Sailing Agora

Author: Susanna Fontenot

  • Spanish Cay: The One Where We Almost Left (summer 2025 recap)

    We were ready to go home.

    Not in a defeated way – more in the way that five weeks of Bahamian cruising will make you crave a working generator, a good rinse of the boat, and maybe a grocery store that isn’t a 45-minute trip on the dinghy away. We had a reserved slip in Georgia. We were looking at a weather window. We were on our way out. And then we had a generator that was overheating. Suddenly we were reminded that “plans” in this life can quickly become “suggestions.”

    The repair saga had been grinding on for a week. Barrett had tried replacing fuses. They all blew. So we were stuck. Not dramatically stuck – we were in the Bahamas, after all – but stuck with a ticking clock, because getting back to the States for a real repair meant not dawdling. 

    Spanish Cay made the being-stuck part easier than we expected. It’s a private island with a marina, which sounds like the setup to an exclusive and slightly intimidating experience, and instead it was just great. Quietly busy in a way that felt special. The kind of place where you look around and think: we would never have come here on purpose, and we’re really glad we ended up here. 

    The fish cleaning station alone was worth it – sharks circling for scraps every day at the same time, the kids absolutely riveted, a crowd of fellow boaters gathered around like it was the best show on the island. It was. Lobster season had just opened, and the energy around that felt celebratory in a way that’s hard to explain if you haven’t spent weeks anticipating it, unsure whether you’d be there for it.

    We met cruisers there who were also trying to time their departure, also watching the weather, also doing the mental math of how long they could stay before the window closed. There’s a specific kind of camaraderie in that. Everyone a little tired, a little ready, all of us standing on a beautiful private island being very reasonable about leaving it.

    We’d found a local guy on the island who works on the generator that powers the whole place – which felt promising, like if anyone could fix it, it was him. And he did fix it, technically. It started. It ran. It just didn’t charge the batteries, which is, as it turns out, the main thing we need our generator to do.

    We finally needed to just leave. The generator situation meant we were moving with a little more urgency than we would have liked, and the return trip to the States had its own energy: purposeful, a little bittersweet, the Bahamas shrinking in the rearview.

    But Spanish Cay was a good last chapter. Unexpected and unhurried and full of sharks at the fish station, which honestly is a pretty solid way to end a summer.

    Agora on the hook at Spanish Cay
    a frozen rum drink and the pool where we met friends, waiting for generator repair
    what a view!
    starfish and clear water
    generator wasn’t the only thing that needed repair – a fresh water pump died on us too…
    …and the bathroom shower wouldn’t drain
    but mostly the issue was the generator
    Barrett swam in sharky waters to see whether it was an issue below the waterline…
    …it wasn’t, but we needed shore power to stay charged, so we took a slip.
    Barrett spent days trying to fix the problem.
    the boys wandered
    the kids explored
    they fed sharks
    Barrett tinkered
    more sharks!
    our unexpected home for a bit
    amazing creatures
    final night at Spanish Cay Marina
    our final night in the Bahamas – we left from Grand Cay

  • Green Turtle Cay: The One That Made It All Feel Real (summer 2025 recap)

    There’s a version of this cruising life that exists in your head before you do it. The turquoise water, the unhurried days, the feeling of being exactly where you’re supposed to be. Green Turtle Cay was the first place where the version in my head and the version I was actually living balanced out.

    We’d met a family from Florida at the dock in Coco Bay, where stingrays and turtles eat out of tourists’ hands – a mix of anchorage and beach hang that defines Bahamian cruising. It was the kind of meeting that starts as a wave, an introduction, a “Cheers!” and then turns into something real before you quite notice it happening. They were generous in the way that many boat families tend to be. They were there on their center console power boat, I’s on the Prize, for vacation, not as full-time cruisers. They loaned us a spear pole before we’d really earned the right to ask for one, showed up with good energy, and had kids who matched ours in age and temperament in the ways that matter most when you’re all stuck on boats together. Different in plenty of ways, but similarly the same in the ones that count.

    The snorkeling off the dinghy was on a reef in calm water on perfect day. We just dropped in. The water was the kind of clear that makes you feel like you’re floating in air, and the reef beneath us was alive in every direction. There were sharks – just a few of them, moving through at their own pace, curious in the way that sharks in healthy water tend to be. Not scary. Just present, going about their business, occasionally glancing over at the strange creatures flapping around above them. The kids were cool about it. I (Susanna) was excited and pretending to be calm, which is basically the same thing. 

    We missed catching a fish that day. We could have speared it upon first sighting, but then our snorkel adventure would be over almost as soon as it started, so we passed on it. We learned lessons about patience and timing – both fishing and snorkeling. We came back with no fish but also no regrets.

    And then there was the beach.

    I don’t know exactly what set it off. The sunlight, maybe, or the particular shade of the water. Perhaps it was the kids playing on the paddle board while Barrett enjoyed the swing over the water. Maybe it was just the accumulated weight of weeks of actually doing the thing we’d talked about doing for so long. I was sitting there in a hammock, and it just hit me. The beauty of it. The reality of it. We were here. We had made it here. This was our life, at least for now, and it was more than I had let myself believe it would be. 

    I cried on a beach in Green Turtle Cay, and I’m not even a little embarrassed about it.

    That’s the thing about staying longer than you plan. You get past the logistics and the anxiety and the learning curve, and somewhere in the middle of an ordinary afternoon you look up and realize the life you wanted is the one you’re in.

    Next up: Spanish Cay, a broken generator, and the unexpected gift of being stuck wsomewhere beautiful.

    stingrays at Coco Bay
    a mural spotted on a walk up the hill in GTC
    GTC was about more than just playing – we did boat and life chores too. Here: propane fills.
    we enjoyed a celebratory lunch at GTC Marina
    We also did much-needed loads of laundry
    The kids with a new friend from Florida.
    Our goodbye to I’s on the Prize.
    The beach were it all finally felt real.
    The beach were it all finally felt real.
    Snorkeling from the beach.
    Abacos water is unreal,
    A SUP trip in Manjack Cay.
    drone shot over GTC
    the pool table at Sundowners – a fave hang out in GTC
    our first spear fishing excursion, mostly great snorkeling
  • Great Guana Cay: The One Where Everyone Showed Up (summer 2025 recap)

    Great Guana Cay: The One Where Everyone Showed Up (summer 2025 recap)

    There’s a certain kind of magic that happens in the Bahamas when your cruising world – which has been quietly overlapping with other people’s cruising worlds for weeks – suddenly collapses into the same anchorage during the same week. Great Guana was that place for us.

    We’d been following Driftwood’s path since Bimini, randomly. A family from South Carolina, also on a sailboat, also doing the thing for the summer. We waved at each other in an anchorage in there and then jumped into a blue hole together in the Berries – the way you do when you recognize kindred spirits and the timing just lines up. It lined up in Great Guana again.

    And then there was Peaks. We’d connected with them during our intense crossing from the Berries to the Abacos through an online sailing family community – one of those friendships that exists entirely in a group chat until suddenly it doesn’t. We’d already had a reunion of sorts down near Lynyard Cay for Fourth of July fireworks after the long passage, but Great Guana gave us the real version: Nippers beach bar, a dad taxi on their dinghy, the kids all in the water together, the kind of afternoon that stretches out in the best possible way. 

    Nippers, if you haven’t heard us mention it before, is the kind of place that shouldn’t work as well as it does. A beach bar on a tiny Bahamian island, perched over the Atlantic side, with a pool and a pig roast on Sundays and music that carries across the water. It works completely. The Driftwood crew was with us for the pig roast – and for the afternoon rainstorm that rolled in with very little warning and absolutely zero concern for anyone’s plans (including a wedding complete with rain soaked fireworks on the beach). We stood under whatever cover existed and laughed about it, which is more or less the correct response to weather in the Bahamas.

    Grabbers, on the harbor side, had its own kind of energy. A little more tucked in, but no less special, the kind of place where the afternoon just slows down while the sunsets. Our Texas friends the Scotts – we’d spotted their flag coming into Lynyard, then crossed paths again at Elbow Cay almost by accident – made it to Grabbers on a Sunday and we met them there after a quick provision stop in Marsh Harbour. There was swimming, there was jumping off things, there was a swing post that the kids felt needed to be climbed to its full height. There were good drinks and the easy comfort of people you don’t have to explain yourself to.

    It was a lot of people, a lot of overlap, a lot of happy noise. The kind of week that, when you’re living it, feels almost too full – and then you get to the other side of it and realize that’s exactly what you were looking for when you decided to do this.

    More from the Abacos coming soon. Next up: Green Turtle Cay, and the afternoon that made me cry on a beach.

    the walking path to Nipper’s
    fire on the beach at Grabber’s
    vacation mode engaged
    beautiful beach
    sunset at the swing posts
    Texans unite!
    another beautiful beach

  • A Couple of Intense Crossings: The Berries to the Abacos (Part 2)

    We woke early enough for this passage, but the weather had other plans. Conditions were stormier than predicted, and the swells were two to three times what the forecast suggested. We were in the middle of the Bahamas with no land in sight, crossing deep water that commands respect.

    Then we approached Hole-in-the-Wall, where the Atlantic meets the southern end of the Abacos, and let’s just say: that stretch is legit. Even in fair weather, the ocean there is ancient and powerful. At thousands of feet deep, the depth finder doesn’t even register. My mind went to all the places sailors’ minds go when you’re in big water: what if something breaks? What if we misread this? What if we should’ve waited?

    Conditions weren’t gnarly, just uncomfortable. And for the first time, I cried during a passage. I was tired, unsure, worried. The kids were being their usual low-key, low-energy as they do on a passage. Barrett was holding it together and helping carry the team while also feeling tired, unsure, and ready to get where we were going. 

    It was July 4th. We were leaving the Berry Islands and heading toward the Abacos. There were hardly any other cruisers around – just a couple tankers and some cruise ships. One tanker actually radioed us and altered their course because of the stormy weather and our speed/direction. I don’t want to know what that maneuver cost them (or do I?), but I’ll forever be grateful. That was our first real weather-passage experience: 16–18 knots of sustained wind, rain, then sudden calm, and then building swell again.

    Somewhere in that crossing, I realized a truth we’d been circling for months but had yet to really connect with: we don’t control the schedule. We can plan, but the wind, the weather, and Agora decide the real timeline. Yes, we’re steering this boat, but we’re also surrendering to the pace of the sea. A new definition of “cruising life” settled in on that passage.

    Eventually we reached an entrance to The Abacos near Little Harbour, but the swell made it uncomfortable, so we pushed farther north toward Lynyard Cay to meet up with a family boat we’d been in touch with through our cruising-with-kids community. We anchored in a peaceful spot, made dinner, dinghied to the beach for fireworks, and ended the Fourth of July around a fire pit with new friends. Major relaxation after a grueling day.

    The next day we decompressed, acclimated back to life on the hook instead of on the move, and explored a new string of islands. We attempted a blue hole (twice) and failed (twice) thanks to the tide changes. But we played in the water, snorkeled in swelly conditions, and connected with some boats who would weave in and out of our Bahamian adventures, eventually meeting again in Great Guana.

    Hard, beautiful, humbling. Those two crossings were ones to remember.

  • A Couple of Intense Crossings: Bimini to the Abacos (Part 1)

    A Couple of Intense Crossings: Bimini to the Abacos (Part 1)

    Leaving Bimini gave us our first reminder that even small departures can turn chaotic fast. From our anchorage via the channel near Alice Town, a combo of speed, current, and maybe some residual rain meant our dinghy started taking on water. So Barrett moved from the big boat to the little one mid-transit to pump out Squeasel (don’t tell the grandparents). We found some space outside the channel, waited for a moment of calm, did the thing, and carried on.

    A little while later, we stopped and dropped our first open water anchor so Barrett and the kids could snorkel the SS Sapona shipwreck just south of Bimini while I wrapped up a work day. At the time, it was a little nerve-wracking, but mostly exhilarating. And looking back, it was an incredible opportunity I’ll never forget and feel so grateful to have.

    From there, we overnighted off Cat Cay – apparently a private island, but we didn’t know or care. It was calm, quiet and easy to anchor. We made dinner and stayed on the boat, appreciating the scenery and feeling of anticipation for the unknown ahead.

    Storms passed around us just far enough away to make the sky dramatic without being dangerous. It was one of those nights where the unexpected felt exciting instead of stressful. One of many nights in succession where we were alone in a Bahamian anchorage. Truly special.

    Morning handed us a new lesson. We hardly considered the tides and didn’t plan to leave early enough for the passage we were going to make. Rookie cruiser learnings: not mistakes, because nothing went wrong, but clear reminders of how much we don’t know until we know it.

    The water was shallow nearly the entire way out of Cat Cay, and while it was gorgeous, it made the day long. Add in the energy of passage-making with kids – feeding everyone, keeping the boat comfortable, staying present – and it was just an intense day.

    The bank from Cat Cay to Chub Cay was stunning, though. We skipped any storms in the distance with just the occasional drizzle, avoided grounding, and navigated a day full of “what if we diverted?” conversations.

    Sticking with our planned route taught us about our weather thresholds and about each other. We dropped the hook at Chub Cay just after dark (our first nighttime anchoring), and the charts were spot on. It was rolly, perched right off the Tongue of the Ocean, but our anchor held just fine. It was an isolated anchorage that left us feeling small in the best possible way.

    We’re grateful to be always growing and learning.

    From there, we headed to the Berry Islands, which deserve their own chapter of this journey, but the crossing from the Berry Islands to the Abacos belongs here, because it was one of the toughest passages we’ve had.

    And that’s Part 2.

    first sights of the Bahamian blue waters
    cruising life -> kids on shore, parents on dinghy
    bailing out Squeasel
    storms near Cat Cay
    stormy skies at Cat Cay
    surrounding weather
    crossing the Bank
    our first anchoring after dark
  • From The Keys to Bimini: Four Stops Before the Big Hop

    From The Keys to Bimini: Four Stops Before the Big Hop

    We left Key West on Father’s Day – the kind of morning that felt like a channel marker. A quiet “here we go” moment after months of planning, packing, unrooting, and re-rooting ourselves into boat life. Agora pointed east, the twins munching snacks in the cockpit, and the Straits of Florida stretching out like a long blue road. It was a rocky first part of the day with unexpected swells and both kids feeling sick before we moved further toward shore and found comfortable positioning in the Hawk Channel. 

    Anchored Outside Marathon: Just Us & the Stillness

    Our first night after Key West was an anchorage outside Marathon. Quiet and still, it was a pocket of calm where it felt like we were the only people anywhere for miles. No dinghy rides, no shore runs, no errands – just the gentle reminder that this life can be slow when it wants to be.

    I don’t think we realized how quickly that stillness would evaporate.

    Rodriguez Key: New Friends, a Mackerel, & a Packed Anchorage

    The next day brought Rodriguez Key – and our first “race,” if you can call it that, with another sailing family aboard Paradise II. Thank goodness for open radio channels and a growing community of folks sailing with kids. 

    Somewhere in the friendly chaos, we caught a mackerel. The kind of catch that makes everyone cheer, even if it’s not going to win any size contests.

    The anchorage that night was crowded by comparison at that point. Boats sprinkled about like everyone had gotten the same memo and decided Rodriguez Key was the place to be. Or maybe it was just one of a few anchorages along that route. 

    No Name Harbor: Miami’s Chaos Meets Our Floating Home

    Then came No Name Harbor, right outside Miami. Miami boat culture is… an experience. Let’s say we witnessed an educational range of powerboat behavior. Speed limits? Optional. Awareness of anchored boats? Debatable. But the water was warm, the sun was generous, and the current was strong. 

    We stuck around for a few days. Dinghied into the harbor. Walked the sandy path with iguanas and herons like extras in our private nature documentary. Ordered groceries via Instacart and somehow experienced 50% convenience and 50% comedy and 100% human. Ate at the little harbor restaurant and reveled in the simple magic of not doing dishes.

    It felt like a tiny pause before the next push.

    Fort Lauderdale: Inlets, Party Boats, & My Hardest Weekend Yet

    Leaving Miami meant entering Port Everglades at Fort Lauderdale – our busiest inlet so far. Boats seemed to be everywhere. Party barges weaving between fishing vessels. Vessels that fit under the drawbridge shooting through while we held position and waited for the bridge to raise. I swear Agora held her breath with us. Shoutout to Barrett for his composure, experience, and general calm/cool/collectedness.

    We tied up at Bahia Mar, a marina with its own little ecosystem: laundry, showers, a pool, walking distance to the beach, and a sense that maybe we could pause again after being fully on the move for weeks. 

    And then Barrett left for Dallas to attend a family funeral.

    It was my (Susanna) first weekend on the boat alone with the twins in a long time. No emergencies. No disasters. Just the reality that this life – beautiful and freeing and transformative – is also demanding. And doing it solo, even briefly, can wring you out.

    I was tense. Tired. Probably annoyed more often than I needed to be. (I’ve learned so much since June about pacing myself emotionally.) When Barrett came back, I think relief hit me in a way I didn’t even know I’d been holding in.

    We reset. Regrouped. Did some boat prep we needed to do.

    Because next up was the part we’d been dreaming about:

    Our first Bahamas crossing.

  • A Key West Address

    A Key West Address

    Our first morning in Key West started with phone calls home – catching up with family, showing off the new anchorage. During one call with my parents, we realized our mooring line was chafing badly. Oops. Quick fix: we swapped it for a bridle setup (probably what we should have done from the start).

    Barrett changed the oil while I tackled other chores, and then we packed up for an adventure. Dinghying over to Key West Bight, we bought a day pass to leave our wonderful dinghy, Squeasel, at the dock and hopped on a bus to the beach.

    There, we met up with friends – Megan, Jon, and their son Thomas. The plan was a beach BBQ, but another group had claimed the grill and fire Jon had started and refused to share. Classic curveball. Instead, the night morphed into sushi appetizers by the ocean, followed by dinner at their house. The kids got to play, the adults caught up, and laughter filled the evening. Sometimes the best memories come from plans gone sideways.

    Our week in Key West unfolded in a groovy rhythm – a mix of work, play, and wandering.

    Highlights included:

    • Fresh baked donuts at the docks.
    • Uniquely cruiser laundry and provisioning experiences.
    • Shopping, splash pad adventures, and long lunches.
    • Spotting horseshoe crabs in the marina.
    • Daily dolphin sightings around the anchorage.
    • Sunset after sunset that left us in awe.
    • Making phone calls on a vintage, yet functional, pay phone (for free) at Pepe’s Cafe.
    • The kids chatting with folks on the wharf, spouting fish facts as tarpon and parrotfish swirled below.
    • Meeting local artists, enjoying delicious food around town, and exploring Mallory Square.
    • A slightly rolly but beautiful Father’s Day sail north to Marathon.

    Like most of our favorite stops, this one felt like more than just a stopover – it felt like a little chapter of our story. A Key West address, even if only for a week.

  • Family of Four Journeying to Open Waters

    Family of Four Journeying to Open Waters

    An Overnight Passage: Marco Island to Key West

    On June 5, we set out for our third overnight sail – this time from Marco Island to Key West. It turned out to be our most exciting one yet.

    We pulled anchor in the late afternoon, around 5:30 or 6:00 p.m. Dinner was on the stove, Barrett was juggling some charting and kid-wrangling, and spirits were high as we pointed south. The air felt beautiful, buzzing with that mix of anticipation and nerves that comes with an overnight run.

    Storms hovered on the horizon but never touched us. I took the first shift and kept us steady, even as the weather radar lit up in the distance. Through the night we had good wind – mostly 16–17 knots, with gusts creeping into the low-to-mid 20s. The forecast hadn’t quite captured the reality: rockier, rolly seas with bigger swell than expected. It’s becoming a bit of a theme – no matter how many times we check PredictWind, the ocean writes her own script.

    Still, the sunrise was magic. After a long, intense night shift, Barrett got some rest while I took the helm and watched the sky turn from ink to watercolor. By morning, the water shifted to the stunning turquoise we’d been dreaming of – our first glimpse of the iconic Key West palette. We were giddy, knowing this was the kind of view we’d get to soak in for the next few weeks.

    Our plan was to grab a mooring ball at Garrison Bight, just around the corner from Key West Bight Marina. Protected? Yes. Pretty? …Not so much. The water was murkier there than the clear shallows we’d just passed through. But we were tired, happy, and ready to tie up.

    That’s when the real comedy began.

    Mooring Ball Grab Attempt #1: I leaned over with the boat hook to snag the mooring eye, only to find it stuck. With too much momentum, I had to let go – sending the boat hook floating away. (Thankfully, it bobbed up “stick side” first, sparing us a loss and any lectures.)

    Ball Grab Attempt #2: We lined up again, this time certain we’d nail it. Nope. Same problem. This time the hook went in the water again and started sinking instead of floating. Cue another scramble.

    Ball Grab Attempt #3: We regrouped. I took the helm alongside Barrett. He lined us up, then ran forward and grabbed position on the bow. With one last try – success! He hooked the mooring ball, secured the line, and exhaled in relief.

    Showers. Laundry. A tiki bar around the corner. Bingo (we even won!). Live music, ferrying laundry, fish-cleaning lessons. That night, we slept like rocks, grateful for our safe arrival in Key West.

  • Moving North, Feeling Grateful (and a little bit tired)

    Moving North, Feeling Grateful (and a little bit tired)

    Facts: We’re in St. Augustine, FL, and the last blog I drafted is dated 7/26/25. We’ve been to the Bahamas and back since the latest post here (6/27/25). There are many stories to tell and memories to recap. 

    Feelings: I miss writing for us, and I think daily about writing. I’ve even voice-typed drafts that I keep meaning to clean up and publish sooner rather than later. But I haven’t gotten there yet. I’ve felt overwhelmed by being behind. I’ve felt distracted and stressed by the daily operations of boat life. Things like finances, laundry, provisioning and meal prep, boat projects and repairs, logistics for ongoing and future travel, and balancing our jobs while alternating childcare, all while trying to stay present at the same time. I’ve felt disheartened by news headlines around the world, many from places I’ve called home at one time or another. 

    For now: I’m standing in the galley while some lentils simmer and Barrett is off with the boys, flying a kite to get their wiggles out. I figured the least I can do is share one timely update. 

    Here’s a brief recap, knowing that (eventually) we’ll properly document the trip with blogs galore.  

    In the past two months, we spent a week in Key West with some friends – new and old – before scurrying up the Florida Keys to spend a full week at a marina in Fort Lauderdale. Some of those days were planned, but the stay stretched longer than expected while we juggled repairs and prepped for international travel.

    We spent just over a month in the Bahamas. Five weeks we will cherish forever because it was our first extended stay abroad as a family. It was a one-of-a-kind snorkeling experience that we will all remember for a long time. It was homesickness and frustrating parenting moments. It was rough seas and surprise squalls while underway. And it was still so much more.

    There were sharks and sting rays, coconuts and conch shells, beach bars and wreck dives. We met amazing fellow travelers and the kindest locals. The water is unbelievably gorgeous – and though I will try through pictures and videos, the photos may never do justice to the natural beauty we experienced. 

    We learned a ton about living aboard, about boat ownership, and about ourselves. We laughed a lot – with joy and delirium. We cried a little bit – happy tears and some of deep sadness. Most of all, we loved each other and our time together living this dream while figuring it out as we went.

    About three weeks ago, we checked back into the U.S. at Cape Canaveral. We had a broken generator that needed fixing, and then a major hurricane was passing in the Atlantic. Again, what was expected to be a short visit at the docks turned into a two-week-long marina stay. 

    We’re grateful to be on the move again, because our plan for what remains of hurricane season has been to spend a couple of months at a protected marina in southeast Georgia. We’ve been wanting to get there over the past couple of weeks, so as fun as it’s been to explore unexpected places, this particular delay has been far less than ideal and costly – in both time and money – for the summer. 

    We’re also grateful for calm waters, for the support of friends near and far, and for the laughter and chaos of the kids along the way. It’s gratitude that keeps running through all of it – for what we’ve navigated, for the seas (calm and stormy alike), and for the chance to set some things in motion on our own terms. 

    There’s so much hope and excitement in being right here, in this moment, knowing the wind has carried us exactly where we need to be. 

    We can’t wait to reach our next harbor, where we’ll finally tie up to a dock long enough to catch our breath, take stock, and reflect on just how far we’ve come on this journey.

  • Hairy legs and a constant state of camp clean

    Hairy legs and a constant state of camp clean

    Cruising life is testing the limits of my vanity (and teaching me new ones). 

    When we lived at the marina, water was easy – we could refill our empty tanks with no issue. Agora is a racer-cruiser sailboat that leans toward racer, so we don’t have many of the amenities traditional cruiser boats do, like solar panels, dinghy davits, or a watermaker.

    We’re extra conscious of water usage – it means minimal soaping, saltwater rinses when possible, and short showers. Shaving is a luxury, and when it happens, it’s logistical. Still, I’ve joked for years with Barrett that I’m a lady of luxury. 

    Here’s the truth about life at sea: we do have hot days, salty skin, and limited water. But we don’t go to bed dirty or forsake hygiene for happiness. We live in a constant state of camp clean.

    It’s kind of like glamping. It’s not “we have company coming” house clean, but it’s not fully off-the-grid middle-of-nowhere living either. (Though it is closer to the latter.) We’d love to install a watermaker onboard someday, but it’s a pricey project we’re not prioritizing yet. Sometimes Barrett and I have to choose between a full French press of coffee or two bags of tea. And that’s OK.

    In the meantime, we get the dishes mostly done every day – and completely done in a big batch the next morning. There’s salt on every surface, but the sun dries things quickly. 

    This chapter is teaching us to be more connected to our bodies and the earth. To feel less vanity and more freedom. I hope it’s doing the same for the kids – though they don’t have the same societal norms burned into their brains yet.

    Messy today looks different than it did eight months ago, but there’s not much in our boat life that looks the same. Most things look better.

    One thing Barrett and I reflect on often is how grateful we are for our time living at the marina before heading out to cruise full-time. That’s how we got to know the boat, its systems, Agora’s quirks, and our rhythms. Our priorities haven’t changed much – they’ve just come into better focus.