Honeymoon at Sea

How I Found Myself Living on a Small Boat

by Jennifer Silva Redmond

“If you want to get to know someone, take a long trip in a small boat.”

                                                            —My grandfather, Edward Elmo “Al” Shea

Prologue

October 2019

A few minutes after sunrise, I climbed up the companionway stairs to feed the dog and check if the solar panels needed to be adjusted to catch the sun's earliest rays. Back below, I used the foot-pump to bring water from the tank tucked under the boat's settee to fill the teapot, lit the propane stove, and started making coffee and tea. My husband Russel is a coffee drinker and not a morning person, unless he’s on watch and still awake from the night before. My own coffee habit was kicked when I first moved aboard a small sailboat at twenty-eight, fresh from New York City, where I’d been pursuing an acting career and waiting tables. (This spring I turned fifty-eight, for those who care.)

That first boat, Watchfire, was our home for almost fifteen years, and we bought the Coronado sailboat we live on, Watchfire 2, in the summer of 2004. Most landlubbers would find our current boat, at thirty-five feet, to be less than spacious. But since we sailed to Mexico and Central America, went through the Panama Canal to Florida, and came back along the Intracoastal Waterway to Texas on a twenty-six-foot boat, the extra space we have feels quite luxurious.

When I recount our first long sea voyage, the number one question people ask is: “How did you two get along so well in that tiny space?” My reply is always the same: If you are in love and like spending a great deal of time together then a small boat has room to spare. If you aren’t thrilled to be with your partner twenty-four hours a day, then no yacht in the world is big enough.

This morning, after a quick breakfast, Russel logged on to the computer to start his morning class (he teaches screenwriting online at San Diego City College) while I put on my shoes. Up in the cockpit, our small mixed-breed dog Ready was already whining softly with anticipation. In minutes, Ready and I were loaded into our yellow Portland Pudgy dinghy, her on lookout position in the bow and me rowing.

I love morning walks, whenever we are able to get to shore. Russel and I have hiked along Baja ridgetops, over shifting Pacific sand dunes, and along muddy tropical paths—often accompanied by our canine companion. Ready, our second dog, has already served eight years before the mast.

This morning, a couple of tourists stopped to gawk as I beached the dinghy at Coronado Tidelands Park. They continued to ogle us as we got out of the dinghy and moseyed along the waterfront, playing fetch and taking in the beautiful morning. They soon caught up with us, and I prepared for the usual interrogation.

“Do you live on your boat?”

            “Yes, I do.”

            “Is that—” the man pointed at the sandy herd of dinghies on the small beach, “the only way to get to shore?”

            I explained it was possible to row (or motor) a dinghy around the bay to a dinghy dock, but that location wasn’t as close to the park, bus, and grocery store.

            He shook his head, “Well, you’re young.”

            I gauged him to be ten years older than me, about Russel’s age.

            “Yes,” I said, “And hoping to stay that way.” This was delivered with a combination of wry smile and flexing arms designed to amuse.

            “You ever go anywhere?” The man asked, a bit testily.

            “We’ve sailed her up to Morro Bay and Monterey. Planning to head up to San

Francisco bay next summer.”

            We discussed the dangers of rounding Point Conception—clearly, he knew something about the California coast—and I admitted that we’d motor-sailed that whole day, after waiting a week for a perfect “weather window.”

            He said I really knew my stuff.

            “I should, we started out in 1989, on a smaller sailboat. I didn’t know a thing about sailing when we left here heading to Cabo San Lucas, as newlyweds. My husband called it a recipe for divorce. We planned to be in Baja for a couple of months and ended up staying in the Sea of Cortez almost a year before we went down to Panama.”

            “You go through the Canal?”

            “Yeah, and on to Florida. We brought the boat back to San Diego in 1993 and then sailed down to Baja again in 1996. We love Mexico, but we both work from the boat, so we are staying in California for now.”

            “What did you do last night when it was so stormy?” This was from his companion, a petite, birdlike woman of about sixty.

            “We closed the hatches and stayed inside,” I said with a smile, “Boats are meant to keep the water out.”

            No reason to go into the sudden deluge at midnight and our wet scrambling in the boat’s cockpit. Wrestling the unwieldy cushions down into the small cabin while half-asleep is a familiar challenge that never gets easier.

            “Do you like living on a boat?” The woman asked, perhaps unaware she was

shaking her head slightly as she spoke.

            Do I like living on a boat?

            A dozen images crowded my mind, from the practical hassles like hauling jugs of water and diesel across the muddy expanse of a low-tide beach, into the dinghy, and up onto the boat, or heating water to do dishes, to the sublime joys of basking in the cockpit on a sunny day, admiring the ever-changing cityscape across the bay, or going sailing at a moment’s notice.

            I pictured the two of us snuggling together in our cozy v-berth as rain pattered onto the deck above us, our vessel secure on its mooring in the wind-tossed bay.

            “No,” I said with a grin, “I don’t like it. I love it.” •SCA•

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The excerpt above is from the author’s new memoir, Honeymoon at Sea. You can order a copy here or at Amazon here.

We will also be giving away one SIGNED COPY to a lucky reader. If you’re interested please say so in the comments below. —Eds