After getting married and deciding to live on the water, my husband and I purchased a 42-foot sailboat which we now call home. Handsome with teak decks and handcrafted teak interiors, it's a snug and cozy dwelling inside these small quarters, a place where we enjoy a daily life that's both simple and graceful.
Our total domain measures about 275 square feet.
Subtract from that the space taken up by one triangular bed (called a berth), two twin-size berths, two couches, a good-size table, a desk with its own single seat, kitchen and bathroom counters, two relatively large closets, and a ladder through the companionway. (The front door happens to be in the ceiling.)
Now you can imagine the amount of space that I, my husband, and our eight-year-old son have to manoeuvre around each other.
In the centre of it all stands a floor-to-ceiling ivory pillar. That's the mast that extends sixty feet into the sky above our little cabin. Our son Sam's room is in the front; ours is in the back. The sitting area, navigation desk, closets, bathroom, and kitchen (called the galley) lie between the two bedrooms.
We live on southern Vancouver Island in British Columbia. Here in the Pacific Northwest, winter sailing is chilly, but our cabin stays warm and dry year-round with the help of space heaters that work nicely in our small environment. Eventually we will install a hot-water-filled pipe system that radiates heat through the walls.
Our tight quarters provide plenty of opportunities for sensitivity and consideration of others. "Putting up your feet" is not about resting them on a favourite ottoman, but rather lifting them momentarily for someone to pass by. Waiting your turn to ease around a corner is not uncommon. We smoothly slide past one another, angling around shoulders, over and under, and sometimes a little "scuse me" is heard. The three of us must have achieved some past cosmic harmony to be able to live in such tiny quarters without exasperation.
Light and Free
To many people, living aboard a sailboat might sound like freedom. It is.
The first things you are free of are your non-essential extras, anything large or breakable, and belongings that moisture or mould can spoil. Things we absolutely cannot part with but have no room for get sent to live in a storage room or the corner of a friend's garage.
For my clothes, I am allotted two drawers, two feet in the hanging closets, and three feet of shelf. My wardrobe must be carefully chosen, which keeps shopping sprees down.
Our galley only has room for one. We access our refrigerator by lifting its large cover, which also serves as a countertop. Food and dishes fit snugly in designated cupboards over the stove.
With our limited space, my husband recently pointed out how the shape of a bottle of vinegar or oil is a factor we consider when we shop. We take bags of cereal and crackers out of their boxes, since bags will form better together and shrink with time.
With patience, careful consideration, and good visual and spatial awareness, organized arrangements start to appear inside cupboards. The key is trying different combinations of items to fit, like putting together pieces of a puzzle.
I now think more three-dimensionally: two boxes, four binders, a rice cooker, a tarp, and a kite can click in place together. Back to front, side to side, and floor to ceiling, our boat holds what we need and a little extra.
If some new belonging comes aboard, something else has to go. We take possessions lightly, keeping our desires few.
'A Little Place for Every Little Thing'
Yet as a home shrinks to this size, the world around it grows.
We live tied to docks among other pioneering souls, sharing stories of harrow and wonderment. We live in secluded coves between islands of rainforest where the stillness is thick as moss. We live on the deck of our ship, looking out for dangers and sights as we cut through water at the optimal angle.
Before she's at her cruising speed, pressed over on her rounded edge, with our home below correspondingly leaned over on her side, we've made sure to find a little place for every little thing.
Loose books and mugs must be returned to their rightful place. Things are latched, locked, and tightened down, both inside and out. Tied to the rails of the cockpit are ropes dangling rubber fenders, lashing down poles, and securing life preservers. It could mean a major cleanup, lost belongings, or even injuries if those places fail to hold.
When everything is fixed in place, we are truly free to take up in the wind.
But right now, we're moored in James Bay, where our son attends school. As a storm whips up, my husband and I sit side by side after an evening walk.
"Do you want anything?" I ask. I thought to offer tea or dessert, but somewhere deep in our philosophical minds, some immensity accompanied the question.
"Mmm, no," he says. "You?"
"Nope."
Both sincere. With quiet smiles we look around our little cabin.
"I think they call this happiness."
"Contentment… yea," he replies.
We both nod. The boat keeps out the rain pretty well. Her name? Simplicity.
Feeds