were immediately introduced to the ringleader, Pete, and fun commenced. We were in dire need of lightening up and it was impossible to be serious around the Moe-Larry-and-Curly types we found hanging around on any given Saturday on H Dock.

More importantly, our children, who might have been summarily rejected, shushed, or looked down upon on any other dock in any other marina, were welcomed, if not with open arms, then with a got-yer-nose and a high five. Our kids consider these thoughtful and fun-loving adults as, well, peers, and friends to boot. And the dogs! Our kids were in heaven: fishing with Jack, taking Rosie for a walk, petting Bella, getting kissed by Savannah, or being herded by Patches.

This is a special group of people—Pete and Joe, Mike and Jean, Rob and Nancy, Don and Susan, Dave and Julie, Doug and Judy, Dick and Jane, Wayne and Terry, Mike and Marilyn (and others who come and go)—people who make dramatic and daring rescues in the Manatee River, who are always available to grab a line or, at the very least, offer “helpful” suggestions while you are docking, sailors and power boaters alike who are able to set aside differences in the name of Margaritas and SPAM bake-offs.

When we walked down the dock that first evening when Jay delivered the boat, I was sure we got the sidelong glances that said, “Oh, no—here come the kids that will ruin the party!” And when we saw the weekend crew, we were thinking, “Oh, no—here come the adults that will ruin our kids!”  Instead, our kids proved themselves able to interact with the grown-ups without being too obnoxious (and we could always send them back into the boat if they were), and the grown-ups proved that they could keep their mouths (and conduct) relatively clean until 8:30 p.m. After that, of course, all bets were off, but then Jay and I would often come out and join in.

Lest one think we received all the benefits of the H Dock fun, I’m sure we provided plenty of free entertainment—Sam grew up before our eyes during the two years at Twin Dolphin, and his antics (including going for frequent dips in the drink) kept us all on our toes. Our kids’ climbing and swinging were like a weekend circus act, their treasures from the sea were frequently on display, and Jay’s constant tinkering with boat projects provided subject matter for plenty of conversations and a few jokes.

As for me, I will never forget my 34th birthday. My friend Heather was down from Maine, and we had gone outside on the dock to hang out while I filled the water tanks. An hour later, I heard a trickle of water, telling me that the tanks were overflowing. Of course, that was back when an overflowed tank resulted in floating floorboards inside the boat. The H Dock rescue team sprang into action, able men with pumps in hand to help me clean up at midnight! I have never laughed so hard at my own negligence.

There are so many good memories of our two years there that it makes it really hard for me to say goodbye. But it’s time to clean out our dock box, get out there and do the things we’ve been planning all along, and make new friends.  But no matter where we go in the world, no harbor, no dock, no yacht club, will ever compare to the friends we made at HDYC. We will proudly fly the H Dock Yacht Club burgee, and remain members even if we don’t make it to the meetings any more.

To all our friends at Twin Dolphin—we miss you very much and will come by for a visit whenever we’re in town!

Ever the one to make mountains out of molehills, I may have slightly exaggerated the dilemma in which we find ourselves. But why don’t you take my informal poll, anyway—it’ll only take a second.

1) Would you rather be hot or bug-eaten?

If you answered bug-eaten, you would be subjecting yourself to possible attacks of malaria or West Nile Virus. Where we are in the keys, malaria isn’t really a problem, but someday, we will be places where we must try at all costs to protect ourselves from mosquito bites. Here in Boot Key Harbor, we are merely irritated to the point of insanity by what we call the “ninja” mosquitoes. They are not the graceful and relatively harmless things we are used to. They are BIG, black, and sneaky. We resorted to breaking out the DEET-laden Backwoods OFF. But after a few days, the itching was a 24-hour-a-day irritation, even with the soothing salves and lotions we have on board. (Caladryl seems to work the best.)

Perhaps you, like me, are the sweet-blooded type, and are tormented by biting insects, and would rather be anything than bug-eaten. The option for us, then, is to put screens on all our windows, which pretty much kills all air flow through the boat. I know most of you are sitting in an air-conditioned room as you read this, so try to imagine, for just a moment, what would happen if the power went off on the hottest, stillest, most humid day of the year. You might open the window to get some air, but outside (you can actually see them throwing their little bodies against the glass to try to get in) are a hundred ninja mosquitoes, waiting to eat you alive. Now then, you have a better picture of our predicament.

After trying bug-eaten, we have opted for hot. Jay lovingly sewed Velcro on square after square of screen material so we could cover hatches and blockade the front door. The first night we did our lockdown at sunset, we trapped dozens of mosquitoes inside—they had been resting there during the day and came out at dusk to feed on human flesh. I painstakingly (and somewhat gleefully) smashed mosquito after mosquito until we were down to the last, sneakiest ninja killers, which I got once they landed on me and inserted their little hypodermic needles. The second night, we killed only three or four, but we could see their cousins swarming outside the door and trying to sneak in at the edges of the screen. Very determined, but unsuccessful.

We are much happier without the constant itching and scratching. However, with airflow greatly hampered, we are really roasting. You may be asking, “Why don’t you run the air conditioning?” The air requires so much power that we would have to run our 12kW generator 24-7 to stay cool.  We’ve tried charging the batteries at night, so we could run the air for a few hours, but the generator also generates its own heat; that with the residual heat from the day which is stored in the boat itself begins to warm up the cabins the moment we switch off the air.

Anyway, sailors don’t need air conditioning—all the places we want to go are not air conditioned. Mountains and waterfalls and other scenic locales are definitely not air conditioned. When there is a breeze, and we aren’t required to put up screens, the boat stays cool and comfortable during the day, mostly thanks to the Windscoops which look like little spinnakers and funnel air into hatches. In the afternoon, we can sit out on the trampolines under the shade of the awning and rest and relax (or, in some places, go for a swim in the front yard). At night, we all take quick, cold showers right before bed and turn on the fans in our cabins, which make sleeping possible. The only time we really feel uncomfortable is when it’s raining, but we are working on hatch covers that would shield us from water but still allow air in.

Are you ready for the second question in my little poll?

2) Would you rather be comfortable or have an adventure?

We have chosen a lifestyle that denies us many of the comforts we used to take for granted.  We now realize that we did not fully appreciate our cushy life ashore, and we have become more thankful people.  Shame on us if we complain now about being hot or itchy!  If we had wanted comfort, we would have stayed at home. The tradeoff is a life afloat—a spontaneous, fun, adventure-filled life.  We were pretty spoiled, so we are having to learn to remain cheerful despite discomfort. (And we are well aware that we still live better than 90% of the world’s population.) We are also learning to mitigate the risks before we get into hazardous territory, and for all of that valuable knowledge we pay in blood, sweat and tears.

It weighs heavily on all of our minds, but perhaps most especially those of us who live on or near the Gulf.  Some are having flashbacks from Katrina—only this nightmare, unlike a hurricane, has no end in sight, and using the word “recovery” is euphemistic at this point.

The cap has, literally, been knocked off of Pandora’s ubiquitous jar. All the horrors of the world—fear, destruction, ugliness, poverty, greed, deception, and death, in addition to a rainbow sheen and poisonous gas have been unleashed. Even if BP can manage to stop the flow of oil, the damage is done. The earth’s black blood is all over their hands—and ours. While many would like to demonize BP for its risky business practices, the truth of our own greed also stares back at us in the mirror. I am not one to chant Death To America for her “oil dependence,” but I acknowledge the ways in which we are all like Pandora. We open the forbidden jar, we eat the fruit from the tree because we feel we must have more, always more, but we rarely count the cost. BP’s shareholders want a return on their investment, everyone wants to drive their own personal vehicle wherever they desire and fill it with reasonably-priced gasoline, we want the convenience of disposable plastics, and we want to fly all over God’s green earth at a moment’s notice. Perhaps we cannot count the cost ahead of time, but from time to time, we get a foul taste of the consequences of our own pride and greed.

The questions run on without answer: when will the oil stop gushing? What will happen if a hurricane comes and stirs it all up and flings the disaster far and wide? Will the oil enter the Gulf Stream and ruin two coastlines? Will it end up on BP's own doorstep? Will there be anything left of the beautiful reefs we just visited in the Tortugas? Will the fishing industry ever recover? What will happen to all the people whose livelihoods depend upon the Gulf’s waters? Whole states, already teetering on the edge—will they fall into the abyss, never to recover? Will we ever call the Gulf Coast home again?

Of these thoughts I have spent many a night despairing. Foolish the one who reads the news before going to bed—it does not make for a peaceful night’s sleep. After one such night of gloom and doom that left me weepy, my only solace was to pray (what I usually do as a last resort instead of a first response) and so I prayed, sensing the enormity and irreversibility of this man-made disaster.  As is often the case, opening my Bible before going to bed eased my mind (and made me sleepy) and revealed an answer, though not the one I expected.  The first half of Isaiah 9, to which I first opened, addresses the distressed (that would be me and several million others):

Nevertheless, there will be no more gloom for those who were in distress. In the past [God] humbled the land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali, but in the future he will honor Galilee of the Gentiles, by the way of the sea, along the Jordan-
 The people walking in darkness
       have seen a great light;
       on those living in the land of the shadow of death
       a light has dawned.
 
The rest of the chapter goes on to talk about God’s future blessings on Israel (you can read it yourself if so inclined), but, as Isaiah often does, he then speaks of the Messiah—“to us a child is born” who will be called “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. Of the increase of his government and peace there will be no end.” Furthermore, it is foretold that he will “reign on David's throne and over his kingdom, establishing and upholding it with justice and righteousness from that time on and forever.” That word “forever” puts everything in perspective. It may seem that I take these words out of context—but the promise for God’s chosen people is extended, by His grace, to those who accept his Messiah. And the message of a messiah is always a message of hope.

Our problems often seem insurmountable; this oil spill is no exception. It may have far-reaching and unforeseen consequences. My grandchildren will still be feeling the residual effects of this spill. But is it hopeless? No. When Pandora finally claws her way back to the jar and gets the lid clamped back on, there is yet one thing left inside: hope.

The earth holds her secrets tightly—creatures we have not yet discovered nor categorized, plants that contain pharmaceutical miracle cures, precious stones and useful fuels stored miles below her surface.  We have drilled down beneath even the Deep, tapped into something we don’t fully understand and meddled where perhaps it was better we had left things alone. But if she is anything, the earth is resilient. Life finds a way—even though things shift constantly, and sometimes suddenly, the earth renews itself. It may take time (certainly more time than we mortals have), and the landscape will look drastically different than it did before, but eventually, there will be recovery. The coral reefs that are destroyed will be replaced by something else. Oceans give way to deserts and become oceans again. And let me not neglect to mention the promise that someday, after the cleansing fire, there will be a new heaven and a new earth, and a Garden to replace the first. For those with faith to believe it, this is a comfort indeed.

One thing that makes us uniquely human is our constant desire to learn and grow, to always know more. The title of this entry happens to be the motto of our homeschool, but it could also serve as our family motto. We are always learning new things, stretching and growing. For those who’d like an update on our personal growth and the kids’ progress, here is a list of what our family is learning this summer:     

For our light summer session, schoolwork has focused on English grammar. Sound like fun? With an old book my friend Tina found at Google Books, it has been. Grammar Land (1878), by M.L. Nesbitt, is a courtroom drama which teaches the parts of speech, verb conjugation and various tenses, cases and rules. There is a short exercise at the end of each chapter to reinforce each new skill.  The children are all learning how to write a good paragraph, some more willingly than others. We are doing a basic Spanish workbook and CD for the month of July, and will be brushing up on our math skills in August before starting a new year (covering History from the fall of Rome to the Renaissance) in September.

We are also learning some very important life skills, like how to be hot and bug-eaten without complaining. We are tough! We keep telling each other that, but I’m not sure if it is working. We are all learning the intricacies of using the dinghy and our feet as our main modes of transportation. We are learning to trust God’s timing as we make decisions on the go…we used to plan everything, and now we plan nothing, but wait for the plan to reveal itself! It’s not really a leap of faith, more like a very slow crawl of faith.

Individually, we are learning a host of new skills.

Jay is exploring the world of electricity as he tries to optimize our power generation and consumption. He’s spent some time learning to communicate with our inverters. So far, so good.

I (Tanya) am reading a book on navigational charts. Unfortunately, the material is less than exciting and I am so tired at the end of the day that I only manage about a paragraph each night before conking out. I’ve just about given up on teaching myself to use the sextant and find our position by the stars, so it’s probably time to take a class or get private lessons from an Old Salt. I’m also doing science experiments on myself and the children as we figure out which brand and type of insect repellent works best for us. This would be good to know before we get somewhere where we must keep Malaria away.

Eli (8) is learning the joys of getting lost in a good book. He’s on fire for the Narnia series of books by C.S. Lewis. He’s also reading a book which seems to be improving his chess game. (Watch out, Mom!)

Aaron (7) is learning to play the guitar. There are free lessons at a Methodist church nearby. He goes to music camp for a week later in July, which is something we’ve never done before. He’ll be giving Dad lessons when he returns!

Sarah (6) is learning to play the piano, as she was interested in the music classes, too. She’s also learning to sew, using a kit she got for Christmas. She’s able to complete small projects on her own now.

Sam (3 1/2) is learning to play chess! I never introduced the game this early, but since Eli’s had it out all the time, Sam can set up the chess board without help and is learning how each piece moves. He is also learning to read using a series of easy readers (Very Early Readers by Candlewick Press) which came with a sticker chart for fun and motivation.

In case you couldn’t tell, the learning rolls downhill, with the youngest benefitting the most from all the smarty-pants above him. Unfortunately, Jay and I, at 35, are starting to feel like we may be past our prime. We used to be smart (we think) but learning something new is a lot harder now than it used to be. As we refresh our knowledge through teaching our children, we realize how much we have forgotten, and some things which we never learned to begin with. Supposedly the brain is the only container that expands as you fill it, but my head feels a bit full at the moment, and I’m headed off to rest it!

“This motor has never given us any problem,” said the overconfident captain of our ship.  The next day, I stood in waist-deep water, dinghy full of children, and tried to call him because the darn thing wouldn’t start. The irony, of course, is that he had fiddled with something that morning, but had given her a good test run to make sure everything was fine before the kids and I made our trek to the beach.

About halfway up Sister’s Creek, I sensed the motor wasn’t getting the fuel it needed. My response was to speed up a bit so we didn’t get stranded in the mangroves. If we could get to the beach, it would be something, because on a holiday weekend, there would be someone there who could lend a hand if it came to that.  Well, we made it, the engine dying as I brought the boat into the beach. Jay didn’t answer his cell phone, and I knew the VHF was switched off, so we decided to stay and enjoy the water and sand and sun while we had a few hours, then figure out how to get home. Surely, by then, Jay would get the message I had left and would know what we should do.

This time, when I parked the dinghy, I made sure she wasn’t going to get stuck on the beach. We checked her every half hour and let out a little slack in the rope keeping her comfortably afloat, but secured to the beach. When it was time to go, everyone was loaded in, lifejackets on, hats on, arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times, push the start button and…nothing. I am not the problem-solver of this family. I am the problem-discoverer (and, occasionally, the problem-causer), but that skill is not very helpful when someone doesn’t hear the cell-phone ringing. I tried to trouble-shoot, but I’m not mechanically inclined, so that made things difficult. I tried asking nicely, but the motor doesn’t speak my language. Finally, I decided we could just manually pump fuel into the darn thing. It started. It ran—hallelujah! We drove home as quickly as was advisable.

If Jay had answered my frantic calls, I would not have had the glorious honor of saying that I had figured it out on my own and gotten us home.  Of course, if he had answered my calls, he would have said, “try tightening the hose clamp” and I would have had to admit that I left my multi-tool at home. Guess what’s going straight into the dinghy emergency bag!  But, of course, the same mishap won’t happen next time. It will be something else. If this keeps up, I’m going to have to write a parody called “50 Ways to Strand Your Dinghy.”

Many of our adventures (if you’ve read any previous entries, you’ll know adventure is simply a euphemism for mishap) begin with Tanya doing something dumb. I have told the following story before, but it is worth repeating in this context.

When I first spent time on a sailboat, I broke something important, by accident, of course, and the result was a forced overnight sail from Key West to Naples. This night sail, full of stars above and phosphorescence in the water below, was so beautiful that I became convinced that I wanted to do this for the rest of my life. So, you could say that a mishap started it all for me. It was the first, but certainly not the last.

My sister would agree with me when I say I wasn’t dealt a great hand in the common sense department. I try to compensate for it with book learning, but no amount of books and articles on sailing and boat-handling compares with common sense to give one the know-how they need on the water. A person, like my husband, with a solid dose of common sense, runs into only a fraction of the embarrassing situations in which I frequently find myself. As for the rest of us, we learn by experience (which is simply a euphemism for pain). My only saving grace is that I am an extrovert, so I usually have a friend around to help me in my distress.

The latest adventure (mishap) involved me and the dinghy. I have learned from previous experience (pain) that you should really secure the dinghy well so that it doesn’t try to drift back out to sea while you’re having an outing on shore. I’ve gotten good at really dragging it up onto the beach and either anchoring it or tying it off to something secure. I took the small ones to the nearby sandy beach on Saturday to enjoy some well-deserved swimming and relaxation, making sure to secure the dinghy well on shore. It was just out of sight, so after about an hour, I had one of the children check it to make sure it was where we had left it. It was.

We then proceeded to have a lovely afternoon, swimming and finding interesting sea life, losing track of time in our enjoyment. We swam, snacked, and made new friends. I forgot entirely about the dinghy, and was blissfully oblivious to the tide. When we were becoming overcooked, I packed everyone up and we headed around the dune to the dinghy. Our newfound friends came along to wish us well and carry some of our things (very kind of them). As we approached, I knew immediately that we were in trouble. The tide, instead of trying to pry our dinghy loose and strand us ashore, had simply crept out and stranded us by leaving our dinghy high and dry. Thankfully, the newfound friends were gracious amid my embarrassment and helped me and the kids drag the darn thing down the beach and through the mud to water deep enough to float her. From there, I continued to wade out (losing both flip flops in the muck—and retrieving them when they floated to the surface) until I could start the motor.

A favorite saying in our home has become “all’s well that ends well,” so that’s where I’ll end it. We made it back safely, and will probably not have to do that again…especially since I just checked the tide tables so I can time the next outing a little bit better!