Hard Aground

I always thought that the sailors' slang "on the hard" to describe a boat stored on land was a bit poetic -- boats would rather be floating and rocking gently. But in this case, it's safe and secure (and bonus! we get to attend to some maintenance.) 

We've packed up to leave the boat before, numerous times. Last summer we packed Every. Single. Thing. off the boat and deep cleaned the empty lockers before storing it on the hard through the hot Florida summer while we went working and traveling on the Santa Maria. A few years before that, we packed our valuables, left a friend in charge, and flew off to Aruba for 3 months. So we're no strangers to leaving for a while. But this time felt different. It felt desolate, and it felt … permanent. The end of an era, or at least of a phase of our lives. We expected the virus to have changed our cruising, we planned less ambitious seasonal treks, even welcomed the idea of staying in one area for a year or two and feeling the rhythm of the seasons again. But I didn't expect to feel like this was the end of our full-time living aboard.

Maybe, it was because all those other times, we were packing off to go to an adventure – sailing on El Galeon or visiting friends and family in Colorado and Alaska or scuba diving the Caribbean or hiking the Rockies. This time we were going from something – hiding from the awful summer heat and humidity since both our first choice way to spend the summaer (sailing El Galeon in Europe) and our second choice (bringing Cinderella to explore the Chesapeake Bay) and our third choice (road trip to the American West) all were quashed by the combination of virus and Dan's diving accident. And the very thing we loved about living in the marina in the middle of downtown St Augustine, the visitors, the vibrancy, the crowded narrow historic streets, was the thing that made the city so dangerous for us now with the risk of infection while we were trying so hard to stay isolated.

The boat had always felt like freedom, and our route to possibility. Now it felt like a constraint, a tether. I felt trapped, chained to a place I didn't want to be. Florida wasn't taking the virus seriously, I didn't feel safe, and I couldn't figure out how to leave. And hurricane season was coming. Next best option: store Cinderella on land, safe (or, statistically safe-er than any other option – nothing is guaranteed when it comes to hurricane season) and we rent a place with a little more space, isolation, and air conditioning until we can move back aboard.

In one of the magical ways networks of cruising friends lead to win-win situations, we rented a lovely townhouse from some friends-of-friends who were planning to spend the summer traveling in their rv. Close enough to come back easily to check up on, or work on, Cinderella where she would be safely hauled out on land for the season; yet calm and quiet and away from the city hustle.

As we wheeled the final load of packages away in a dock cart, I heard behind me the chimes of the ship's clock striking 6 bells, 3 pm. Tugged at my heart, as though Cinderella was saying, “I'll be faithfully waiting for you to return.” I miss you already.

Last week my word of the week was “squander,” – as in, let's not squander all the financial sacrifices our local businesses made during the shutdown, by opening back up too quickly (which Florida likely did anyway). This week it's “wistful” – I miss walking the cobbled streets, the historic Spanish architecture, the gentle rocking of the boat and the view from the cockpit, and I wonder when/if I can go back.

A
Wistful: almost everything I like, and am missing, in one photo -- portraying living history with friends, sailing, Spanish culture. The photo is of the Santa Maria docked in downtown St Augustine. If you zoom in you can just make out the stern of Cinderella off the upper left corner of the foredeck.