Adventures in Homeschooling

First things first. Kinsale is fine. She and her sister boats here in the marina weathered Tropical Storm Isaac just fine, thanks to a steering low pressure front south of Cuba and some dry air choking off circulation on the north side of the storm. Unfortunately for folks in Louisiana, Hurricane Isaac wasn't as kind. It's the damnable truth about hurricanes -- your fortune is another's misfortune.

Once the skies cleared, the kids and I returned to the boat, sans our captain. John was able to fly on Tuesday for his military duty in Georgia so the kids and I packed up and returned home (to the boat). But first, we visited an awesome teacher supply store in Miami to get subject review books. You see, I always thought of myself as a rebel, a bit of an anarchist. Turns out I'm actually a compulsive rule-follower.

Call it wisdom, call it midlife. I found myself on the eve of the start of school, panicked by the thought that my children were not engaged in any academic pursuit whatsoever, unless you consider Club Penguin and fighter pilot games academic. I do not. As the week wore on and we still hadn't settled on a curriculum, my fear that they would land in truck-driving school grew. (No offense to truck drivers intended.) Imagine my relief, then, when we finally made the decision last Sunday about what curriculum to use, and then my renewed horror when we were told we couldn't start until SEPTEMBER 24! Unacceptable! I pictured three more weeks of IQ-sucking iPad slothfulness and felt the weight of my parental neglect heavy on my shoulders. It was time to DO SOMETHING! Off we went to 'Get Smart' and $135 later, I left with a stack of books and restored parent cred. Priceless. So determined was I to redeem myself that I made the kids do their first lessons in the car on the way down to the boat. It was a blessedly quiet, serene three-hour drive! Wednesday morning, our first official day of school, found us under the tiki hut with a 15-knot wind blowing in from the southeast, a welcome alternative to the steamy confines of the boat.

Besides the books, the kids got out their pocket microscopes and observed a few things. The small cup below holds what I thought were jellyfish larvae, but my kids say it's not, although they have yet to determine what creature those little brown dots are.

They also tried to look at a moon jelly fish but would have had to kill it to get it in focus, so we let it go. But here's a look at a moon jellyfish from Google Images.

Turns out the plastic table top was pretty fascinating under the scope too! But I digress. You would think that being able to do school under a tiki on a beach in Key West would inspire such gratitude that the process would be flawlessly smooth, right? The cold, hard truth is school is school, even on a beach. That first day was a bit rough. What should have taken maybe three hours took five. The kids were tired and crabby. I was tired and crabby. But they did it, and on Thursday morning, they emerged from the boat, books and pencils in hand, ready to start the day's schoolwork -- without my even asking! Which just underscores that transitions are tough, even if they're transitions to something really, really good. It takes time to find your way through change, something John and I are all too familiar with.

The homeschooling we're doing now is review -- 5th grade for Ian; 2nd grade for Eve. I tell myself it's what they would be doing in regular school right now anyway, but I still have this nagging sense that the we're falling behind. As novices, we didn't realize that the materials we picked wouldn't be available to us immediately. In today's wired, "overnight-it" world, how is THAT possible? That was just one of many lessons we learned while navigating the labyrinth that is homeschooling.

As in other pursuits, there exists a broad range of philosophy and intensity among people who choose to homeschool. Some, like us, see it as a short-term stop-gap solution, either because they need a certain flexibility in lifestyle (we do) or because they aren't content with a particular teacher or school and don't have other viable options. These folks generally buy a curriculum, either online or on paper, and implement it. In our case, we've chosen a streaming video approach because neither John nor I can do the instruction and work our jobs. At the other end of the spectrum are people, who for a myriad of reasons, are passionately committed to the concept of home education, people who create an entire curriculum based around their personal philosophies and life situations, and create their own standards for learning. It sounds great, but it's a TON of work, first to figure out what to teach and then to teach it. And it's overwhelming for newbies. Thankfully, there are a lot of homeschool parents who are generous with their knowledge and advice, and that certainly helped us figure out a direction, but the path wasn't linear.

As states go, Florida is fairly lenient about homeschooling: there are no specific standards you have to follow and you just have to demonstrate that your child has made progress at grade level. And that's assuming they ask. If no one requests paperwork, Ian and Eve could step right back into public school next fall without any scrutiny of how they spent this last academic year. That should make it easier, but it doesn't. Figuring out the "right" approach is difficult when you aren't certain what the right approach is. Do we focus on traditional education standards? Do we focus on the enriched learning that a liveaboard life brings? And whatever we choose, it has to be a self-directed program since we can't provide the bulk of the instruction ourselves. One option we seriously considered was free virtual school through the state of Florida, but we soon realized that it was like being in school at home. That is, it was more of a scheduled, regimented program than we wanted. Another option was fully self-directed, independent study and completely self-contained (they do all the grading), and it was academically rigorous, with a 5th-grade pre-test that I probably couldn't pass. It was $6,000!

What we eventually figured out is that there is a sizable middle ground. For us, it was buying the same curriculum the kids were using in school these past several years (thankfully available for homeschooling) and supplementing with enrichment activities about marine biology, weather, astronomy and, for my budding paleontologist Eve, dinosaurs. That solved the standards issue for us, and the streaming video/independent study format took care of the instruction conundrum. Maybe if we continue this lifestyle we'll go a bit more avant garde, but for now we're content knowing we're keeping the ever-present spectre of truck-driving school at bay.

Awaiting Isaac

Here are pictures of Kinsale, battened down for the approaching storm: Main sail lashed down, extra fenders along starboard, doubled bow and stern lines and a "fail-safe" line to port in case the stern lines on that side fail as we expected winds to be from that direction. Ten dock lines in all to hold her fast. We've tied down or removed loose lines and cleared anything that could clog our cockpit drains.

The yellow shore power cord running down the starboard side of the boat will be removed just ahead of the storm so we can keep our batteries as charged as possible, ensuring that the bilge pump can do its job of keeping the boat from filling with water and sinking should cockpit drains plug or a through-hull fail.

Whether Isaac is going to be a hurricane or a tropical storm remains to be seen. And the forecast track continues to shift -- first west, then back east, then west again -- as does the intensity with each National Hurricane Center Advisory.

Since we arrived home from the boat yesterday, we've experienced waves of squally weather from moisture pushed out ahead of Isaac, a good trial run for tomorrow, when the storm should start having impact on our neighborhood here in Miami. Ian and Eve are ready, in their self-constructed "hurricane hole" in the hall outside Ian's bedroom:

They are spending the night there, with plans to provision the space tomorrow for the approaching storm. As for our house, we've made the decision not to put up storm shutters because right now our winds are projected at "just" tropical storm strength (between 39 and 72 mph). The marina was feeling the effects today, so we'll be in touch with friends there to get reports on local conditions in the day ahead. The boat is as prepared as it likely could be. Now we wait.

Godspeed, Kinsale.

Alternate Reality

Last Sunday, we buttoned up the boat, loaded the cars and headed back to the mainland for a week of "reality." I had a full schedule of meetings and John, a long list of projects to complete. That was before Isaac. Currently Tropical Storm Isaac  is taking a bead on Key West, although we're hopeful its projected track continues to slip west, as it's been doing all day.

Still, with tropical storm force winds extending out 145 miles from the eye, it's pretty certain Key West -- and our little Kinsale, a mere 8 miles from the Southernmost Point -- will feel some effects. Thus, we've hired an overnight babysitter and come down for date-night-turned-boat-prep fun.

We've taken stock of our dock lines, consulted a few knowledgeable sailor friends (thank you Mark!) and loaded up on fenders, those cushy things that hang over the side to keep boats from whacking into each other. We have a plan, and we're buoyed by the optimism of folks here, who've weathered more hurricanes than I can count. Conventional wisdom at the dock suggests it'll be a little wind, a bit of rain and not much more. Still, we have to prepare for Armageddon, knowing that when we leave tomorrow (Friday), what happens to our vessel is up to fate.

I know that sounds dramatic, but it feels that way right now. Before, when hurricanes threatened the Keys, we fretted, sure. But our home was in Miami, and the boat was this cool place we got to visit from time to time. It felt distant and unfamiliar. Now that we've made a decision to live here and build a life here, it feels like we've got so much more to lose. Surely the fates wouldn't deny us now that we've finally made the leap? (I keep hearing Alanis Morrisette in my head singing, "Isn't it ironic?")

Before all this trouble in the tropics began percolating, this week was our first trip back to the house since our experiment began. Driving up through the Keys last Sunday, I realized that unlike previous boat weekends, I wasn't feeling the great sense of anticipation to be going "home" that I usually had by Islamorada, in the upper Keys and about an hour south of our house. I wasn't completely sad either, knowing that the air conditioner would work and the bed would be huge. But I never felt the relief that I had on past trips. When we stepped through the front door, it was as if we were walking into a friend's house to visit. Everything looked huge and luxurious. The lights illuminated the room, the TVs glowed and the appliances hummed happily along. It was familiar and comfortable. And still I felt like a ghost in my own house.

That feeling has abated in the days since, but I find myself more tense and less able to focus there. A series of stress dreams (where you're trying to get somewhere and you can't) left me more exhausted after a night's sleep there than after a full day at the boat. Maybe that's because when we're at the boat, the visual noise is more limited, or because I don't have the unfinished or untouched projects hanging over me like I do on land. There is a simplicity here that I crave, although truth be told, there's enough unattended-to maintenance on our boat to keep us busy well past the turn of the calendar. But unlike at our house, it's not on display as publicly nor is it quite the same mark of one's character, so letting it slide is easier.

Being here without the kids feels strange, too. When John and I could occasionally slip away for a grown up visit to the boat, coming here without them was easy to process. Since the move, they are so much a part of the team that makes living here work that I feel a tinge of regret that we didn't bring them down to help with boat preparations. They would have appreciated the chance to be part of something so important to our family. Now it feels a bit empty without their excitement and wonder and running commentary. The sky tonight is an amazing web of planets and stars with a half-full moon hanging solemnly in the west. Were they here, I'm certain they would be using their iPad stargazing app to see just what's going on up there. So I keep reminding myself that this one missed night will be more than made up in the weeks and months ahead.

Tomorrow we set to work on storm prep, then we'll make our way back to Miami and the kids. We'll be feverishly watching weather updates and once the storm passes, we'll get updates from our friends here at the marina. If the weather's all clear, the kids and I will head down mid-week, while John is away on military travel. And so begins our commuter life. But as long as this is the destination we're commuting from, I'm happy. 

The Sothams take to the water...

What an amazing day! Today, we got checked out to captain one of our sailing club's 19-foot O'Days, pictured below.

It was a simple test: run upwind, round a couple markers, sail back downwind and dock. Just one hitch: no engine! Oh, and a fickle breeze blowing through the little bight we were sailing in. Still, after a few extra tacks than more masterful sailors would have needed, we made a fairly smooth docking, got the blessing of the club instructor, loaded kids and cooler aboard, and pushed off again. There ensued five mostly peaceful, thoroughly satisfying hours on Gulf waters during which all four of us alternated manning the tiller and the sails. Turns out our kids are natural sailors. I think they're going to take to this life just fine.

Sailing this little boat, in my opinion, was far harder than sailing our 30-footer, and not just because it lacked the mechanical assist that our sneezy Atomic Four engine provides us in light air. It seems like little boats are more subject to the various forces that act on any vessel on the water: wind, current, waves, wake, movement aboard. In light air, as we had for some parts of our trip today, that makes for particularly challenging sailing. But we learned. As I told the kids, anybody -- truly -- can take a boat out, throw up sails and figure out how it works by trial and error....if I turn this way, I go faster; that way, slower. Many a sailor learned this way, including some that go around the world. The challenge is learning enough to be safe and efficient. I'm certain our trip wouldn't have been five hours if we had done some things differently, but I'm ok with that. I would rather spend the time now learning the hard way on my own than having an instructor tell me each move to make. I'm a tactile learner (some might argue a slow one too!), and it's going to sink in so much more this way.

The real comedy of the day came when we tried to anchor. Now, we can count on one hand the times we've anchored a boat ourselves, so proficient we are not. Our plan was to anchor just off shore, have some lunch and then snorkel a bit before heading in. Ah, the best laid plans of mice and men... We got the anchor out, untangled the line, came up with our approach and deployed said anchor. But we could never get the boat in the right position and spent a more than few crazy minutes bobbing in circles while we experimented with which position might actually take us in a direction that would set the Danforth in the sandy bottom just 10 or so feet below. I'm sure we were a source of amusement and happy hour stories for the jet skiers and boaters who passed us as we thrashed about. After 30 minutes, we decided we didn't need to anchor after all -- we could simply dine underway in a freshening breeze. I thought the kids would be really disappointed, but they were so focused on the sailing, they didn't seem to mind.

Of course, being a foodie, I had packed a small Styrofoam cooler with lunch for all of us. But when we brought it into the cockpit, the lid promptly blew off over the transom and started riding waves into the distance. MAN OVERBOARD DRILL! With Evie at the tiller, we executed a perfect retrieval and had a jubilant celebration. We had done it! We saved the man in the water -- well, the top of our cooler, but the principle is the same. Considering our dismal failure with the anchor, this was a welcome change of fortunes.

Cooler lid back aboard, we had lunch and set our course to return to the dock. This became increasingly challenging as the wind died down just as we approached the narrow channel we had to traverse to get back to the dock. A steady stream of power boats of all size and configuration were coming and going, so we needed to be sure we could get through without obstructing the right of way. We spent some time sculling -- working the tiller back and forth to propel the boat until we could catch some air -- and some time paddling, and even still, we found ourselves pushed by the current and shifting wind toward a dock. In our haste to keep ourselves away from it, we lost a pair of sunglasses overboard, but we managed to gain some speed, regain steerage and tack through the channel. Once in the bight, we had to repeat the sculling and paddling when the winds completely fell out, but we made it back to our dock, heroes in the eyes of our kids. They were proud of us, and proud of themselves, too. They're looking forward to sailing lessons at the club this fall, and I'm looking forward to seeing them grow in skill and confidence, and knowing the choice we've made to be here is part of the reason they can.

When John and I first hatched this crazy idea, I was afraid to tell the kids -- or anyone else for that matter -- much about it. I didn't want to create an expectation I wasn't sure we had it in us to fulfill. After all, there are several leaps of faith we had to take to get here. Once we started talking about it and they became interested, I felt a responsibility to deliver on our promise, to show them that their parents could take risks, could do what they said they were going to do. I didn't want to be the parents that were always planning something for "some day." Today we did that. They -- and we -- see our future much more clearly after these first two weeks here. We're anxious to get our genoa (sail at front of boat) back up and working so we can start practicing on Kinsale. And we've set two goals to keep us moving forward.

First, by Christmas, sail to Bahia Honda State Park about 20 miles back up the island chain and drop anchor for a few days. It's a good first attempt, but there's a lot we still need to know and practice, including navigation. It's amazing how hard it is to discern landmarks and way points just a few hundred yards offshore. Then, by this time next year, sail with a another boat or group of boats to the Dry Tortugas, about 70 miles West of where we are now. I'm told it's a great sail and an awesome place to visit, although there are no amenities, so we have to haul our own water and food in what would be our first real cruising experience.

Before we do either one, we have to make it through our to-dos -- mechanical, technical and personal. But it helps to have the marker in place. Otherwise, we'll just be "running over rough ground," looking down to make sure we don't stumble and not seeing what's in the distance.

Tomorrow, we head back to Miami for a bit. I have a week of meetings, and John has some projects waiting for him. The kids and I will return next Sunday; John the Sunday following, after a week in which he trades in his five-day beard and fishhook necklace for the life of a tight-assed colonel. I will have to actually wear shoes, make up and a bra. We're both dreading it. We don't want to leave the life we've created here, even for a short while, and I suppose that's a good thing. If we hated it already, I imagine we'd be excited to leave. That being said, we're about 5% thrilled to be sleeping on real mattresses in real air conditioning, but I'm going to miss the sway my equilibrium has acquired these past two weeks and the view out our companionway:

I've no doubt the kids will be glad to have real TV and their "stuff" around them up at the Miami house, but I know they'll miss the daily snorkel trips and lobstering (for practice, right now) and other treasures from the sea:

(Partial conch shell found under the Boca Chica Channel bridge on a recent kayaking trip.)

I don't know many kids who would be as content as they are to do without TV and toys and reliable air conditioning. Yet we managed to have fun even in this small space, playing board games and musical instruments at night:

They, more than anything else, make this adventure possible with their great attitudes and flexibility, their trust in us and their embrace of our less-not-more philosophy. I hope we're worthy of their admiration; they are certainly worthy of ours.

 More pictures from the Key West Sailing Center:

It's a matter of interpretation....

Shortly after I sent around this blog address to a few friends and family members, my sister-in-law Brenda wrote to ask me why I called it an experiment and not an adventure. Since I pride myself on my nearly inexhaustible sense of optimism, I've been ruminating on that one for some time, and I think I finally know the answer. So here it is, Bren: An experiment either is or isn't, it happens or it doesn't. There is no gray area, no subjectivity of thought muddled by optimism or pessimism. Simply put, whether or not my family's experience here is an adventure is matter of interpretation, and as we all know, interpretation is subject to the vagaries of mood, bias, sobriety, character flaws and such.

Perhaps it was my situational pessimism that led me to call it an experiment and not an adventure. Sure, on a day-to-day basis, I'm full of hope and light. There isn't much I think I can't do or figure out how to do. And I'm more likely to see the opportunities around me than not. But every so often, there's a situation that pokes a giant hole in my reservoir of optimism. Sometimes it's a pebble in my shoe that does it; sometimes it's Mt. Everest. Either way, I become completely overwhelmed and pessimistic. It's not a pretty sight, but it generally blows through like a summer storm, fast and violent but blessedly short. I've coined a phrase for it. I call myself an operational optimist and a situational pessimist.

Assuming I'm sufficiently self-aware (at least on this topic!), John then is the yin to my yang. He is, by his own admission, much more likely to find the rain cloud on the idea horizon, more attuned to what can -- or likely will! -- go wrong than I am. Operational pessimist, situational optimist. As with me, though, his perspective gets upended from time to time, and he comes through with brilliant, hopeful optimism. Thankfully, it always seems to be just when I'm running low on it.

In our nearly quarter-century ride together, John and I have talked often and at length about our different perspectives. And here's the real truth of the matter: to make a life like this work, you need both. You need the operational optimist to get you away from the dock -- but you need the operational pessimist to make sure you live long enough to get back to it! While I'm busy thinking about how to make the boat more liveable, John is focused on keeping it, and us, on the right side of the water.

This was brought home again a couple days ago, when we were invited out to watch races for the sailing club we belong to down here. We loaded cooler, life jackets and kids onto a wide, flat vessel that was originally used for lobstering but now serves as the club's race committee boat. The kids took up positions along the squared off bow as we zipped across the shallow, lukewarm water of the seaplane basin on the Gulf side of Key West.

John and I found chairs aft of the helm (behind the steering wheel) and settled in to await further instructions. After about 15 minutes, Captain Ed, a white-haired, open-shirted 70-year-old with his hand perpetually wrapped around a beer, turned to John and said, "My feet are getting wet. See if the plugs are in." As John did a perimeter sweep, he found and replaced three drain plugs that had been left out of their intended holes at the water line and a bilge pump that wasn't working, a combination known to sink many a boat. Were we sinking? I guess that depends on your interpretation. My husband would say yes, and technically, I suppose I would have to agree that's true. But from my perspective, we were simply taking on a little water. It was a good lesson for both of us. For me, I realized that I needed to be more attuned to what could -- and may at that very moment -- be going wrong. John, on the other hand, realized that the calamity of inattention doesn't always result in death. Seeing your flip flops float by you inside the boat might be cause for alarm, except that our captain wasn't concerned and a few drain plugs and a whack or two on the bilge pump kept the sea at bay.

A couple years ago, while hosting his buddies for a guy's sailing weekend, John had a similar experience aboard our boat, but because he was the captain of this ship, his sense of alarm was far greater. Motoring out of the channel, he noted that the bilge pump had cycled on-and-off several times. That's unusual because our boat is dry as boats go, and unless we've stocked the on board cooler with ice, no more than a couple inches of water accumulates in the dank channel that runs under the cabin sole (floor), not enough to trip the automatic siphon on the pump. The cause, he found, was cracked cockpit drains that allowed sea water to gush into the boat as the bow came up under power and the transom was pushed down. Sinking? Technically. But a sailor friend aboard didn't see immediate cause for alarm. As long as the bilge pump kept cycling, the sail could continue for a bit, and that's what they did.

At this point, I'm sure John ran the mental checklist -- were the batteries sufficiently charged to keep the pump running? How much would the boat have to slow to keep the cockpit drains above the water line? Should the life jackets be brought out just in case? Good questions, all. Had I been aboard that day, I may not have noticed the bilge water pouring into the back of the cockpit, much less run the contingencies in my head. I likely would have accepted our friend's verdict without a second thought, just as I had noted the water on my feet in the committee boat and had simply accepted it as normal rather than a sign of something that needed to be fixed.

My point, as you probably can see, is that you need operational pessimism to see the threats that lie just outside the consciousness of the blindly optimistic. And you need operational optimism to temper debilitating pessimism just enough to get you off the dock. It's a balance we've worked to find in our life on land, but it's one we've truly come to treasure on board.

Expectation Management

We've officially pushed over the one-week mark, and one thing is certain: we need better air conditioning!

Unlike our first night here, where an I-think-I-can window unit, some ginger ale boxes and duct tape were all that stood between us and the sultry night, our boat is now being "cooled" by a marine air conditioner. In quotes, yes, because there's only so much temperature reduction you can squeeze out of a machine of unknown vintage trying to cool a space being baked from above by the sun and boiled from below by tropical water.

For me, it's a study in expectation management. When I conceived of this crazy plan, I envisioned a cool, comfortable workspace below by day and a frosty cave by night. Here, John and I would live a writer's life -- working late into the night, sleeping until well past sunup in the morning (yes, our kids allow that!) and sitting down at the computers after a leisurely breakfast with Ian and Eve. While it's true we sometimes stay in bed longer than we probably should, a steadily rising swelter down below forces us up and out by mid-morning, after which we stew in our own sweat until the sun goes down. Thankfully, I'm not particularly girlie about sweat, and John, being a native Floridian, sees it as the price of paradise.

Expectations, then. I've found that the divide between what you think and what is can be the most vexing part of life, and I'm not terribly patient about it most of the time. I came here expecting it to be hard -- or at least harder than it would be at home -- and I was right. Expectation meets reality. So far, so good. But the devil's in the details, and some of the little annoyances with the potential to become big ones weren't as clear to me before this week. Like how difficult it is to be hot -- REALLY HOT -- all the time.

Another is the compounding stress of always being together. I'm not proud of it and don't get me wrong, I love my family dearly, but not having even a minute where I'm not with or near someone takes some getting used to. I expected -- there's that word -- the kids to do what was typical when we visited for a weekend: hit the beach and stay there for the day. In fact, they've been on the beach very little since we moved aboard. Most often they're parked in the vberth soaking up what little cool air our AC spits out in the afternoon or sitting next to us while we work. Some of that is the iPad, a true blessing and curse, but some of it is the heat and the ready availability of it all. No longer do they have to cram as much as they can into 48 hours before returning to reality. This is reality, and like it or not, we all have a tendency to accept our current reality as a permanent condition. There's always time in the future for whatever activity we could be doing now.

It was a therapist who first taught me to understand the emotional roller coaster that a lack of expectation management sets you on, and I thank him. I don't always do it right, but at least I'm aware of what's going on and eventually can process it. John has said on occasion that my demonstrated lack of tolerance for any kind of set back or difficulty gives him cause to worry that I might not adjust well to life under sail. Out there, when something breaks, you figure out how to fix it, and it might not be as simple as it first appears. You might end up with bloody knuckles and a strained back, but your engine will start or your sail will furl and unfurl as it should, and that could be the difference between making it back to port or not. Fair point. But if I can master the art of "expecting" at the dock, I figure I might just be able to at sea. So, should I expect we'll push off one day? The optimist in me says absolutely!

Sunset off Kinsale's stern, Boca Chica Marina, NASKW, August 12, 2012.

Day Whatever....

How do you achieve marital relations on a boat? Especially when any movement sets the whole thing asway? When you don't even share a bunk? And your children sleep just 36 inches and two flimsy bulkheads away? It's the burning question most of my friends have asked (and the rest would probably admit to wondering about) since we first started talking about living aboard. Let's just say, you improvise. Quietly.

On a large boat, privacy is easy to come by. Spacious state rooms and roomy heads (bathrooms) easily allow for wardrobe changes, bodily functions and other biological imperatives. On our boat, privacy is a precious commodity. Often we pee with the door to the head propped open or have the kids turn their backs while we do a quick change out of PJ's and into swimsuits. Perhaps too much information for some readers, but the purpose of this blog is to chronicle the good, the bad and the ugly of this liveaboard life.

As with hygiene, your standards for privacy have to change when you live in such a small space. Our main salon, where we cook and sometimes eat, where John and I sleep, and where the kids hang out with their iPads when it's just too hot to be outside, is spread eagle arm's length wide and just over six feet long. Looking aft (toward the rear of the boat), my arms are maybe four inches short of touching on either side of the salon.

Pivoting forward, John easily touches the sides where the boat begins its gentle curve in toward the bow.

Beyond him lies the head:

Beyond that, the v-berth bookends our living space. Narrow cubbies run along either side, where the kids stash clothes, journals, iPads and water bottles. It's a haphazard and spartan existence, and we're amazed how quickly we've come to think of these cramped quarters as home. John said it reminded him of basic training, where a two-foot-by-six-foot bunk and small locker assigned to each airman was "home" for the duration. How coming back to it felt just as good as being back in your own bedroom. It's the same for us. After a day of sweating in the sun, the boat is a cool refuge. We've now had two quiet nights in the salon, the four of us, and it's been surprisingly relaxing. The perpetual entertainment of the iPads certainly contributed to the tranquility, but the kids also worked on their nature journals and hung out just talking with us. We've shared stories about our day while sharing meals around our small table:

Living this way has also challenged us to rethink what we consider living space. While the salon is a refuge after sundown, our wheezy marine air conditioner doesn't quite cool it sufficiently to make working below practical. For that, we don swimsuits and set up our laptops in the breezy screened-in patio off Navigator's or under one of the tiki huts on the beach. If the weather's bad, we wile away the time on the patio, too, as we did after dinner last night when bolts of lightning were crashing down not too far away. Where the salon is our eat-in kitchen, the cockpit is our Florida room just beyond. Navigator's has become our family room and the beach and tikis are our backyard. They may be public spaces, but we feel like they belong to us, and after the military tourists and locals go home for the night, they are.

At day's end, we make up our bunks in the salon -- John on the larger port (left) side settee, me on the narrower, shorter berth to starboard (right).

And sometimes, I have to share, too:

The many nights over the past six years spent using the boat as a floating hotel room have helped ease this transition. We worked out systems and processes for just about everything. When my friend Meg visited recently with her girls, we spent a charmed five days living aboard -- seven of us! -- and it worked mighty well, overall. I'm sure I frustrated her by not letting her cook or clean up after meals, but this one-butt galley requires sophisticated choreography just to do dishes! Living aboard for months at a time will require us to re-engineer some of what we've learned. What worked for a couple nights won't necessarily work for the long haul, and we're still figuring out what will. Tomorrow I set about the task of reconfiguring all of the "stuff" we've managed to cram into every conceivable nook and cranny of this vessel. Most of it can go elsewhere -- the dock box, the storage trailer we bought, the trash. We need the space. Although we've tried to minimize our list of essentials, it's still considerable. After all, we want toilet paper and food. Computers and propane for the grill. There are some trade offs we're not willing to make. Privacy we're willing to sacrifice; creature comforts not so much.

There's still part of me that thinks we'll be packing up our clothes and food, buttoning up the boat and heading back for the mainland. John feels it, too. And our professional commitments will make that a necessity from time to time. But I've already started making the mental shift to a permanent life here: gymnastics for Eve, racing with the local non-profit sailing center, guitar lessons for Ian maybe, dentist appointments and such. Do I think this is the last stop on our journey? I hope not. As I told someone today, being here now is the culmination of 20 years of dreaming and planning. But we're not there yet. When we push off the dock and head for blue water, THEN we'll be there. This is just practice.

Days 4 and 5

Like any microcosm of life, our marina is its own little galaxy of personalities: misfits, malcontents, drunks, genuine American heroes and average Joes. There's the guy who's since moved on but used to hold down the far stool at bar in the patio from open til close; and the unassuming old guy who walks his small, fluffy white Maltese every morning, chomping his cigar and saying a polite good morning to all passersby. He's unremarkable enough, except that he lives on a boat when most are heading to nursing homes, and oh by the way, he was awarded the Distinguished Service Cross (second only to the Medal of Honor) for receiving four usually mortal wounds during a particularly vicious firefight in Vietnam while singlehandedly saving his entire platoon. Women are fewer here, and most are of retirement age, but they are nice enough. Still, this is definitely a man's world, and a man's man world at that.

Life here definitely has its routine for the inhabitants of the vessels that occupy the 130 or so slips and moorings. Early mornings, you'll find a crowd of wizened old guys shooting the shit, sipping coffee and trading stories about their days in the war. Most are from the Vietnam era, the Greatest Generation having become all but stories in history books. Because John wakes very early every day -- by biorhythm not by choice! -- he gets to see much more of this than I do, but occasionally I have a chance to listen in to this group of coffee pot philosophers. I'm convinced they could save the world...if only someone would let them!

A little about this marina we now call home. Kinsale -- that's the name of our boat by the way, bequeathed by previous  owners -- is docked at Naval Air Station Key West (NASKW) on Boca Chica Key, two "Keys" up from where US 1 ends at the Southernmost Point.

Rather than one large base like I'm used to, NASKW is actually a collection of properties scattered around the island of Key West proper plus our location on the main air station. Despite its sleepy demeanor, there's a ton of military history in these scrubby patches of sun-baked land. Here's a picture of the runways at Boca Chica. The marina is located on the middle right side of the picture, just left of where the road cuts across the channel to Stock Island and Key West:

The Navy's presence in Key West dates back to 1823, when wealthy shipping merchants who operated fleets in the area needed protection from the likes of notorious pirates Blackbeard and Captain William Kidd. During the Spanish-American War, the sinking of the battleship Maine in Havana Harbor prompted the government to move the entire U.S. Atlantic Fleet to Key West for the duration of the war. A series of expansions to the various NASKW properties followed, including the addition of a U.S. naval submarine base. Aerial photos of Boca Chica clearly show sub pens on the ocean side of the island, as seen below:

We theorize, although we haven't had confirmation, that our marina was created for submarine use and re-purposed at some time after the last subs vacated the area. I'm thinking the Navy wouldn't bother to spend the millions it likely took to create this little slice of paradise just to house a bunch of drunks and misfits on boats...

You'll find the marina at the end of a one-way road looping past the base of an active runway. It is the perfect combination of natural and man-made splendor for a prop-head family. We've seen C-130s, C-17s, P-3s and the resident F-5 aggressors and F-18s come and go while kayaking and snorkeling. Amenities are sparse but adequate: Navigator's bar and grill located just steps from our boat has good food and plenty of rum. There's a laundry room (where, by the way and as a matter of demographics, you see more men than women!), restrooms with showers and the dock master's office. Barry, the dock master and a marina resident, seems to like our family. I'm not sure if that's because he thinks we're generally good people, or if we're simply a nice change from the recreational bitchers he typically deals with!

Kinsale rests comfortably in the second slip of "S" dock, the collection of berths that line the walkway between the beach and the main basin of the marina, seen here in an older photo showing one lonely boat:

 
And, yes, we do see those rainbows. The beach has 3 tiki huts and barbeque grills, and a small island with a floating dock lies just offshore.

Bow in for privacy, we walk across a homemade gangplank tilted somewhat precariously onto her foredeck, although no one in the family, including the dog, has had a problem negotiating passage from ship to shore and back again. Across a stretch of water from S dock are three other docks, each lined with vessels ranging from 20' open cockpit powerboats to quarter-million dollar sailboats boasting accommodations that would put some hotels to shame. The photo below shows the general layout of the boats, although improvements have changed some aspects.

A half-dozen boats lie on mooring buoys between the marina and the channel, carved by some industrious soul into coral rock and running nearly a mile to link the basin to deeper water just offshore. Depth outside the channel is so slight that at low tide, water breaks over the edges of the channel, an ominous warning for boaters like us needing five feet of water under our keel. God forbid we lose power in that channel.

Leave the marina and drive back toward the main gate, and you'll find a gym with an impressive collection of equipment, a post office, bowling alley, lodging and the requisite office buildings, hangars and fuel tanks of an active airfield. The road passes under the flight path for the east-west runway, an approach so low that signs caution you to look for aircraft and stop signs were erected to halt traffic when planes are inbound.

There is no commissary (grocery store) here, but one is readily accessible just in town on Sigsbee Annex, another NASKW property. I've already made my first trip there, enjoying the savings as well as the sense of being reconnected with life on/near an operational military base.

Another location, Trumbo Point, used to be a seaplane base back when the Navy flew such things. Truman Annex, which used to be part of the original NASKW (closed in 1974), remains under military control and has a beach and a few amenities. We haven't ventured that far since moving here, but a few years ago we spent a memorable Fourth of July watching fireworks on the beach there. Located just next door is Fort Zachary Taylor, formerly part of the base and now a state park. It has a beautiful beach we've visited several times in the past, and it's definitely on our must-do list.

Being down here, even while trying to work, is like stepping out of time. The sun comes up and sets again, and you're hard pressed to say where the day went. There's no hustle here: When you're roughing it, life has to move at a slower pace. You could try to stick to a schedule or confine yourself to what you knew before, but you'd miss out on some of the most important experiences. Yesterday, at Barry's invitation, John sat in on a jam session with a few old guys with guitars who gather in the dock master's office every Thursday after quittin' time. They're working through sets of songs, hoping to play an open-mike night at Navigator's. A crowd of tipsy, aging groupies stopped by to applaud and buy rounds of beer. It's like living in a Jimmy Buffett song.

Days 2 and 3

I had the best of intentions. Post something every day, yet here I am on day 3 and I've already fallen off the pace. Ah well. Such is life in the Conch Republic, I suppose.

Day three and we may be hitting our stride, mostly. We've been working out the best way to navigate the many tasks -- domestic and professional -- that must be accomplished each day. I expect it to be a continuous evolution. Today was a good day: John and I were up early for work, John made breakfast while I had conference calls, the kids swam and snorkeled while John and I put in a few more hours, and when we finished, the day was capped with another familly snorkel trip along the "drop off," the place where shallow beach sand and seagrass fall away to the marina bottom at a depth of about 18 feet. Anenome, brain coral, small barracuda, a handful of various crab species and some lobsters were the finds today. We've ascertained that John and Eve, with their minimal body fat, can't float. Let's just say Ian and I would do well in a stranded at sea scenario. I think maybe it's some kind of evolutionary trait, passed down from antecedents who survived some great flood. Or maybe I just need to lay off the Dove dark chocolates and Chips Ahoy...

Like any new experience, you learn as you go. Today, instead of working down below in the fetid swelter of the boat salon, we opted to work in the screened porch of Navigator's Bar and Grill, which is just a few steps from our bow. Later we moved to the beach tiki hut, ecstatic to find that our wireless connection would reach that far. A steady 10 knots of wind from the East kept us plenty cool, and we marveled that maybe this crazy idea we had just might work. In case you're wondering why I say crazy, take a look at our "home."

Not a lot of space for four people, but we will manage. Of course, for it to work, we have to be willing to compromise on a few things. How do you cook for one pseudo-vegetarian, one no-carb guy, one pre-teen appetite and one finicky eater? Very creatively. I've learned to cook pizza subs on the stove instead of in the oven by creating an "oven" using two frying pans. My firefighter friend will cringe at the sight, I'm sure, but I believe myself a genuis for figuring out how to make Eve's perennial favorite food without fancy appliances! Apologies to my firefighter friend in Pekin, IL...

I've learned to position myself carefully when I lean over the hotplate to reach into the cooler, as the (thankfully minor) nipple burn will attest. I've learned that because we are always hot we use 2.5 gallons of water to drink and sparingly wash fruit in just over a day. That's a big deal when you're no longer buying in bulk and you have to lug it from the store!

More of what we know so far:

• You can cook a pretty damned good meal with a 2-burner hotplate and a gas grill.
• The more you cook, the bigger the mess to clean up. That didn't mean as much when there was an automatic dishwasher and a steady supply of water readily at hand.
• Big mess in small space = crabby mommy.  :)
• Ovens and microwaves are nice -- really nice -- but you CAN get by without them.
• I need more one-pot recipes (send them to me at msotham@me.com please!)
• This is a pretty damned interesting life.

Three days in, and I'm still optimistic. That's a good sign, but ask me again at day 30 and we'll see. This life teaches you patience. You can't cook everything at once, prepare everyone's food at the same time, do laundry whenever you want and a host of other things that are simpler on land. It takes, but it also gives in abundance. Amazing sea encounters for our kids, an unparalleled feeling of freedom for us and the sense that life is still chock full of possibility.  And there's the sway. I always loved when we visited the boat for a long weekend and the sway set in. It meant we had made the transition from full time landlubbers to wannabe ocean voyagers. While I worked on letters and documents and reports this afternoon, the sway my body had so rapidly learned from a home constantly in motion kept the crescent of beach before me gently rocking. In the shower tonight, the walls undulated with a slow wave around me. If my body can make the transition that quickly, surely my mind can follow.

A few of my friends who know about this experiment have asked questions like how and what we cook, where we sleep and such. Like every challenge in life, this one requires patience and flexibility. An appalling lack of hygeine standards helps too! Yes, there are showers here, with real hot water too. But more often we find ourselves hosing off after a snorkel and falling to sleep with the ocean still in our hair. A few days of that and a simple shower feels like a religious experience. And you have to do laundry in paradise. Who knew clothes didn't magically clean themselves when you live in the tropics? Thankfully there's a laundry room just 30 feet from the boat where we can use soap and machines when we're tired of rinsing our clothes in the hose!

Because we have limited access to TV, we've resorted to other forms of entertainment at night. Board games and stargazing have given us plenty to do, and Ian has downloaded an app on his iPad that shows the position of the constellations as you rotate the device around the night sky. Pretty cool. We don't have a television on the boat, although the kids can do some limited viewing on the iPads, and the TV in the patio bar is left on all night, so we're able to stay current on Olympic happenings. Eve was so inspired by the women's gymnastics team that she asked to go back to the sport. So we found a gym in Key West that looks like it will fill the bill nicely. Like any parent, I would love to see her stand on a podium and accept a medal, but I'll settle for her enjoying using the talents of her little athlete's body and feeling pride in what she can accomplish.

And then there's Ian, my little music man, who is so much his father in his creativity, artistry and love of music. Here he is playing bongos in the cockpit, the fading light of a Key West sunset in the background. I hope these are the memories they most love to tell their children.

Day 1

Monday, August 6, 2012 August 6, 2012: Day 1

Here it is, two months plus since my first optimistic post, and we've finally moved onto the boat! What happened? Life. Business meetings, travel, family commitments. There's a great line in a Beatles song that fits right about now: "Life is what happens when you're making other plans." But here we are, at the satisfied end of our first full day as boat dwellers. It wasn't without hitches.

Last night when we arrived, we spent so much time stowing all the provisions and equipment that a life connected to the water requires that we missed the Sunday night get-together with our boat neighbors. Thankfully, it's a weekly affair, and we're planning to be regulars. Then our marine air conditioner decided to call it quits. Sure, it was of questionable pedigree and landed in our posession for a cheap $100 and a bottle of rum, but it gave us a few good years of dedicated service before finally emitting its last cool gasp just as we decided to rely on it for real. But no worries, a jury-rigged window AC we lovingly call Mr. Frosty got us through that first night. My husband has promised many, many favors of a private kind for having the forethought to throw it in the car as a back-up plan! Here's a look at the frankenfix that solved our AC problem...thank goodness for ginger ale and duct tape!

Today a spare with a wiring issue was quickly repaired by the resident mechanical genius (my husband John) and put into service for our second full night of comfort aboard. Just like the pirates did, as John would say!

The kids sleep in the V-berth; for the uninitiated, that's the pointy part of the front of the boat!! It's a tight squeeze, and we probably have less than a year before Ian stops putting up with bunking with his little sister, but we make it work for now. Hey, you can do anything for a year, right?

In between air conditioner repairs was a full day that really served as proof of concept -- three laptops, 2 iPads and one radio likely spiked more amps than this 30-year-old boat has seen in some time, but all performed beautifully. The kids, kept down below by severe lightning and rain squalls (on our first day, no less!), were blissfully watching Disney Channel on the newly acquired iPads that were procured primarily for school use but will serve us well for entertainment, we've decided. (Photo below: Ian and Eve on their iPads with Mom's and Dad's laptops awaiting use.)

Several hours of work later, I made a grocery store run -- you still have to eat in paradise! -- and upon return, we set out for our family exercise. John and I ran, and the kids biked. Running past an active military runway is a good reminder of the many people whose service and sacrifice allow us to have this amazing experience, including the man I have shared this journey with for nearly a quarter-century. It's also a good lesson for our kids, whose cries of "The sound of freedom," whenever the jets scream overhead makes our hearts swell with pride.

The day ended with a family swim and search for cool sea life, followed by steak under the beach tiki hut, courtesy of my son Ian, who not only suggested the dining spot but expertly cooked the steak on a transom-mounted grill while John focused on solving the AC crisis. I could get used to this.

Rockstar Rocket enjoying his trip down to the boat!