The guts of ORION.
I've had several readers and writers request that I post about what living on a boat is like.
But I don't know what the big deal is. I mean, it's just like a house. Really. One that when you step out the front door you plunge into a pool of diesel laden saltwater over your head.
One that requires more maintenance and money than a 16 year old girl at her first prom.
One that could sink up to the second floor bedroom windows.
One that shifts up and down. Back and forth. And periodically escapes and bumps into the neighboring residence.
"It moves?" You ask.
Well, yes. It moves.
"All the time?" You ask.
Well, yes. All the time.
During storm surges and high winds we're heeling right at the dock.
At night I hear water lapping and the bilge pump going on at quiet moments. This is comforting because it reassures me I will not wake up below the water line.
The fantasy of living on a boat usually requires a glass of wine, a sunset, a cute deckhand in short shorts and lounge chairs next to the helipad.
A grumpy husband with his s*** covered armpit deep in a toilet that ceased to function at 3 am or me filling a water tank at 11 pm with shampoo in my hair and a bathrobe covering a soapy body.
Take your pick.
And then a green sea turtle paddles over and begins munching the seaweed on the hull. The morning sun sneaks upwards and lights the Waianae Range and we both lean against cockpit cushions and sip our hot coffee.
It's the best of times. It's the worst of times.
Wait. I think that line's been taken...
It's just so totally cool.
Oh er...I guess that's been taken too.
This blog is now open for questions.