Living Aboard Comes to a Head

    It has recently come to my attention that people (generally non-sailors) Don't entirely
understand what it means to live aboard a boat while cruising long distances. I shall attempt
to enlighten on the realities of my particular brand of cruising. As I'm going long distances
on little money I am afforded fewer conveniences than many other cruisers choose to enjoy.
    For starters, everything you bring aboard must be carried back off the boat when it's done.
Everything. Groceries? Yep, the wrappers get trashed, the rinds get trashed, the rest,
digested, and then guess what. It all has to go somewhere, you can't just dump it into the bay
you're anchored in, or the river you're motoring down. Some boats have holding tanks which you
can pump out every so often like an RV. I don't have that. I have a porta-potty. So when it
gets full you have to find a bathroom, dismantle the thing from it's mount on the boat, carry
the tank in feeling awfully self-conscious about the treasure you hold in your hand, and you
get to dump it into the toilet. All five gallons of putrid stank gets to flood past you as you
pour it in, and you hope to God it doesn't splash.
    I don't have much money, less than I thought even. So I don't get to stay in marinas very
often. $1.50 per foot of boat length, per day has been pretty standard for a slip going down
the Intracoastal. Ritzier places get more, I've seen up to $3/foot. For my little 25 foot
Cassandra that's on average $38 a night or $1140 for a month of travel. I obviously don't have
that kind of money. Because of this I anchor out. You study your chart to find a little section
of water, between 8 and 15 feet deep with land on whatever side the wind is/will be coming from
to block the waves. When you get there you verify that it actually is the size and depths the
chart said it would be, let out your anchor with the right ratio of rope to water depth, and
get to enjoy the results of your chart ponderings, hoping you chose well when the tide goes out
and the wind pipes up.
    If you need to stop at the grocery store, or grab some propane for your stove (no microwave
or oven folks) or anything on land that little anchorage needs to be near those amenities and
have someplace you can tie up or beach your dinghy. So, you get into your little, homemade 8
foot water-taxi, row yourself over to that beach and walk wherever you need to go. If you're
lucky you're in a city with buses, and if you're really lucky they had a free dock you could
tie up to for a night instead of anchoring. These are few and far between. Once you buy your
70pounds (10gal) of gasoline and two bags of canned goods (no refrigeration either, can't
afford to install it or the power generation to keep it running if there was even enough room
for it.)
    Then, once you've rowed all this out to the boat it has to find somewhere to live. Dried
beans under your bed (which is also the couch) shelf-stable milk, for a treat, is kept in the
wonky shaped cubby in the counter. Cans fill the space under the steps down into the cabin, and
pancake mix and powdered milk keep the beans company. Everything winds up everywhere. Fresh
foods need to be stored where they can breath so they don't go mouldy. Right now that means in
wicker baskets in the way on the counter. All water comes on in gallon jugs filled in a
bathroom or a potable water spigot somewhere. In the us this is free. In the Bahamas water is 
$.25 per gallon.
    Then there's hygiene. Since you have to bring all your water on by the gallon there is
little you would want to use for washing. Seawater is ok for dishes, but they need a freshwater
rinse so they don't stay wet and the pots don't rust. Salt holds dampness in just about
anywhere it goes, so if you go for a swim to get clean you'll want to rinse yourself too.
Mostly I take sponge baths, admittedly not often enough. Water is precious, and the weather has
been cold, not much fun to stand naked in what is essentially your living room, shivering as
you sponge away days worth of grime. Real showers only happen at marinas, fitness clubs, or
occasionally the sympathetic friend's house. Laundry likewise happens when you bite the bullet
and pull into a marina. Otherwise you head to a laundromat like everyone else, except your
clothes get to make a dinghy ride with you both ways; the clothes in the machine beside yours
are always jealous.
    Your bed is 2" of thirty year old foam topped with a summer sleeping bag and whatever
blankets you might need to keep some shivering. Did I mention there's only 5'8" of headroom and
I'm 6'2? No? Well, just throw some stiff spine into the calculations for living comfort while
you're at it.
    That's most of the day-to day that I deal with. Sailing is still sailing, motoring to make
miles is still just motoring. It takes a special kind of person to sail with nothing. 'Special'
sounds a bit like it means 'not too bright' sometimes, but I still enjoy it.