Is Solo-Sailing Lonely?
Boater's Village is a good village...
Mornings at River’s Edge Marina have been peaceful, if a bit chilly. The San Sebastian is a quiet river, and I start each day with a big cup of coffee in the cockpit. I put on a down vest, cue up some opera or classical music to set a mellow mood, and sit under the hard dodger reading the news while the sun rises over the marshes. Often, a handsome cormorant gives me the eye while he stands on a nearby piling with his wings spread wide to dry. Herons, egrets and pelicans go about their business. Sometimes there are dolphins, their distinctive huffs announcing their arrival as they circle astern of Laughing Gull methodically hunting for breakfast. I cherish this kind of solitude, when the mind is quiet and the day is coming alive. Socrates had the somewhat skeptical opinion that “whosoever is delighted in solitude is either a wild beast or a god.” I don’t aspire to the second, and hope I am not the first. Yet, I am delighted.
Some who know me wonder whether my life aboard will eventually turn me into a lonely recluse, with a scraggly beard, wild eyes, and perhaps a dribble of saliva at the corner of my mouth. At sea, though I am often solo, I never feel lonely. There is too much happening, and too much to think about, to feel acutely the absence of other people. And Laughing Gull feels alive to me when she is pressed by the wind and lifted by the swell. All boats have personalities, and Laughing Gull’s is distinctive enough that I admit I sometimes talk out loud to her—also to myself and to the elements. I catch myself doing it sometimes, and wonder whether it is strange. At least no one argues. I do thoroughly enjoy voyaging with others aboard. There is more laughter and, of course, real conversation. But the solitude of a solo voyage is a sublime form of solitude, and entirely unique, especially in the hyper-connected world. It doesn’t make me feel like a god, but it does make me feel that something very, very special is happening.
Ironically, it is when I am surrounded by people—when I am in port—that the melancholy of loneliness can threaten to creep in. It is fleetingly rare, though, because the cruising community—whether in an anchorage or in a marina—is like a very friendly, happy, village. We connect on the docks or in an anchorage. We connect on radio nets and in a multitude of Facebook groups in which you can ask practical questions and get tremendously useful and reliable advice (Facebook has proven such a wealth of generous info and knowledge that after years of disdaining it—and its malign influence on the political health of America—I frequently find myself referring to multiple boating groups, so cheers Mark Zuckerberg, you got me in the end). Many cruisers have “boat cards” they hand out with contact info (I haven’t quite gone there yet, but careful production of an attractive boat card is clearly an official declaration that you are a long-term cruiser). You meet people, you share info, you have some laughs, and then you go your separate ways. And then you run into them again at some random anchorage, and it’s like you have stumbled across an old friend. Often, cold beer is involved. And the views are usually great.
Boaters are doing something they care about and enjoy, and not oppressed by the weight of the world and the violence, conflict and existential threats which define our era (and most human eras, if we are honest, though the existential threats of climate change and earth systems collapse are new). It’s not that they don’t care about what is happening out there. It’s just that those things don’t dominate their thinking and focus. I have met dozens of fellow sailors and have yet to discuss the disappointments of COP 28, the war in Ukraine, the endless and brutal conflict between Israel and the Palestinians, Trump, or politics in general.
For me, a person who definitely felt—and still feels—the weight of the daily news and the depressing trajectory of the human experiment and its impact on the planet, this has been entirely refreshing, perhaps even transformational. I can continue to read and think about all these issues, and try and write about how I might adapt my own life to better promote universality and tolerance, while reducing my own impact on the planet. That can take me deep within myself, but when I re-emerge and engage with the sailors around me, I get a pulse of positive and revivifying energy. The transient nature of cruising makes most boaters—who generally have interesting journeys and stories—naturally open to strangers. And there is also a powerful and refreshing ethic of helping one another other out that is increasingly rare in the modern, social media-distracted and narcissistic world.
Even hanging around while doing laundry at a marina on a rainy day can turn into a few hours of pleasant, often useful, chatter. No one on a boat seems to care much about your politics, your religion or any other framing that can cause division. Of course, I see the occasional Trump flag or bumper sticker (I am in Florida, after all). But potentially volatile topics just don’t tend to come up (at least so far), and the shared experience of living on boats unites everyone way more than other things divide. Which is perhaps a healthy throwback to an age when people kept some views to themselves and didn’t share everything all the time with everyone. Though here in the South some do get a kick out of a person who has an entirely inexplicable (to them) diet that somehow doesn’t involve eating animals.
It is also easy to plunge into the non-boating world. St. Augustine also offers a wealth of bars, restaurants and coffee shops, many scoring high with their menus on my “woke vegan” scale. The local pickleball courts are always alive with friendly play and laughter (yes, yes, I am a convert; love the game, hate the name). My fold-up bike takes me everywhere. Slowly.
So the early verdict is that floating village life is a good and social life. My face remains clean-shaven. I still shower regularly. Already, I look forward to voyaging farther south to new villages, in Florida and then the Bahamas. So I’ll be back to writing more about the sailing itself in the New Year.
Happy Winter Solstice, everyone. More sunlight and longer days are a welcome prospect.
A Good Antidote To Down Moments: Just spend some time with the Moustache Farmer (click to watch; sound on):
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Thanks for sharing, Tim
Another great article, Tim. Non-transactional encounters can be the most enjoyable! Merry Christmas! Ed