Fattycakes

My dream sailboat is a Westsail 32. They are extremely rugged, built to sail around the world. Westsails have an unfair reputation for being slow vessels. They're not necessarily slow, they're just very heavy and take a while to build up momentum. Westsails weren't built for day sails. They were built to cross oceans. They have a traditional look reminiscent of old sailing ships. I liked the whole 'round the world idea. I mean, you just never know.

Gorgeous pic of the Westsail Antares. Photo courtesy of Sail Magazine.
http://www.sailmagazine.com/great-lakes-solo

We looked at a few Westails for sale in various locations. San Diego, Seattle, Florida. None of them worked out. We still hadn't sold the powerboat so financing was tricky. The Westsails on the market in our price bracket needed way too much work. The ones in pristine condition were too expensive. I think Jon was nervous about owning a boat built to cross oceans. By now he knew me pretty well and probably figured it was only a matter of time before I started dropping hints about South America and Australia. 

I was still dreaming of Westails when our friend Mark came by our boat. "Hey. Jim's sailboat is for sale and he just lowered the price. It would be a great boat for you guys."

I knew the boat. It was anti-Westsail. It was an old beat-up looking racer. The yellow gelcoat had succumbed to oxidation and was chalky and in need of new paint. The windows were glazed over as if they suffered from a terrible case of cataracts. The non-skid tread on the decks had long ago turned smooth and very slippery.

It was anything but a gorgeous Westsail. It was a 1975 Morgan 36T, built with one purpose, which was to kick ass racing. But I liked Mark and the price was right, so we went over with him to check it out. 

We stepped aboard and I'm pretty sure I grimaced. The poor thing was so ugly from the outside. 

The sliding companionway hatch covered in old adhesive or whateverthefuck.

Cataract window oozing goop. Also, a tiny glimpse of some of the deck issues.

A close-up of the port side.

Okay, yeah. It needed some work. We went inside and it became clear why the outside looked like hell. All money and time had gone toward completely rebuilding the interior, turning the old racer's guts into a comfortable, cozy home. Jim had spent ten years rebuilding the cabin. He lived aboard the boat year round and tailored everything for comfort even in the worst of Boston winters. It had a diesel fireplace, propane stove, big batteries. Marina loses power for a week during a nor'easter? Who cares. We can still cook and be toasty warm. 

The interior was stunning. Gleaming teak-and-holly floor. Gorgeous cabinetry. A galley just perfect for me. A large v-berth for me and Jon, a quarter berth cozy for the kid. Plenty of storage. We'd be giving up some niceties, like a separate enclosed shower, but no matter. 

We were home. 

Her name was Shantih, given to her by a previous owner some decades back. The boat was quite the tank and very beamy. From the right angles she looked almost round. I gave her the nickname Fattycakes. It wouldn't be long before we'd change the name for good.

I didn't get my Westsail, but I got my Fattycakes. When I decided to write a novel about a girl who was preparing to sail around the world, I made her boat a Westsail and lived vicariously through my character. It's one of the things I love most about writing- making the world of the novel any way I want it. In the true-story of my life though, I'm glad we found Fattycakes. She was perfect. 

Blown Away

Our powerboat suited our needs just fine. It was big enough for the three of us, had a nice back deck, a microwave, an upright refrigerator, air conditioning, a television (with cable!) and a fully enclosed shower. We had our own private room with a queen-sized bed and the kiddo had his own separate room with bunk beds and his very own closet. For thirty-six feet it was pretty comfortable. We weren't camping.

We'd been living on the powerboat for a year when a friend of mine invited me and the baby out for a daysail aboard his sailboat. Jon was working and didn't get to witness firsthand the moment I decided we should be sailors.

We went out on the sailboat and at first it wasn't too much different than riding along on a powerboat. We motored out of the marina and past the inner harbor islands, the little inboard diesel engine chugging away. But then we headed into the wind and raised the mainsail. This was a joint effort. Somebody steered, somebody winched up the sail. Once it was up, we killed the engine and unfurled the jib. 

And there was nothing.

No exhaust. No vibrating engine. No shouting.

Instead there was the lapping of wavelets on the hull as we sliced through the sea. There was the whooshing of sail cloth as the sails filled with wind. Halyards clanked rhythmically against the mast. Sea spray kissed our faces. A bell on a buoy rang. I'd known from information provided on navigational charts that certain buoys had bells that rang as the buoys swayed with the sea, but I'd never actually heard them ring over the roar of our powerboat's twin gas engines.

We opened some beers and had a conversation in a normal tone of voice. Everybody had a task. One person would steer while another person would crank the winches during a tack. We had a navigator. A snack and beer fetcher. On the powerboat, Jon would drive and I'd hang out with the baby. It's easy to single hand a powerboat. On a sailboat, everyone is crew. It's a sport and requires teamwork. Even if your job is to stay out of the way and not get your fingers caught in anything, it's still a pretty noteworthy position on the team.

I went home that night to my powerboat and knew it was all over. I'd felt the tug of the sails, heard the pulse of the sea against the hull. I was in love. 

And so it began. 

It wasn't long afterwards that we hung a for sale sign on the powerboat. This was 2010, not long after the economy began its spiral down the shitter. There weren't many buyers lining up for a twenty-five-year-old gas guzzling boat.

Things looked bleak. But then I met her. She was chalky yellow and fat in the midsection and I knew she was going to be mine. Not too long afterward we found a buyer for the powerboat. A new chapter had begun. One of my favorite chapters in our crazy true-story. 

Babes in life jackets

Nothing is cuter than a kid in a life jacket. The way it rides up on their shoulders and squishes their cheeks. The bright colors and ugly cartoon designs. The way the bright colors fade and mold, which is a sure way to tell a live-aboard kid apart from a weekender kid. The weekender kids always have pretty life jackets. The live-aboard kids have life jackets that look like they were fished out of the dumpster.

My kid wore his life jacket pretty much all the time when he was super little and couldn't swim. He wore it less as he got older, but always when the boat was underway and when the docks were iced over and slippery. When he learned how to ride a bike he would often wear his life jacket up to the stretch of sidewalk overlooking our marina and then he'd put on his helmet and I'd look like the most overprotective weirdo parent ever.

It's funny going through his baby pictures. The life jacket is always there, like a security blanket, or a favorite toy.

In hindsight, it's exactly what it was.

I have no idea what is going on here.

There comes a day when every parent realizes their kid isn't a baby anymore. This was my day. We were anchored for the night in the calm, peaceful waters of World's End. By this point my baby was six-years-old and an excellent swimmer. We were jumping and diving off the side of the boat, enjoying the empty anchorage and having a blast. He decided he wanted to try jumping into the Atlantic without his life jacket. It was time to shed the security blanket, toss the favorite toy aside. He stripped down and grabbed his boogie board. He was free to fly.

And fly he did.

"I don't know. Call Howie."

I'm pretty sure when most people make the decision to move aboard a boat they have some sort of boating background. I mean, aside from serving drinks and polishing the brass of a 120' motor yacht and blowing the resulting paychecks on bar tabs. I'm talking about real boating experience. Like how to operate the damn things. How to keep them from sinking or blowing up.

But we don't roll that way. We're impulsive and whimsical. We like to let life surprise us.

Or we're just incredibly stupid.

We moved onto our boat in April. Which is to say that the seller's broker moved the boat for us to our home marina in Charlestown because we didn't know how to move the thing ourselves. The baby and I flew out the next morning and we met Jon via water taxi at the boat. Our new home-sweet-home. We proudly stepped aboard. Jesus, it was cold. And I really wanted to wash my hands to get rid of all the airplane germs. But how do we turn on the water? What electrical outlet do we plug into? Oh, hey! They left the flag. Let's put that out on the stern. There. That looks good and official.

Okay. ***Claps hands***

Water. Electricity.

Um?

Oh God. What did we do?

We moved onto a boat without knowing a single useful thing about boats. I knew the electricity would come via a shore power cord, but I didn't know how to hook it up. I knew we had water tanks, but who the hell knew how to fill them? Not me. I felt a few death stares from Jon. The baby was whiny and cold. Think fast. Think fast.

"Hey. That guy in the office? He seemed really helpful. Was his name Howie? Go ask him if he knows how this works." I made a sweeping gesture at the whole boat and Jon hurried off.

He came back a few minutes later with Howie. Howie looks sea captain tough, like the fisherman on the pack of frozen clams.

Frozen clams guy.

Howie. With a bird. 

He glanced around at me and the helpless shivering baby and our twenty boxes full of shit stacked haphazardly around the boat and he kind of shook his head and sighed. I imagine if it weren't for the shivering baby he would've walked right back up to the office and laughed with everybody about the new idiots who couldn't even hook up a hose. But instead he took pity. He helped us with the basic things needed for survival. He sent a mechanic down to fix our broken bilge pump. He gave us some basic pointers on how to stay afloat for the next few days.

We survived the first night.

I remember waking up surprised that we were still snug in our slip, that when I stepped out of bed I didn't feel water between my toes.

I remember waking up that first morning freezing, because we underestimated how cold Boston was in April. We piled on the blankets and turned all three stove burners on high. Later that day we went grocery shopping and completely stocked our little fridge. And then I accidentally broke the refrigerator's latch which left all of our food locked inside, no way to get it out. Our stove quit working. There were weird smells. The toilet was rebelling. We didn't know how to go about pumping out the holding tank. The baby kept running into things and hitting his head and trying to play with the fire extinguisher.

We didn't know jack shit.

But we made it through day one. And then days two and three. And then a week passed, a month. We had no clue what we were doing but we made it with the help of new friends. I'll never forget the look on Howie's face when he took that first glance around our boat, when he saw our popsicle baby. But he helped us that first day and he continued to help us through the years we spent living at the marina. The staff at Constitution Marina made us feel welcome even though we were clueless morons. In time they'd all become our friends and eventually I'd work alongside them.

We couldn't have done it without the help of friends. It didn't take long to get to know the other live aboards. One of the things I loved best about living aboard is the community, the willingness of everybody to come together and help the helpless.

I still look back on that day and can't help but laugh and feel so incredibly stupid. But we made it. Thanks, Howie.

Flight Risk

Carlsbad, California and a few things it has going for it:

1. Beautiful beaches.
2. Lack of snow.
3. Legoland, which I wouldn't have appreciated seven years ago.
4. Karl Strauss Brewing Company. BEER. Windansea Hefeweizen.
5. The flower fields, which look really cool from the cockpit of a small airplane.
6. Carlsbad airport.
7. Flying into Carlsbad airport over the flower fields in a tiny cramped airplane with a cute flight instructor.

I married that flight instructor a couple years later. And now we have a seven-year-old.

The stewardess gig ended when the yacht went into dry dock for a major refit. I moved back to San Diego and landed a job on a different yacht headed for Mexico. I quit a few weeks later when the captain proved to be a total loony. I might have been young but I was smart enough to realize that going to Mexico with a lunatic at the helm was not conducive to survival.

So instead, I signed myself up for flying lessons. Actually, I had wanted to be a flight attendant* but all the airlines required applicants to be 21. I was 19 and too impatient to get a crappy job while waiting out the two years. I did a little poking around the internet and found that the age minimum for a private pilot's license was only 16. Well, sign me up! Flying the planes was a thousand times better than slinging Cokes in the back.

I took lessons out of Carlsbad airport. After I had about thirty hours I started flying with the cute instructor. He brought up the great idea of doing a few ground lessons at his house. Uh huh. Well played, hubby. Well played. We dated for a couple of years before marrying at my grandparents' house in an awesome backyard ceremony complete with tubs full of Corona and a BBQ dinner.

Hubby in action.

By then the flight instructor was an airline pilot. We were moving back and forth across the country and I couldn't find a flight school I was happy with. I ended up getting my instrument rating and was almost done with my commercial when I unofficially quit.** We wanted to have kids and the stay-at-home mom gig sounded like something I could totally handle.***

We finally settled in Colorado and things were good and domestic. We bought a house when I was a few months pregnant. Adopted a couple of retired racing greyhounds, one who has managed to defy the laws of average greyhound lifespan and is still with us today. We acquired furniture, mowed the lawn, assembled a baby crib. The majority of our family moved from California to Colorado to be closer to us and the baby.

And then it all combusted. The baby was born and he was great. And then he turned one and I turned crazy. I was antsy. I missed flying. I missed boats. I was envious of my husband when he closed the trunk on his suitcase and left for a four day trip. He'd be going places, even if it was only Fresno or Fargo. I missed the ocean. I had this incredible little human and I wanted to raise him in an incredible way. Give him a different life than most kids. Something unconventional. Suburbia felt like drowning, like a slow suffocation. We had to get out.

And so we gave it all up. We pissed everybody off. We sold all of our furniture and rented out the house. We took that sweet little baby and moved to Boston. We moved him to Boston onto a thirty-six foot powerboat that smelled of gas and mold and had rose colored countertops and a million baby hazards. We stayed on the boat year round, through blizzards and hurricanes, through muggy summers and freezing winds.

From two-story house to 36'.

Home-sweet-home. 

We fell in love with Boston. I could strap the baby on my back and wander around the city for hours. I could take the subway anywhere I wanted. Considering that my baby screamed in his carseat like somebody was ripping his toenails out every time we went somewhere, this was a MAJOR bonus. I'd push him up and down the bumpy docks in his stroller every night until he fell asleep. We became members of the New England Aquarium, the Museum of Science and Boston Children's Museum. We went to baseball games. We took our boat out and spent the night at anchor. We made great friends.

We had a blast.

Kiddo and Immortal Greyhound

Me and kiddo

* I ended up getting a job as a flight attendant a few years later. I think I'd rather be a horse shit shoveler. I quit after three months. 

** Hubby is still paying off my flight training loans. ha!

*** Holy shit. 

Hey, let's move aboard a boat!

When I was eighteen I took a job as a stewardess aboard a 120' private yacht. It was a decision made on a total whim. A girl I met had been working on yachts for years and she hooked me up with her crew agency. I interviewed with the captain on a Wednesday, moved aboard that Friday, and by Monday morning we were headed to Alaska from San Diego. My parents thought it was some drug running operation and came to the sad realization that they'd probably never see me again. Trying to talk me out of it would prove pointless. We said our goodbyes and I hopped aboard.

The first twenty-four hours underway were amazing. I stood watch with my fellow crew members, acquainted myself with the boat, settled into the tiny cabin I shared with the other stewardess and the chef. At some point during the second day of our journey I got a little bored. So I grabbed a book. Settled down into my bunk, which was in the bow of the boat. No windows, no fresh air. It was a little cubby of a cabin, slightly bigger than a walk-in closet. Totally cozy. I was in heaven.

And then fifteen minutes later my inner ear completely freaked the fuck out.

Think food poisoning, morning sickness, rotten shellfish and a cheap tequila hangover all at the same time. One minute I was in my bunk reading Memoirs of a Geisha, the next I was wishing I would die. At some point somebody found me and managed to get me into one of the guest cabins. The guest cabins were amidship, the most stable area of the boat. But it was far too late. Seasickness had taken hold. We hit a storm that night and pitched around in ten foot seas and I hugged that toilet for dear life, giving it everything I had and then a little more just because. The captain came down in the middle of the night and slapped an anti-seasickness patch on my arm. He brought news that the rest of the crew, with the exception of himself and one deckhand, were experiencing the same fun as me. He was giving us all patches because he was tired of running the whole shit show by himself. He was especially annoyed because we all lied in our interviews and told him we didn't get seasick.

He also brought news that he expected me to stand watch in the morning. Beautiful.

The next morning, I stumbled up to the bridge for my four-hour watch, feeling about two percent better. I shared watch with a deckhand, a nice enough guy who never shut up. I sat there for four hours listening to his bullshit and wishing he would die. He ate peanut butter crackers. He talked about crab fishing in Alaska and spared me not a single gory detail. He made me do the engine room checks, which basically entailed taking a walk around the two massive diesel engines and making sure they weren't on fire or anything. They belched diesel exhaust and after every check I'd hang over the side of the boat and drool. I was puked out. There was nothing left but guts. I'd crawl back up to the bridge and curl in a ball and dry heave while my watch-mate ate hard boiled eggs and told me his life story.

I survived my watch and stumbled back to my cabin and passed out. I woke up some twelve hours later starving. Somebody had dropped off a bowl of grapes and I devoured every single one of them. I took a shower and tried calling my mom. I went to the galley and made a sandwich. Oh sweet magical patch. I had never been so grateful in my life.

We made it to Vancouver in something like a week. It felt so awesome to be docked, to be able to get off the boat and call my parents. We went out for a celebratory crew dinner that night and someone broke the news to me. I'd have to remove the patch. And when I did I'd likely suffer side effects, a withdrawal if you will. Nausea, fatigue, weakness.

Sonofabitch.

They weren't joking. It took me a few days to detox from the patch. It was like being seasick all over again but we were in amazing Vancouver and I was wrapped around a goddamn toilet, too sick to explore the city.

It was enough to make a weaker person never want to step aboard a boat again. If my future husband was the lucky type I would've caught a plane home the moment I was able to stand without vomiting and sworn off boats forever.

But he isn't the lucky type. I waited until we were good and married, settled in suburban Colorado with a baby who had just turned one. "Hey," I said. "Don't you think it would be awesome to live aboard a boat?"