This time will pass slowly not because I have mastered my perceptions of it. But precisely because I have not, I surrender. This time I will be intentionally accepting as not to be regrettably forgiving. This time demands no confession or persuasion. The story is not to be written before its telling.
It’s been four months living aboard Onyx. Most days pass as they did before. The hours lost in thought gazing at my garden or meticulously arranging my belongings still have a place. This time they are spent organizing for efficiency, with nautical whimsy and in reflection of the sky and water. Even here, laundry piles up without care and the kettle whistles blowing off steam. Somehow still, all is simpler, calmer, slower, lighter.
Jake appreciates the extended outdoor living as well. Lounging in the cockpit in the sunshine, we keep good company. In the evenings, we go for walks around the docks. Rather, he meanders and I follow making sure he stays off other boats. When we have taken the boat out for a sail, he is more alert than usual but not at all displaced or concerned. He is one cool cat and all the neighbors agree.
Yes, there is a community at the marina complete with neighbors whose names I can never remember despite engaging chats about their recent hikes or ex wives. There are impromptu invites for drinks and standing offers to crew or lend a hand. The older ones love to recant stories or give advice and I am just as content taking it in. Occasionally, and more frequently than I have before, I find myself stepping out with my own invitations.
A friend had asked what I found surprising living on a boat. It’s the still half-empty shelves and drawers despite having more of everything than I need. It’s the asymmetries of the boat’s design. It’s forgetting to pick up my mail for weeks at a time. It’s the reminders of how much further I still have to go in pursuit of simply living.
Rene and Georgette Magritte With Their Dog After the War—Paul Simon