Observations on Moving Off the Boat

     “Twenty years from now you will be more disappointed by the things that you didn’t do than by the ones you did do. So throw off the bowlines. Sail away from the safe harbor. Catch the trade winds in your sails. Explore. Dream. Discover.”

Mark Twain 

Friends have been inquiring, in very kindly ways, about how I feel about having to move off my sailboat. Part of this is no doubt also personal concerns on their part; many of my friends are close to my age, and they know that something could happen that could force them to stop sailing at any time, just as it could happen to me. But mostly I think they're just kind, and caring, and truly hoping I'm OK with how my life has played out lately.

Well, I am OK with it. 

Some have wondered how that could be possible. After all, I'm 68 and didn't even start learning to sail until I was 62. I surprised a lot of people when I moved on the boat, right before my 65th birthday. I acquired a new primary care physician not long ago, and (although he knew the answer from the medical history I had filled out), he asked my marital status. I told him that I was widowed. Then he asked, "Did you move onto the sailboat as a reaction to your husband's death?" 

"No," I said. "He died 18 years ago. I moved onto the sailboat as a reaction to having had breast cancer." 

I was diagnosed with breast cancer and had a mastectomy right before my 61st birthday. The surgery was remarkably easy (my surgeon truly had velvet hands), and I handled chemo very well. I had little problem dealing with Herceptin, one of the real miracles of the 21st century. However, they also put me on an aromatase inhibitor (AI's), drugs designed to suppress female hormones (we don't lose them completely at menopause). My type of breast cancer (there are seven major subgroups) was fed and supported by female hormones. 

I did *not* do well on AI's. I had every symptom they knew of, at severe levels, including a couple that hadn't yet made it into mainstream medical research literature. There was a very good chance that these AI's would be life-saving in my case, and my oncologist really pushed me to stay on them in spite of the side effects, and I tried. I reallly tried. But after two years of those side effects, I just couldn't bear them any more, especially after one of them put me in the emergency room for four hours, resulting in a bill of over $8,000 when I didn't have health insurance. (Oh yeah -- there was nothing wrong with me except a side effect of the AI).

That's when the reality of life hit me right between the eyes: it's going to end some day. I decided that even at the risk of my life, I needed to be happy and feel well again, and that meant dumping the AI's. I did that, felt better immediately, and looked at my tiny sailboat, wishing I could live on it. With no water tank, no shore supply, no head and no working galley, it was perfectly good as a day sailor. But as a home, it was one step up from a cardboard box. Knowing that something could happen at any time that would end my life -- and that I had just made a choice that increased the odds of that happening -- I found a really good deal on a larger, better configured boat, and I bought it.

So you see, there's more than one way I could have moved off my boat. I could be off it because I should have kept taking those AI's and had invited a fatal version of breast cancer back into my life. But it's been seven years and there's no sign of recurrence, and I have probably dodged that bullet. But something will take me some day, just as something will take you, and everyone you know, some day.

The only real question is, "What are you going to do until then? Are you going to live a life of purpose and actively seek ways to bring and keep joy into your life, or are you just going to let life happen to you?"

I made the choice to live aboard while I could. Now I have made the choice to move off, the only rational choice I could have made. My back problems are in no way incapacitating. I can still sail (I'm not sure how I will deal with it when the day comes, as we know it will, that I can no longer sail). Those back problems just make it hard to *live* on the boat, with all the bending, twisting and stretching under load it takes to keep the cabin of a sailboat orderly and comfortable to live in, but with modifications I've made, such as a 2:1 halyard, I can still sail.

I knew I would not always be able to live on board the day I moved on. But I've had 3 1/2 years of a wonderful adventure that just didn't have to happen. Some people have actually told me that they see me as a hero. I don't see it that way. In some ways it was a very selfish thing to do. It's been very hard, for instance, to reciprocate after someone has had me to their home for a party or dinner, unless they sail, and not all of my friends sail. No doubt my daughters see it as much more possible for them to come visit now, since both of them have spouses who have absolutely no interest whatsoever in being on a sailboat, but this being Mother's Day, I have to say they were terrifically supportive of my decision to move aboard, and neither of them said "Thank GOD!" when I decided to move off.   :)

So I would say, make your choices where you can. Think them out as well as you can ahead of time, recognizing that life is often completely unpredictable and even contrary to your desires. Don't be foolish; don't spend your entire 401K at age 50 on the biggest sailboat you can find, but look for sensible ways to follow your dream, whatever it is. If you start to think "I can't ..." ... well, maybe that's true, but look for paths around your obstacles and think creatively first. Then you will be able to say, as I do right now, "It's all good."