For nearly six months, my feet lived in flip flops and Keens. My toes, no longer bound by the pretty, pointy, and high-heeled shoes their owner preferred, took advantage of the opportunity and spread out. And, once back in the working world, my toes had no intention of relinquishing the real estate they’d annexed. What was unexpected was not that I’d gone up a shoe size, but that once I’d donated some of my beautiful shoes to charity, I didn’t hurry to replace them.
Living aboard necessarily requires downsizing. I was prepared to do that, but I didn’t expect to adapt to it so quickly or even to learn to like the simplicity of it.
I managed to fit almost an entire wardrobe into a single drawer, a cupboard, and six inches of hanging locker space. Foulies got a separate home in the wet locker, and warmer clothes were stowed elsewhere, but everyday clothes (including 30 days of underwear, in case we didn’t find laundry convenient) were within close reach. And this clothes horse found that there were some clothes she didn’t even wear. (Granted, island clothes take up a lot less space than attire for four seasons, and casual clothes are way different than professional outfits; but I didn’t exactly go feral while living on the boat. Other than the time I wore socks with Keens.)
It’s not just my wardrobe which scaled back, but I didn’t feel limited working in a tiny galley instead of my terrestrial kitchen. And I wasn’t just slapping together baloney sandwiches. In fact, meals tended to be more creative because I had more time and inspiration, my only limitation being availability of ingredients. My only power tool was an immersion blender (doesn’t take up much space). Every other tool was also carefully selected for utility and compact-ness; I left a lot of stuff at home. I had to be super-organized to work in such a small space — and I always forget to pull out the salt (which lives behind the stove) until after the burners were lit, but I got the hang of it.
Most importantly, my husband Rick and I realized that the less stuff we had, the more room we had for ourselves. Living in close proximity with your partner for six months, without a single day apart, can be a relationship challenge. But those who have had seen Rick and me since we’ve returned know that neither of us had to resort to homicide. With adequate living space, we could retreat to separate corners and not be in each other’s faces all the time.
With the benefit of hindsight and with definite plans to go cruising again when we retire, neither of us has any of the expected longing for a bigger boat. And neither of us has felt a real need to binge on the things we didn’t have while we were living in the Bahamas (other than decent pizza). We learned to live without them and didn’t miss them all that much. We learned that there were benefits to a simpler, less materialistic lifestyle.
Don’t get me wrong: I still like pretty things and the convenience of a land-based lifestyle. But I don’t feel deprived by a more modest life aboard. And while vendors’ eyes at past U.S. Sailboat Shows might have lit up when they saw me coming their way, going forward any new acquisitions are going to require a compelling reason (such as replacement of an old one) and a good, unobtrusive place to be stowed.
by: Eva Hill
