Home is Where the Boat Is

SAILING AWAY

ON ALL THE OCEANS of the world, there is a small but ever-growing subculture of adventurous men and women who are cruising around in small boats. They have sailed away from their "real" lives, maybe forever, to live a dream.

They island hop through the Caribbean, cross the Pacific Ocean or circumnavigate the world, going where they please when they please.  They are free.

They are known in America as boat bums, boat people, boaters, cruisers, sailors, yachtsmen.  In British Commonwealth countries they are called "yachties," just as bikers are called "bikies" and surfers "surfies."  The slang recognizes a commitment, a lifestyle.

Not every sailor becomes a yachtie.  Of the many who dream of pulling up stakes and sailing away into the sunset, few have the dedication or self-sufficiency required to actually pull it off.

Financial independence is not, surprisingly, an essential prerequisite.  Practical knowledge is, the more the better. A do-it-yourself-jack-of-all-trades-and-fix-it-man is the one most likely to succeed as a yachtie.  He can deal with the myriad problems yachts are subject to and, if necessary, he can finance his travels by picking up odd jobs along the way.

I was privileged to share a dozen years of cruising with Peter Hansen, an Englishman, who was the epitome of a cruising yachtie:  independent, handy and resourceful, confident, cheerful, relaxed and poor.  For him, wandering was a way of life, and home was where the boat was.

I met Peter in Tortola, in the British Virgin Islands, shortly after he crossed the Atlantic with two hitchhikers, novice sailors, as crew. He was patching up his boat. I soon discovered that he was always patching up his boat, but for Peter, keeping Solanderi seaworthy was an enduring labor of love.  A homemade plywood catamaran, she was not the most desirable cruising yacht, perhaps, but she was all he could afford and he had the enthusiasm and ingenuity required to keep her afloat and mobile.

I was fascinated by his accomplishments and charmed by his playful and gentle manner, but I thought he was a loser, because I was counting things.  His world consisted of a boat in need of major repairs, a few scruffy articles of clothing, some books, a bunch of rusty hand tools, a couple of boxes of food, a case of rum, a dog and a few crumpled dollars in his pocket.

Peter, in his quiet way, helped me appreciate other standards of success. As a dedicated "gypsea," he had everything he wanted:  a boat, the expertise to make it work and the freedom to enjoy it. He was a happy and contented man, and I luckily had the time and sense to enjoy him.