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.