Carpet on a boat. Whoa, Nellie.
1981. The year my boat the Katahdin was built must have been a banner year for the carpet industry. The mottled blue, burgundy and gray nylon was bank-lobby ugly — and used just about everywhere.
Eighteen essays from boat life, 2018–2020.
1981. The year my boat the Katahdin was built must have been a banner year for the carpet industry. The mottled blue, burgundy and gray nylon was bank-lobby ugly — and used just about everywhere.
Three years ago I purchased the Katahdin plus the slip in Marina 1. Immediately after that date, the cost of actually owning her started to go up.
A small storm has hit the coast, and over age 65 we have been asked to self-isolate. Time is no longer a precious rush. The clock hands have slowed.
103 skunks moved to new locations over four years. One man, a Have-a-Heart cage, and the most unlovable animal in the yard.
The aft berth is my winter bedroom, and the 63 square feet from which this blog appears. I write in bed. Early. Often it is 40 degrees on board.
The Katahdin has no built-in heat. Winter water is 55 degrees. Temperature management on an old boat is an art.
The owner’s manual says she sleeps seven. I tested every berth personally. The results vary. A lot.
I love to cook for people I like, love, or hope to love. On the boat that has to happen on 30 amps — not the 200 most houses get.
I knew next to nothing about boats. Expert advice was imperative. Mike Pyzel did the survey — the old-fashioned kind of exam.
Boat and slip, transfer fees, surveys, insurance, live-aboard rent. Total: about $118,000 — pretty close to the $120,000 I had planned.
The S-curved seawall, the yacht club, and a first walk down to the slip that would become home.
Tiny house: impossible. Apartment: unaffordable. Senior housing: not me. Then a chance remark at lunch: I would even consider living on a boat.
In a Wisconsin yard I saw a snowy white cat with black patches, cold and very hungry. He was at my side in a moment.
The practical pile of chores that stood between Minnesota and a trawler in Santa Barbara Harbor.
I loved my life in Minnesota. Gorgeous old home, interesting housemates, meaningful work. And yet I wanted more.
Diesel is dark brown streaked wood. Those streaks ranged from six inches to eighteen. The smell had a source.
Evening in the harbor: masts, still water, and the last light over the seawall.
A weird beginning, a stiff knee, and the decision to gut the bedroom in the back of the boat. Then the diesel leak appeared.