A Sailor’s Goodbye
Sailors never really say goodbye. They just assume they’ll bump into each other somewhere improbable, like Bermuda or the Med. As we prepare Moonfleet for our Atlantic crossing, the hardest part hasn’t been the ocean ahead — it’s leaving the people behind.
There is something very strange about saying goodbye when you are a sailor. No one ever really does it properly. There are no dramatic airport scenes. No clutching of soggy Kleenexes while a taxi idles outside. Sailors simply stare at one another over a final Painkiller and say things like, “Well… maybe we’ll see you in Bermuda, or the Med”. As though bumping into each other in random ports around the world is the most natural thing in the world. I much prefer the Sailor’s version of a goodbye.
Six months ago, when we left Florida to live a nomadic boat life, people warned me repeatedly that this life would become lonely. I feel they imagined me and Ken wandering deserted beaches like castaways with better sunscreen and matching swimwear. But the exact opposite has happened. We have met some truly wonderful people along the way, and the hardest part of this adventure has not been the ocean crossings (not yet anyway), the weather routing, or convincing our dog Gypsy that boats are an acceptable place to use the bathroom. It has been saying goodbye.
This week we said farewell to our dear friends Dee and Mike, whom we first met in the British Virgin Islands before island-hopping together through St Barts and both the Dutch and French sides of St Martin. We shared beaches, hikes, dives, anchorages, sundowners, card games, questionable stories, and enough sour dough cinnamon rolls scratch cooked by Dee to make me briefly consider sabotaging their engine and just towing their catamaran behind us. We laughed constantly. Which, it turns out, is one of the great luxuries of traveling slowly.
Last night we had a final dinner with our dear friends Gene and Mary; decades long residents of St Thomas, and also Kadey Krogen owners. They have made it feel like home here…to the point of willingly being our package depot for all of our mainland parcels. Mary thoughtfully gave me a book on crossing the Atlantic, which I hope to give back to her one day when she finally makes the crossing in their trawler.
St Thomas Carnival also arrived this week, which I can only assume was organized specifically as our farewell party. There have been so many goodbye dinners, drinks, and “one last rum punch” that a long, alcohol-free ocean passage almost seems like it was medically prescribed.
Meanwhile, our trawler Moonfleet has undergone the nautical equivalent of preparing for a royal inspection. Every cabinet has been emptied and reorganized. Heavy and potentially smashy objects have either been re-allocated to lower cabinets or banished. The boat has been scrubbed from top to bottom. We are literally battening down the hatches. The wing foil has been sold (we never gave up - but I also will not be risking hyperthermia in the chilly North Sea in pursuit of the perfect foil). All of this is preparation for our departure to Bermuda tomorrow: the first leg of our Atlantic crossing.
Which brings us to today.
At 5pm EST today, Wednesday May 6th, we are attempting our very first YouTube livestream. This feels slightly reckless considering I am barely able to grasp how YouTube actually works, but reckless, it seems, is now our middle name.
Please join us for our own Sailor’s Goodbye and a chance to ask us, live and in person, why on earth we are doing this. We are not entirely certain ourselves, which should make for an excellent discussion. I believe you just click on the link below and it should whisk you, by the miracles of our tiny digital world, from wherever you are in the world into our Pilot House and onto our boat in St Thomas. However, if it doesn’t work just go to our YouTube channel and find us there.
In theory you click on this link at 5pm EST today and it takes you to a live chat with us. Much as I feel about the Atlantic crossing, I am a little skeptical, but have faith…
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