Those thoughts were running through my confused and foggy brain at 3am as I slowly shook the sleep from my head and sat down to pee (on our boat, everyone pees sitting down, First Mate’s rules). My sea legs were wobbly and I was glad for all the fiddles and hand holds in this amazing boat as I had just made my way up the companionway from the aft cabin into the big bathroom off the salon of this large catamaran. “Where are we? What’s the sail plan? Who’s on watch? What’s the wind? And holy shit, when did we put a bathtub and subway tile in our head?!” Only then did I realize that I wasn’t on Lyrae. We don’t have a big bathroom off the salon. I was in my underwear, on land, in Alameda, CA. Not only were we in the home of LJ’s old mentor, boss and skipper Fred, but I had wandered out of the guest room in my underwear, up the stairs and into Fred and Rose’s private bedroom suite! They were literal feet away and I was peeing with the door open. Oh boy. Shhhhhh.
We were on our way to go backpacking in Yosemite. It had been well over a week since I had sailed under the Golden Gate and tied up in Sausalito. The boat and crew did great, no injuries or real damage beyond regular passage wear and tear. I was relieved. But over the next week I realized just how much stress and anxiety I had been carrying through the lead up to departure and through the passage. We have done a lot of work on this boat, and a lot of it ourselves. I got way outside of my comfort zone with mechanical, electrical, plumbing, rigging, sails, etc. How many hose clamps, ball valves and pieces of plumbing had I touched? And how could those two tiny hose clamps mean the difference between the bilge being clean and dry and the boat sinking from the inside out?! “Does that port sail drive sound a little more hydraulic to you than starboard?” Oh god, I really hope I got that gear lash adjusted properly and the whole thing doesn’t explode (we had to motor for 2+ days of the passage). But more importantly — did I have the right sail plan? Had I interpreted the weather models properly? Could I really reef running downwind if the following seas didn’t allow us to turn up? Did I really know how to sail a catamaran at all?! Why oh why hadn’t I spent more time flying the code0! Just constant low level anxiety. When I sleept it was for 1-2 hours at most. From my berth I could quietly check the wind, weather, speed, chart and everything on my phone, so I didn’t have to constantly run up to the helm to check. There was one terrifying shrill alarm, on the very first night, as we were motoring on the port engine that woke me (and I think the entire boat). After shutting down the autopilot, VHF and engine, it stopped. I still don’t know what it was or where it came from, but the systems all checked out fine on inspection. And yes, it’s the first time I dropped into the engine room in the dark wearing underwear and a PFD while harnessed into the amazing jack lines LJ installed everywhere (thank god for LJ).
And LJ. I really missed having LJ on the boat. Yes we’re married and it’s not always roses. We bicker, we both have pretty strong ideas about the best way to do things, etc, etc. But she is a partner like no other. We bring different approaches to a conflict or a crises, but when push comes to shove, there’s nobody I’d rather have in my corner. There are so many critical systems on this boat that are on her side of the spreadsheet: sails, rigging, provisions, safety, medical. “Oh, you need a new system to take the load of the reefing line? Gimme 5 minutes— I’ll splice something up for you from my spare dynema.” And she does. That, my friends, is very, very rare. And that gives me deep confidence that we can overcome problems. And she wan’t on the boat, and I was anxious.
But overall, I had asked for this. I wanted to be anxious. I needed to stand on my own two feet. One of the big reasons I want to do this at all is to feel alive. I missed feeling a sense of urgency. I want my kids to understand that you can’t always just type on a laptop and zoom all day for a living and pay money to have your problems solved. I want them to end up like LJ, who can fix anything without ever having the right tools or materials, because she grew up on a boat. I want them to understand that adventure means soldering new components onto a watermarker board while in a pristine anchorage, or rigging a temporary ground wire 150 miles offshore for the fuel transfer pump that somehow got miswired right after I tested it in the boat yard this March (ugh). Not so long ago I had a physics lab as a supply of never ending puzzles. Now we have a boat. But this type of living feels more real, more immediate, more exciting, more human and yes — more stressful. Luckily I seem to be coping OK. I’ve quit adventure peeing in the middle of the night, so I’ve got that going for me. Now it’s time to gear up for the next passage, this time with the kids and, thank God, LJ.
Meet the Millers 