Always Home

I am not traveling. I am always Home.

I put up a pretty purple curtain over the galley port. The color goes well with a nearby painting, Golden Years, attached to the bulkhead over the in-counter fridge. Homey, in a Shé way. I have always decorated abodes with art and design because it satisfies my soul. For the same reason, I gave away the bulky drop-leaf table to increase pure-D space in the salon. Now I can stretch and yoga and roll out muscles as necessary.

It’s been two years since I eye-balled Habibi’s interior and thought, I could live here. The learning curve has been more of a cliff. This week I hired a diesel mechanic and learned how to change the oil and filter, check the transmission fluid, and top up the coolant. We also cleaned the dirty Racor fuel bells, inserting new filters as well. Completely satisfying to learn the ins and out of the motor, even though his pump exploded, spewing oil on my beautiful boat. Another lesson in clean-up. Soap and baking soda to the rescue.

One benefit to docking ten miles up a dog-leg estuary is kayaking for pleasure instead of provisions. I fell in love with the sport while living near the Salish Sea, aka Budd Bay. A writing teacher held a party at her house at the end of the quarter and said, “If you come early we can paddle around,” an offer this waterbaby did not refuse. Been hooked ever since.

Now in Topolobampo, I tool around the mangrove islets away from the marina. Occasionally, close to shore, my double paddle hits the sandy shoal only a foot or so beneath me. Once the wind and chop flipped me over suddenly and Panic screeched until my feet brushed bottom—the water was only shoulder high. I righted Audrey, threw my torso over the cockpit, and scrambled in. Quite a different experience from capsizing in 57°F Hicks Lake twenty years ago. Luckily, someone heard my cries for Help! and I was rescued by the local police before hypothermia could get a firmer grip.

A downside of solo female-ness is a certain proclivity of certain men to believe that I am available and interested in them. “Are you lonely?” asks the mechanic with the exploding pump. “C’mon, please!” yells the nocturnal security guard when I do not answer his persistent hailing. A marina-rat insists on telling me a rape story, and husbands ask me out to dinner when wives are away. It is one reason I prefer uncrowded anchorages and sailing alone. I’ve never heard a dolphin say, “Are you wearing panties with that?”