home sweet boat

Things are beginning to settle down here on the Marianna. First there was the band of bed bugs that hitched a ride with me from Corsica and the chaos that ensued to make sure they didn't make it onto the boat. We finally have that situation under control, thank god, because we were all losing sleep over it. Now we have new things to lose sleep over, but I digress.

So yes, you may have guessed it. I am living on a sailboat at the moment. Her name is Marianna and she is a beautiful Swan 62 footer; my father has been her captain for about seven years now. The boat has spent most of those summers in the Mediterraen, and she usually over-winters in a marina in Toulon, a place where I've actually spent quite a bit of time over the past few years, hanging out with my dad. I've been here for about a week and I have maybe two more to go, taking advantage of the good weather to get some much-needed work done around the boat. I'm on day eight of refurbishing the deck, a tedious process that has to be done with great care and concentration so that the expensive teak wood doesn't get damaged any further than it already is. The payment in Euros is a nice incentive, though, and since I am on month five of traveling, I am in no financial position to turn down work.

Thankfully, I have also been able to get into a good training schedule for my upcoming triathlon in November. I've been running twice a day, and I just found a great pool around the corner from the marina where I can put in some swim time. After four straight months of bouncing around -- from hiking in Yosemite to visiting friends Texas to making friends in Central America (not Kansas, I'm talking Nicaragua) and then road tripping all the way up to New England before jumping across the pond to Europe -- it feels really good to settle down for a few weeks and get into a routine.

It's funny; you never really appreciate the beauty of a routine when you are in one, but the lack of one over an extended period of time can make any person crazy. I'm thankful for things like going to the market on Saturday (post pending about this wonderful affair!), having a washing machine at my disposal, cooking my meals, and getting to know the characters in the neighborhood . For example, on my evening runs, I always pass by a little food trailer where a friendly French man can be seen kneading dough or pulling delicious pizzas out of his wood fire stove on wheels. Sometimes, he's shooting the breeze at the window with his delivery boy or hanging out with his dog at the back door while he waits for customers. He doesn't open until dinnertime, but I've caught him there midday before, prepping vegetables for the evening.

One funny thing about living on-board a boat docked at a marina is the whole privacy thing, or lack of it. The marina is open to all, and as a result, you're basically living your life in the public eye. For example, I'll be hunched over my sanding machine, only to look up and find a group of boat enthusiasts watching me work and gazing eagerly at our boat. It doesn't help that much of the time, we literally have our (clean) laundry hanging out to dry on the lines.

The marina is right next to the boarding dock for the huge ferries heading to Corsica and Sardinia. The roundabout to enter the marina is always swarming with cars and people lugging groceries and purchases to bring from the mainland to the islands. Each day, as I run by, I usually see a few tearful goodbyes as people board the massive ships.  Other townspeople will come to the marina just to watch the ships set sail; some will come on their lunch breaks, or to walk their pets after work. On the weekends, the docks are teeming with families coming to check out the action. The little kids are simply fascinated by the lines of cars driving into the belly of the ships at loading time.

There are a few others who live on our dock as well; we smile knowingly at each other when the people come to gawk at the boats. They don't have to hear the whistles blow at the break of dawn each day, or the incessant announcements made over the loudspeakers of the ferries, directing passengers and their vehicles to the right places.

Another part of public life on-board is the fact that you live extremely close to your neighbors, if you have any. Sometimes there might just be an empty boat tied up next to yours, or perhaps a loud group of tourists who have chartered a yacht to take them to the nearby islands for the day. Sometimes you get new neighbors in the evening, and they're gone by the morning, replaced by a new boat with a different flag flying from the stern. At night, I run into all sorts of people in the marina. Lone fisherman waiting patiently for that late-night catch. Groups of teenagers looking for trouble. Couples taking a romantic walk after dinner at a restaurant on the pier. The other night, my dad had to chase away a drunk man trying to get onto a neighboring boat. "It's just to sleep," he bumbled to my father as he swayed on the unmoving dock. My father wouldn't hear of it and made him leave.

And still I work, run, cook, do laundry, and generally go about my daily life amidst the chaos; this is life in the maria.