Town Hopping

Since mid-January, we haven’t been in the same town for more than a few days at a time, traveling across Thailand, Vietnam, and New Zealand.  In some ways, we’ve been land cruising, the terrestrial equivalent of our boat-based meanderings across the Pacific, but the sensations and evoked emotions are noticeably different. Over this recent period, I’ve felt a restlessness that I don’t feel on a boat, perhaps because on land, the nightly environs change, whereas on a boat, we always return to our little cabin, with its familiar pictures, colorful curtains, and our bed.

We need a place to come home to as humans, it seems; it’s a rare person or tribe that lives a true nomadic existence, moving every few days from place to place, daily re-creating a cocoon for the necessary comforts of living.  Apart from the emotional toll it seems to take – assimilating new smells, sounds, feels, dangers – a nomadic existence also takes a physical toll – moving oneself and one’s possessions, feeding oneself, sheltering oneself. 

From time to time, I’ve reflected that for the cost of our boat and its equipment, we could have afforded a rather luxurious land-based trip around the world, staying in a mix of 2- and 3-star hotels, eating out regularly, and paying for guides and tours.  On our recent travels, we’ve stayed in hostels, or, in New Zealand, in a campervan – a low-impact, low-cost, and low-hassle way to travel here or there on whim. Hotels tend to require reservations and deposits, and elaborate tours require pre-booking.  We’re happier playing it as it comes, even if it means a more nomadic, more demanding existence as we pack ourselves up each morning.

Another unforeseen by-product of our land-based travels has been the unavoidable and seemingly relentless intrusion of the consequential and inconsequential news of the world – from Japanese earthquakes and tsunamis to the antics of the obviously un-medicated bi-polar Charlie Sheen.  On a boat, sailing across remote waters and visiting remote islands, the news of the world is filtered to its essence – tsunamis, yes; tantrums, no.  The weather and sea conditions take precedence, and one of the more appealing aspects (to me, at least) of long-distance cruising/passage making is the enforced isolation and resulting space and quiet for reflection.  We live in a cluttered world, filled with signal and noise, and these recent travels have reminded me that it’s hard to distinguish between them whilst in the midst of media-borne cacophony.

So in reflecting on alternate ways to see the world, I come back to the nightly feeling of “coming home” that I experience when I turn the masthead “at anchor” light on, take a final walk around the deck to check the boat, set the anchor alarm on the GPS unit, and descend the three steps to our little cabin.  I recall the weightlessness of thought while watching swells overtake our stern, pass under the boat, and leave a trail of phosphorescence.  And I’m glad we made the not-inconsiderable investment in our boat to see the world – because we not only have a base from which to experience the world with little of the land-based nomads’ distractions and demands, but we also have given ourselves the solitude within which to reflect on the world around us, each other, our relationships, and ourselves.

Here, in Sydney, as we spend a last few nights “town-hopping,” I’m looking forward to a return to my cabin on ile de Grace, to its pictures, its curtains, and our bed.  Town hopping has been a nice way to see Thailand, Vietnam, and New Zealand, but I’m ready to return to port-hopping.  We’re still struggling with the pirate issue, and it’s possible that we decide to suspend our voyage until that part of the world settles down, or that we brave the winds and seas and currents of the Southern Indian Ocean and the Cape of Good Hope, but under any scenario, I’m ready to be back home – on ile de Grace.