Sailing The Waterhouse: Swapping Turf for Surf
By Kelly Girl Waterhouse
For my incredible husband
Table of Contents
Before The Boat
I had been thinking about a way out. Even after tossing around the idea for a while, neither of us would commit. Finally it was the candle party I hosted that became the catalyst, and put us in motion to pursue our dreams.
It was the kind of candle party a woman feels obligated to attend, because the host had gone to her party. The problem is, once you begin the hosting circuit, it turns into a reciprocating suffocating cycle of cooking and lingerie parties that eventually evolve into innocently organized money gift-giving parties. Only a good friend would pay $25 for a two-inch forest-scented candle when they could get a generic pine-scented candle for a buck at the drug store. When you reach this point of throwing money away, the reality of a Ponzi scheme eventually comes next, under the guise of women who are re-circulating $500 amongst themselves. When I finally came to my senses and said no, I was admonished for not participating.
My husband and I started to seriously question what we were we working for. Looking at our car payment, cable package, high mortgage, new clothes, and a lifestyle that focused on the material goods we acquired, was no longer satisfying to us. We wanted something more, like a real challenge and yet it was more than having a challenge. It was also understanding our mortality because our life experiences taught us how fragile humanity really is. We have no guarantee of walking this earth tomorrow.
So we sold our house to live on a boat. It seems like a simple act but it took us over a year to do it. We paid down our credit card debt by cutting back on our small luxuries of HBO, DSL internet package, avoided buying cell phones, and dined out less, basically becoming socially inept by our peers’ standards. The signs were evident that we were on a course for change. Once we left the house, it caused a bit of commotion among our family, friends and some casual observers.
Why would you want to live on a boat? was the question we were frequently asked. My husband was vague with his answers because he didn’t want to go into any specifics, but I would say proudly, “Because we want to sail the world!” At that moment there would be a puzzled look on the questioner’s face, and a response of, “What?”
Before we could leave on our sailboat, we had to save money for cruising. That meant living on our boat for a couple of years. This allowed us to get to know our vessel. She was a big boat for us. So we had to learn how to sail her, especially me.
The following pages reveal the odd challenges we faced with this new dock-dwelling lifestyle. But the many peculiar experiences we encountered as Live-Aboards—people who live on boats full-time in a marina—helped prepare us for our adventure.
Eventually we had a proper bon voyage party and left the Strait of Juan de Fuca with our wanderlust dreams for a pleasure-seeking life. Unfortunately those dreams were tested with unexpected foul weather off the West Coast, also known as the Graveyard of the Pacific.
The Slip
Winter- 2003
My husband and I are almost homeless. At the end of the month we’ll leave our house to live in a thirty-five foot sailboat.
All the stuff in our 1800-square-foot home won’t fit on the tiny boat. So last week we had a big garage sale, hoping to make a ton of money from all the things we had purchased throughout the years. As usual, the Seattle gray sky produced a cold drizzle which warded off the customers. Only a few of the big items sold; most of it still remains. Even with the lack of traffic, my husband and I quickly learned that our junk is not another person’s treasure. We tried giving some away to friends, but no one wants it.
The house is full of boxes. Some are meant for Goodwill, others for a storage unit, and only a few for our new home, the boat. But before we can occupy the boat, we need to name it.
Kelly
Girl & Kelly
“Kelly Girl, why aren’t you helping me find a name?” Kelly asks me. This may be confusing, but we both have the same name, Kelly. We even spell it the same. When we first started dating, our friends called us Kelly Boy and Kelly Girl to keep things straight. At Kelly Boy’s age of thirty four, he is more man than boy—though at times I wonder—so now he is known as Kelly.
“I liked the names I came up with last week, but my suggestions of Serendipity, Dutchess and Bliss were names you didn’t like,” I answer glancing over at him.
He’s looking through our Webster’s dictionary, intently searching for an inspiring name. Tomorrow we sign the title and if we want a new name, it needs to be included in the title or we’ll be stuck with its current name, Breeze Inn. Both of us agree that the old name needs to go, so he’s under some pressure.
I’ve come to live with his habit of procrastinating. The name should have been decided on over a week ago. As usual, he put it off til the last minute and now he is trapping me into his delirious frenzy to get the job done. But like all good wives dealing with their husbands’ small defects, I ignore it and left the boat naming to him.
“How about Moorea?” He interrupts my mindless channel surfing, surrounded by a sea of cardboard boxes, while I sit on the couch we sold to his cousin.
“Hmm.” I’m not convinced with his choice. Is it any better than Serendipity or Bliss? At this point I really don’t care and will give my approval, but not yet. He needs to work a little harder, so I say, “It doesn’t sound French to me.”
That was one of his irritating requirements. The name had to be French, since we purchased a French-built boat.
“It’s a Tahitian name. Moorea is an island in French Polynesia. What do you think?” He seems satisfied.
I look over at him. His hands cradle his head as he looks over the big text. He’s been at this for hours and needs a break. I can’t let him suffer, so I say, “Alright, you’ve convinced me.”
***
I tell a few people what we did. Some think we’re nuts and say how can you live on a small boat, with a slight repulsive look on their faces. Some are even laughing at us because a rational person would not sell their best investment, a home, for an old boat. I think to myself, they may be right.
***
The marina’s dense forest of masts becomes blurred as I stare at an empty slip. Moorea, our boat, moves into that slip soon. A chilly breeze off the water numbs my hands. It tries to disturb my thoughts. But it can’t. I am absorbed with that slip and wonder, did we do the right thing?
Oddly, now that we’re breaking away from the constraints of what is expected of a young married couple the big home, nice cars and two point five kids—I feel okay about leaving it. Well, mostly okay. I still have a need to console my practical, rational side that had been taught to live a stable, stationary life. I want to completely let it go and be comfortable with the living on a floating boat, in this marina.
The Port of Everett Marina, our new neighborhood, is an unassuming, practical place. Wedged between railroad tracks and the waters of the Puget Sound, it holds over 2,200 slips. This is the largest marina on the West Coast, yet somehow it retains a homey feel.
Decades before, it was a small fishing harbor, filled with working vessels. Now the slips mostly hold pleasure boats used for the occasional carefree outing.
Everett is thirty miles north of Seattle. A few trendy friends of ours wonder why we would leave chic Seattle and its suburbs for Everett. Many of them consider it to be an old industrial hick town with offbeat buildings, filled with unfashionable people who happen to be missing some teeth. Like all cities with a natural rivalry, Everett’s occupants could care less about the latte drinking yuppies to their south. They’re prideful people living in a city rich in history, with a promising future.
I’ll admit there are a few quirky things about Everett, like the old Kimberly Clark Paper Factory. It spews a white cloudy fume over the Sound. If there’s a southern breeze, the marina will smell of rotten hops.
Then there’s the old railroad adjacent to the marina’s entrance, where workers loudly connect railcars. The connection creates an explosive bang that resonates off a high cliff wall. This sound sends a rolling vibration which pounds in the ears and shakes the internal organs of anyone nearby.
These are not appealing attributes, but like stains on a favorite shirt, the locals tend to overlook these minor flaws and allow the city’s unexpected sophistication to reveal itself, like the farmer’s market.
Because the market is located by the seashore, salty fishermen sell their catch of the day alongside the earthy organic farmers. both pushing Mother Nature’s products.
On Sunday mornings the port’s parking lot transforms into a village of white canopied tents. Locals mill around the market’s boundaries. The sweet-smelling baked goods lure them in as they pull out their wallets.
Freshly caught shrimp and succulent Dungeness crab chilling on ice, organic greens, mounds of Rainier cherries, rustic artisan breads and funky garden ornaments are too hard to resist. The shoppers’ arms fill with oversized bouquets of bright flowers, pounds of pitted fruits and fist-sized oysters. Aimless children wander towards the brackish water to watch seagulls and ducks, but secretly hope to spot a harbor seal hunting fish.
My favorite booth is that of a local farmer. He has a modern-day hippyish look about him. His dirt-stained, calloused hands freely offer samples of freshly picked blood-red beets piled high on his table. Cutting into the flesh, the root starts to drip its red juice, then trickles down his fingers.
The milling crowd’s energy emits a spirited hum as they laugh, converse, and barter. It’s a jovial sound that pulses throughout the port.
The pastel hanging flower baskets sway in the breeze, proudly displaying trailing ivy, purple verbena, and red geraniums. They line the walkway and guide strollers past popular restaurants with worldly cuisines. Almost hidden between the buildings is a small inn for the occasional tourist.
As the tide goes out, the floating docks, secured by black tar-laden posts, almost sink into the mudflats. The exposed mud bakes in the sun and omits a musty odor combined with a slight decaying scent.
The vessels, lowered by the tide, are easier to see from the walk above. People wandering by stop and take advantage of the view to look over the sea of boats. I often watch their expressions and wonder if they dream of nautical adventures.
Heading west towards the water, the walk goes by the harbor master’s quarters. Its tall tower embedded with dark bay windows resembles a watch deck on a ship, keeping vigil over the vessels nestled in their slips.
Beyond the office is my favorite spot within the marina, the large breakwater floats. Open to the public, these floating piers attract people seeking a sea level glimpse of the Sound. The wide view reveals the surrounding islands swarming with pine trees, and on clear days, the white peaks of the Olympic Mountain Range will appear. If one is observant, Mount Baker will quietly emerge like a cloud floating in the sky.
I love to walk down the steep ramp to the floating piers. Each descending step I take towards the water, enfolds me further into this nautical world. The wind twists and tangles a salty mist through my hair. Screeching seagulls fly above and millions of barnacles latch onto immobile objects below, allowing the flow of water to run through their crusty mounds.
Just north of the pier, the mouth of the Snohomish River pours fresh water into the salty Sound. The current here is swift and its strength depends on the degree of the tidal range. In this corner of the States, the flood and ebb range from seven to twelve feet. Boats that parade along the waterway do their best to navigate the strong current.
Watching the boaters maneuver their vessels keeps a spectator entertained. It’s easy to spot the novice helmsmen from an expert navigator. They pass by the pier, motor beyond the naval station and out to the protected waters of the Sound. Boats kick up their wakes, causing water to lap up onto the float. Always active, the fluid environment is alive and vibrant
The swaying motion of the floating pier can trip up an unsteady foot. I walk carefully.
Moorea
at the Slip
At the slip, Kelly is inspecting the dock’s cleats and tying fenders to its sides. I just want to take in the moment and watch him. His lean, muscular body is hidden under his thick winter coat. He moves quickly, tying sailor knots to secure the fenders to the dock. This activity is natural for him. He has salty blood running through his veins. At an early age, his grandparents had instilled in him the love of sailing. Shortly after we married, he purchased a small sailboat and introduced me to the beauty and art of moving a vessel under the power of wind. That was when we first began to dream of sailing away.
I wanted us to leave everything as soon as possible, and pushed us towards this new life faster than he wanted. Instead, his plan was to have the house paid off and money in the bank, maybe retire at forty-five. But after a tragic death in our family, it wasn’t hard to persuade him to see that we should just sail away.
It was Laurel’s death that opened our eyes to the precious minutes we are allowed on this earth. She was Kelly’s stepmother, who was killed, by a vehicle that hit her as she and Kelly’s Dad, Rutledge, crossed a street. They were in Florida, celebrating twelve years of marriage. She was just thirty-nine years old, a vibrant strawberry-blonde beauty, inside and out.
Her death was hard to take. But this was not Kelly’s first close experience with loss. Years ago, his mother and stepsister had died in a tragic car accident, over an Oregon mountain pass, seven months before we started dating. Before his mother’s death, his stepfather had an excruciating battle with cancer, a battle he chose to fight without medical care. Fifteen years after his painful death, those raw memories still resonate with Kelly.
Our new motto and rationale for expediting our plans was, “We have no guarantees of waking up tomorrow.” Plus, it seemed like we were getting sucked into the have-and-have-not mentality of our generation, which was becoming unsatisfying. We needed to leave before we were too deep in debt and before our lives expired. Our solace was that if we failed, we could always come back and start over. Also we didn’t have children; the risk we were taking would only affect us. But that didn’t seem to matter.
When I told people our plans, they were somewhat shocked; with others, the news was not received well at all. Naturally, they expressed their concerns with this drastic change. I was surprised that most of the outspoken criticism came from casual acquaintances.
“You won’t last two weeks on that boat” said a co-worker who, with her husband, chartered a boat in the Caribbean. I guess their trip didn’t go well.
Kelly jolts me out of my trance and yells, “Kelly Girl, come over here.”
“It looks ready,” I say as I walk over to Kelly while he’s checking out the fenders he secured to the slip as boat bumpers.
“I think Moorea will work out here.” His confidence is soothing and resonates within me.
That is all I needed to hear. We are on the right path. Now is the time for us to live the lives we want, and if that means living in this marina on our small boat in a little slip, then this is where we need to be.
Dock Dwellers
Spring 2003 to Winter 2004
I have quickly learned one thing about living on a boat. You can’t put too much stuff on them or they’ll sink, especially a small boat like Moorea.
Our boat hasn’t sunk, but she is getting heavy. You can tell by how the water line keeps inching up closer towards the deck every time we bring things aboard. Kelly’s not too worried. Eventually all the cubbies and shelves will be overloaded, and nothing else will fit.
We have one closet in the stateroom and Kelly gets to use most of it. He works in sales, so his work attire needs to look decent. I work in a cubicle with no customer contact, meaning I get to keep my clothes in duffel bags and wear wrinkled shirts. It’s a new look I’m trying to make trendy in my office.
In the house, shoes filled up my closet. I had a large selection, including many pairs I didn’t like. Now this boat barely has room for the five pairs I wear. Two pairs are dress shoes for work, a pair of black dancing pumps, running shoes, and flip flops. Oh, I can’t forget my rubber boots I wear when sailing in cold rainy weather.
The cramped closet space isn’t an issue, because I am falling in love with Moorea. Her thirty-five-foot length with an eleven-inch beam makes her a bit stubby, but she does have a comfortable interior.
She was built in 1974 when shipwrights underestimated the strength of fiberglass. Her hull is one and a half inches thick. This may not sound impressive but compared to newly constructed fiberglass boats with only a quarter inch thick hull, Moorea is a tank. She’s a heavy sloop, weighing in at eleven tons. Today’s sailing vessels about her size are slightly over half of her weight.
The cabin’s walls have a warm feel. There’s a shine from the honeycomb-colored wood, accented with alternating dark stripes. The sturdy fabric upholstery on the seat cushions are made of quality wool of various colors from the seventies era, including gold, rust and green. It’s spacious for two people. Standing erect inside the cabin isn’t a problem for us. We don’t bump our heads on the ceiling with the six foot, one inch clearance.
From the cabin looking
towards the cockpit
Under each seat is room for storage. What we call the bedroom on land, is the stateroom on a boat. Our Pullman berth, the bed, is barely bigger than a twin bed. This may seem like cramped space, but we find it cozy. Others can’t imagine our lifestyle.
“Why did you sell your house to live on a boat?” Our co-workers and friends frequently ask these days.
The answer is simple. We want to sail away. In order to do this, we need money. So we have to live on the cheap, and that means live on the boat for a few years. We have analyzed the pros and cons of transition.
“Kelly Girl, living on this boat won’t be easy.” My husband works at storing his tools under the seat I had wanted for my flour, sugar and other kitchen necessities. He won out on getting that spot, since he needed easy access to his tools in case of emergencies.
“I see what you mean,” I playfully huff over his hard-fought territory.
He pretends not to notice. “We’ll get tired of the long walk on the docks from the boat. Our holding tank for the head is small, so we will need to use the marina’s restrooms.”
“I know honey. It will be hard to park our cars close to the boat, especially on weekends and in the summer when the recreational boaters come out.” I repeat, He had told me this before.
“Just make sure you take everything you don’t want stolen out of the car. The parking lot is not a secure spot.”
“Well...that’s why you sold your Porsche.” He made the ultimate sacrifice. He sold his beloved 1986, 944 turbo Porsche.
“It would have been ruined in this environment,” he painfully states matter-of-factly.
“Let’s think of the bright side. No more weekly washing of cars; the clunkers fit right in with more dirt on them.” I try to cheer him up.
“No more dusting all the knickknacks or mowing the lawn.”
“I don’t have weeds to pull in the garden.”
“No water bill or trash bill.” Kelly perks up.
“No long hot baths. I’m not sure I like paying for our ten-minute, fifty-cent showers though I don’t know about the men’s showers, but in the women’s it takes three minutes just for the water to warm up.”
“No cleaning the tub.” He is trying to keep me on track.
“Good point!”
The big bonus we instantly recognize is escaping the nightly antics of our neighbor’s moon-baying dogs. This brings up another point about living on a boat. You can always move it if you don’t like your neighbors.
Even though all the land comforts we had—a big house, an attached two-car garage, and a dishwasher— no longer exist in our nautical life, this doesn’t bother us. We don’t mind the small sacrifices of living aboard to reach our goal, one of a capricious life.
I dream of the things we only see in postcards; white sandy beaches littered with swaying palms and banana trees, and swimming in warm, sparkling bays. Then I hear silence. The phones don’t ring and the TV doesn’t distract me. No more alarms to wake me for work or Wonderbras to wear that dig into my ribs. Ah, perfection!
Lugging heaps of smelly laundry up a steep, sloping ramp to the marina’s laundry facility (a task which always seems to occur when the tidal range dives to mudflat depths) is my new routine. Not my favorite chore, but my arms are toning up.
With all these changes, I really don’t miss our stuff from the house. And the congenial spirit amongst the Live-Aboard community (Live-Aboards is a term used in a marina to describe people that live full-time on boats) has made our transition here easier.
Marinas, in general, have their own custom of friendliness. Saying hello to a stranger or striking up a conversation about their vessel is quite common. In fact, having a boat in a marina opens up a whole new world. A sense of community is established within the realm of boat owners.
In Everett, only 200 Live-Aboards are allowed to reside here. In this small community, we are getting to know most of them. Unlike living in a house, we can’t avoid them by driving right into the garage and shutting the door. As we walk from our cars or the showers, there’s always a little chitchat going on between us floating neighbors. I guess some would call this gossip, but it can’t be helped. It’s just like the saying from the town I grew up in, in rural Minnesota. “You don’t see much in a small town, but what you hear makes up for it.”