One female and one male crew needed for a one week to four week sail from Florida heading north. The female will sail with Teresa and her adorable cat, Dory, aboard Daphne. The male crew will sail with Benji and his smelly feet aboard Elizabeth.
You will be compensated with chilly nights, tight accommodations, and most certainly an adventure like none other.
Must be an adult in average or better physical condition, non-smoker, not allergic to cats. You will be expected to take part in all the daily responsibilities aboard including steering, navigating, standing watch, cooking, and anchoring, to name a few.
No experience is required, only an adventurous spirit. Must be comfortable in uncomfortable situations.
Expected departure date is April 2nd. Please respond by sending a detailed email to teresa@sailingsimplicity.com explaining why you are the crew we are looking for. Please attach a resume and references.
Sincerely,
Teresa, Ben, and Dory
I recently happened upon a sailing magazine while taking pause during a downpour and killing time in a boating store. The magazine’s focus was small sailboats and pocket cruisers. “Look at this,” I said to Ben, my partner and fellow pocket cruiser enthusiast, handing him a copy. We loved the magazine! Finally, a publication that spoke directly to our interests and to captains of vessels like ours–small enough to still know that Poseidon will test the heart as he will, and utilitarian enough to still require baths be taken overboard! These are the simple sacrifices in safety and comfort traded for closer quarter with Mother Nature.
I looked to their website for more information, clicking on their “About Us” link. Again, much of what I read there spoke to me directly. But one thing there struck me as somewhat brassy.
One of the editors writes his opinion by stating, “A 14-foot mini-cruiser is minimalist. A 19ft is comfortable, and anything much larger than a 25 borders on ostentatious.”
This comment was followed up by a claim of being a “minimalist at heart.”
Yet being a minimalist is always and only resident in the heart. There exists no true metric for how big, how much or how many–nor some golden mean alerting us to when we may have strayed from such a set of supposed ideals. The reasons for which people own and enjoy their boats are as diverse as the owners themselves. One cannot look upon your things or your life, and taking measurements determine whether you are a minimalist or showboater. It is the conscious exercise to hold less, to have less, to desire less–this is what leads to needing less. One’s efforts to strip away the excess and thrive with the fundamentals, will differ from one individual to the next.
One can sleep in an open rowboat with a leaky tarp for protection, or make a bed out of an open canoe, or even build up a staunch mound of snow for shelter. I’ve been there–and enjoy those challenges. I can understand the beauty and authenticity offered by that way of life. But, after my week-long, or month-long, or much longer adventure I’ve always returned to a home with a proper bed and a hot shower awaiting me. I didn’t need less to understand the beauty of less. And yet I continue to wonder what lies over the horizon of that so-called minimalist life.
Now I live aboard my 27ft sloop Daphne with sparingly few things. It’s not a house, but it is my home. It is not a car, but I travel a blue road. And there is no flush toilet or shower, fancy navigational electronics, television, etc. But regardless of Daphne’s size (she could be half her length for this comparison), I still don’t call myself a minimalist. Somewhere there drifts always a smaller boat, always a lighter way to pack it.
Throughout my personal process of downsizing and reduction, I have come to understand that minimalism is a continuous process of the mill grinding finer and finer. I am still consciously attached to some guilty pleasures, but I have happily shed or stowed many. And so I continue to practice my brand of minimalism–an effort that is best described as a process.
It had been a long day of working and a relaxing dinner with Benji was overdue. We put away our projects, cleared the small table, and began to unload the icebox to see what ingredients we had for a meal. With the clouds filling the sky blocking any power from being generated by a sunbathing solar panel, I had to turn the refrigerator off. The two bags of ice were melting, filling the icebox so that the lettuce, jar of pickled okra, dark chocolate bar, clementines, and other food items were bobbing up and down in the pool of melted ice.
Benji emptied the icebox and bailed out the water with a small cup. Then, carefully replacing the items in the icebox, he left on the counter those that would make a dinner. Lettuce, tomato, a lemon, garlic, parsley, tahini, honey, an onion, and raw goat cheese. Salad topped with my special homemade dressing.
While Benji was chopping the lettuce, I began pulling in my inflatable kayak. The weatherman predicted a lot of rain tonight and I didn’t want it to fill with water. I could put it in the cockpit of Daphne turned over like the last time it rained, so that the water would drip off the hull. But instead, I deflated the entire kayak, folded it, and stuffed it low into the cockpit, a decision that would ultimately save the kayak.
I glanced to the west. “Here comes the rain,” I said to Benji. He poked his head out of the companionway doors. We watched the rain approach, and as it came closer and closer it began to appear more and more strange. We heard the rain before we felt it. We could see the wall of water streaking across the sky in horizontal sprays creating a perfect squall line like a curtain of weather. We were on one side of the curtain. The safe side. The dry side.
I watched in awe as the squall moved toward us at a quickening pace. Then, in an instant it hit. Wind, water, and wave all at the same time. Daphne heeled over in reverence to the incredible force of nature. “What’s going on?” I shouted to Benji. Nothing made sense. Never has Daphne behaved like that while at anchor. Her gunwale dipped into the ocean scooping water into the cockpit. The bicycle on my cabin top blew from the deck. I thought for a moment it would be blown overboard, but the shrouds stopped its momentum.
I looked off to starboard at the large blue-hulled cutter anchored next to me. We were facing each other. Bow to bow. “Why are our boats sitting opposite like this?” I shouted. Again, nothing made sense. “I have to get to my boat.” Ben yelled. The rain was beating down loudly and I was soaked through and shivering. But my adrenaline, running as high as giraffe’s eye, kept me going without noticing my discomfort.
I helped Ben pull his dinghy closer and hold her steady as he lowered himself in. Through the corner of my eye I saw the blue-hulled boat moving rapidly, like she was underway and heading out to sea. In a matter of seconds, she had turned and drifted over one-hundred yards. Ahead of me, another sailboat, over twice the size of Daphne drifted toward me.
“Cast me off.” Benji yelled. “You are!” I lied. I wanted to see Benji row before I tossed the painter into his dinghy. I needed assurance that he could row in this wind. Flashing in my mind’s eye was Ben and his dinghy, blown far away from shore, lost, cold, and in danger. The story of Howard Blackburn’s bravery while lost at sea in his dory is my favorite tale to tell, but I didn’t want to be telling a similar yarn about Benji. “Cast me off!” He yelled again. “You are,” I shouted back. I could see he was struggling to row, but with almost superhuman effort he began making forward progress. I cast him his line and turned away to tend to Daphne.
I grabbed the keys to my engine and put them in the ignition. Moving quickly, I pulled down the bimini, which was catching to much wind sending Daphne on a crazed chase as she sailed, tacking back and forth on her anchor. Wadding it into a ball I shoved it into the head. A single jerry jug rapidly floated away. After I had checked Daphne’s anchor and made sure she was clear of any drifting boats, at least for the moment, I began preparing for the rest of the evening and more winds to come.
But something wasn’t right. Where was Dory? Like a good sailor in an intense moment my first thought was to secure the boat. “Take care of the boat, and she will take care of the crew” in some way is every good sailor’s motto. But after Daphne was secure, I began to worry about Dory. He likes to sunbath on the cabin top, but there had been no sun. When it rains he hides under the dodger, but before the squall hit there had been no rain. For a brief moment I wondered if the wind had carried him away. Brushing that thought aside, I looked in the head which happens to be his favorite and secure place to hunker down, second only to the aft cabin which was closed tightly. That is where I found him. I slipped the cover over the kitty door and locked the head so that Dory could not get out. Knowing he was secure, and the weather was finally giving quarter, I continued my work of cleaning up the mess and preparing Daphne for the next blow.
If more boats were going to drag, I needed to be prepared to stay warm and dry while working on deck. I envisioned myself weighing the anchor with panic in my eyes as the boat ahead of me dragged closer. With that in mind, I pulled layers of fleece, wool socks, hats, mittens, and a blanket from the aft cabin and stowed them forward. I stripped off my soaked clothes and layered on long underwear and a wool sweater under my foul weather gear. Then went on deck to survey the situation.
I could hear sirens coming from shore. I could see people in their dinghies collecting items that had gone adrift. A catamaran pulled into the anchorage with shredded sails. I noticed the boat ahead of me was firmly aground and the tide was falling. It offered some security that it wouldn’t drag on top of me. Down below dinner was everywhere. I scooped it up from the cabin sole, shoved it into the sink and dialed my friends aboard the blue-hulled boat. “How are you doing?” I sung out. My voice was as turbulent as the weather. “Are you guys ok?” She answered me calmly, “Yea, we’re ashore having dinner with our friends.” I was surprised. I thought they were on their boat. In an instant I recounted the entire story and suggested they get to their boat soon. I had just hung up the phone when I saw their tender en route. Then I hailed Benji on the radio.
The next day we learned that all over the city the winds in those few minutes were recorded at speeds from 60 to 70 mph. If I had been out to sea, surely I would be returning with shredded sails like the catamaran I saw. No one expected the wind would be that strong. We were all taken aback by the sudden blow. NOAA radio predicted as much as 30 knots but it was almost twice that speed. Daphne’s anchor held fast.
I have been challenged many times before. And in my excitement, even in those moments when I am worried for my boat, myself, and my cat, I know that this is exactly what I sought when I gave up my life of comfort and security. While others were in their homes, warm and dry, I was shivering and soaked. A shiver more authentic than one felt when selecting ice cream at the supermarket. A soaking more deep than a splash in a cold bath. But I don’t want a life aboard with only fair winds and calm seas, and I can only pray that the challenges I am given are ones that I am prepared for and that I have my camera on and ready!
Thoreau went into the woods because he “wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if he could not learn what it had to teach.” His cabin in the woods is like my Daphne.
Sailing, Simplicity, and the Pursuit of Happiness plays on one of the most famous phrases in the Declaration of Independence that states that three of our unalienable rights are Life, Liberty, and the Pursuit of Happiness. Through my journey and time spent writing on this blog, I hope to examine my life dreams within the context of American culture and the so-called “American Dream.”
My original goal was to fill the blog with discussions on Voluntary Simplicity and how current cultural issues play a role in a sense of liberty or happiness. But, if you have been following, then you know that I’ve taken a deeper interest in only sharing my experiences with you and how I feel about them, nothing else involved. I regret that I haven’t even mentioned “Voluntary Simplicity,” a topic that interests me.
Here is a brief history on Voluntary Simplicity:
Voluntary Simplicity is a lifestyle that is characterized by living with only the essentials. The various ways people determine the essentials in a simple lifestyle differ as much as the people themselves. It is not how much money you have, earn, or spend, but rather a values-based lifestyle that cannot be measured by any standard metric. People choose Voluntary Simplicity for all sorts of reasons including; spirituality, environmental protection, freeing time to enjoy life, social justice, conservation, reducing consumption, and personal taste.
“We can describe voluntary simplicity as a manner of living that is outwardly more simple and inwardly more rich, a way of being in which our most authentic and alive self is brought into direct and conscious contact with living.” Duane Elgin
The name “Voluntary Simplicity” was first given to this lifestyle in a book written by Richard Gregg in the mid 1930s. Almost fifty years later, Duane Elgin published his book by the same title, which became highly influential and a main source about Voluntary Simplicity.
I wrote to Mr. Elgin last fall and asked if I could speak to him for a few minutes, but he said he didn’t have the time. So, instead, I’ve turned to a few of the many other great models to learn about this way of living such as; St. Francis, Budda, Thoreau, Abby, or the Nearings to name a few.
“Go confidently in the direction of your dreams! Live the life you’ve imagined. As you simplify your life, the laws of the universe will be simpler.” Henry David Thoreau
Where I sailed from there is a friendly face on every corner. While stopped in Gloucester I saw a used condom on every street corner. In New Jersey there was a hair salon on every corner. Here there is a character on every corner. It’s a continuous parade of people dressed in their city life costumes. I see short skirts and tall boots. A pink hair and pierced cheek woman walking a dog on a leash. A dog walking a dog on a leash. A mother walking their child on a leash. A man walking a man on a leash. Another man wears a snake as a shawl.
Pacing up and down the streets of the city, my small town eyes marvel at the spectacle. I have been away from the so-called “real world” for a while.
Will city life drown my spirit?
I can’t afford to fit in here. I don’t have the money, space, or desire to buy tall black boots, short skirts, sleeveless shirts, or fancy phones used as best friends and accessories. So instead, I took the change collecting in the bottom of my coin purse and treated myself to some black fingernail polish.
Just before Christmas I returned to my hometown in Michigan where all my family gathered for a celebration. “Go Tell in on the Mountain” played from the stereo, snow piled in the yard, and Grandma’s Curry simmered on the stovetop. One by one everyone started arriving. Aunt, uncle, sissy, brother-in-law, nieces, nephew, cuz, mom, dad, grandma, grandpa, friends, and pets. And those that couldn’t be there in reality where there virtually. My mother awaits at the door for each arrival, then whoops and screams when the door opens throwing her arms around the guest. Dad, close by, extends his hand.
“I’m not a kissing person.” He once told me. “But your mother’s entire family is. I remember when I started dating her. I walked into the room and it sounded like a platoon of men marching through a swamp. Their feet getting stuck in the mud, and as they lift each foot, ‘Smmaaack, smmmmaaaackkkk!’ Everybody kisses…and they kiss on the lips!” But extending his hand doesn’t always work, so he puckers up too.
We aren’t just a kissing family. We are a laughing family, a sleep-in late family, a loud talking family, and a Pictionary family. Its always late at night when we sit down to play. The game began with Uncle Denny trying to demonstrate “Dirty Dancing” instead of drawing it, and me hollering to him across the table, “This is Pictionary not Charades!” That was the kick off for the competitive spirits and loud voices. This year, Niece Haeli joined the game as a full team member. On her turn, we would all quiet down, turn toward her, and wait to see if after she read the word, she knew what it was. “Yes, I know what it is,” she told me, “I don’t need any help. The timer turned over, and we all began to draw. In just under ten seconds Uncle Denny won the round by identifying correctly Marissa’s masterpiece.
The word was nipple. We all turned to Haeli to see what she had drawn. “Oh,” my mother said, “that must be the baby bottle, and the nipple on top.”
“No!” said Haeli. I could see in her eyes the frustration. Her drawing obviously depicted the word better than Marissa’s. “That’s the fish,” she said pointing to the paper, “and that is the fish food. The fish nibbles the food.” Another round of laughter. Loud laughter.
The highlight of the holiday was baby Dominick, the new addition to the family, and the first boy following my father’s five daughters and granddaughters. Yet he still calls Dominick a “she” instead of a “he.” “It will take some time for me to get used to it,” he said, “I’ve always been surrounded by girls.”
There was a lot to celebrate. Haeli dancing for us, baby Tessa singing her original composition of “Charlie the Santa Clause.” Marissa actually making a dinner. Aunt Angie receiving an award for her business. Grandma in good health. A table full of food. And a well decorated tree. But eventually the tree comes down, and we all return to our own homes.
When I returned to my boat, it looked like the loser in a food fight. There was gull poo everywhere, things I had taken off the deck and stowed in the cabin blocked any attempt to walk in or sit down, and the condensation watered a garden of mold on the cabin walls. But Daphne smelled like boat, and that smells like home. Then the dominoes began to fall and things stopped working. First, the engine, then Dory’s bladder, then my debit card. Now, begins the transition from living simply, in harmony with nature to finding a balance of simple living and city life as I settle in and look for a job, community, and a home.
For those of you who have been following on Facebook, thank you for your support during Dory’s illness and ER visit. He is much, much better now, and currently sunning on the cabin top. If you would like to follow more of my journey, click here or on the Facebook icon on the right join FB and become a fan.
Dory, home from the hospital and with a bandage from his IV.
Apparently everyone has a personal destiny. One where their greatness tangoes in perfect step with meaningful purpose and arrives upon a masterpiece that will be remembered long after the individual is forgotten.
I doubt most of us find our personal destiny. I haven’t found mine yet. It certainly isn’t to sail about, blogging, and taking on jobs here and there. There is something more. A further horizon. A bigger challenge. A more meaningful purpose. So today, in hopes of finding my personal destiny, I began a deeper search.
My first inquiry was with a source that many of us often turn to. It wasn’t elders or teachers or spiritual leaders. My guru was Google. And you know what I learned? You can discover your personal destiny for just $24.99! But since I don’t have $24.99 I’ll keep Googling.
This article was featured on the front page of a Northern Michigan newspaper.
I have been exploring other creative sides lately and playing a bit with video making. I have made several and decided to make a short one for this blog. Life Aboard SV Daphne can be found on my SailingSimplicity YouTube channel, or on the side bar of this blog. Let me know what you think!
Teresa
