From the steps of the companionway, I sit halfway inside, poking my head out to watch seagulls argue over the bread I threw in the water earlier. Their splashing and squawking are the only sounds that override the subtle clanking and creaking of the marina. I inhale deep, filling my nostrils with the aroma of the marina and hold it in my lungs. It isn’t fishy to me. It’s thick, salty air that’s a little humid, and a little bit metallic. But it’s also fresh and clean and constantly changing with every breeze that flows in over the breakwater. I release the breath audibly through my mouth and become aware of the creaking and swaying of Bel Vento’s walls surrounding me in the companionway; almost as if she is taking the sigh with me.
Just below, Dad lights the gimbaled stove and sets a pot of water to boil. My gaze moves from the seagulls to the steam curling up and out the open porthole. There are few things cozy as a galley cooked meal. On tonight’s menu is bowtie pasta, sautéed veggies, and plenty of spices. It’s basic, but nothing a little key-lime olive oil and static jazz on the radio can’t elevate.
Yesterday was the first day of spring— sunny and seventy-five. In classic PNW fashion, all of Seattle crawled out from the caves they’d been dwelling in for the past fiveish months and appeared on every sidewalk with a dog at their heels, or jogging while pushing a stroller. Roads fill up with bicyclists and roller bladers. Meanwhile, us boaters fill up the marina parking lot and wheel toolboxes, jugs, duffle bags, and you-name-it’s down the docks to finally start tackling the winter’s maintenance list.
Dad had recruited my assistance (more like I invited myself) in prepping a few things for the haul out next week. I had been prepared for a day of washing the deck— not so much being crouched in the lazarette poking around filters and wires, or hunched over an exceptionally smelly bilge with hands caked in equally smelly green slime. But I guess that’s just the thing I am always forgetting— that it’s hard to stick to a to-do list on a boat without making new discoveries that require a to-do list all their own. It wasn’t all grime— in between tasks, I practiced reading the barometer and learned how to use a multimeter. And the day did involve plenty of time lounging on deck with bellies full of fish tacos, so I really can’t complain.
Speaking of full bellies, tonight we scrapped the original plan of tackling some of yesterday’s discoveries and decided instead to indulge in our bowls of pasta. We kick back on the teal cushioned bench in the main cabin and cheers our sparkling waters. The conversation meanders from next week’s haul-out plans to galley recipes, podcast ideas, places to go, and somehow lands on how much we love our grandparents.
Before I know it, the dishes have been washed with filtered water Dad boiled (he shut off the water due to, as noted earlier, mysteriously clogged filters), and I am in standing groggily over the sink in the tiny aft head with a toothbrush in my mouth. I glance in the mirror and smile— I seem more like my carefree six year old self here than anywhere else… although I’m sure my recent short haircut probably has a lot to do with that. I’ll always be grateful for growing up on and near the water, in various floating spaces, and being connected to the natural elements around me. Some of my earliest and happiest memories have taken place in these settings.
Thus is life of the liveaboard— you live and breathe in the balance of maintenance, tranquility, and excitement. Jimmy Buffett says it best that there’s just “somethin’ ‘bout a boat”. There really is some kind of life in the warm wood interior, the little nooks and crannies, the small one-body berth that I will crawl into and soon be rocked to sleep in. Something about waking up to brace the morning chill and warming up by a space heater sipping an instant coffee. Not to mention the tiptoeing by seals that have laid themselves between you and the marina showers on your long walk down the dock. Something about living in the simplicity, minimalism, and the anticipation of adventure all feels right. My blood pressure lowers, and my anxious thoughts suddenly quiet down.
I can’t help but feel a sense of gratitude towards Bel for having me aboard. For solo sailors like my dad, the connection runs deeper. The boat is less a vessel that takes you places, and more a companion working with you to get there. You and your boat and the elements together have the potential to form a beautiful harmonious relationship. I feel a little bit of that harmony, myself, though much of my time with Bel takes place at the dock these days. Every time I say “hello Bel!” upon stepping down below, or I take a deep breath with her in the companionway, or pat her bow railing goodbye on my way out. And every time, much like tonight, that I cozy up in my sleeping bag on that tiny bunk with a belly full of pasta to be rocked by her to sleep, and to do the whole thing over again tomorrow.