Trading Our Life on Land for a Life At Sea

Trading Our Life on Land for a Life At Sea

I wish I had a philosophical discourse, a romantic soliloquy, or unassailable logic to share, but I don’t. I wish I could blame it on Menopause or a midlife crisis, but at our post-midlife age, those things were firmly rooted in the rearview.

The truth is, we had arrived at the idea of living on a sailboat and sailing across the globe on what felt like little more than a whim.

We had been working as long-haul drivers, crisscrossing the highways and byways of the U.S.A. We lived on the road full-time in our 176″ sleeper, complete with a full bathroom and kitchen. A Harley Davidson was comfortably perched on a lift behind the cab. We could unload it via a handheld remote, saddle up, and ride.

From the finest lobster in Maine to the smoothest whiskey in Kentucky, from the honky-tonks in Nashville to the wineries of California, from coast to coast — we explored it all.

It was a good job; at times, it was a great job — like when we hauled rocket engines for Elon Musk or shoe machines for Nike.

But one day, as we pulled onto our 16-acre Oregon property, I told my boyfriend that I was done. I was tired. I was bored, and I would not be getting back into the truck — ever again.

I was surprised when he said, “OK,” and then asked, “What do you want to do next?”

I had no idea, but my bohemian upbringing took over. “Let’s sell everything, get rid of it all, and see what the next adventure the Universe provides us is.”

And that is what we did. We sold everything: from the Kenworth Truck to the Conestoga Trailer; the property to the tiny house; wheelbarrows, weed whackers, lawn mowers, cattle prods, Elvis records, Harley Davidson — if it wasn’t bolted down, it was sold.

Three months later, everything was gone. We bought a bottle of champagne to toast our newfound wealth and sudden abundance of freedom. We still had no real idea of where to go from there.

“You know, I’ve always kind of enjoyed boating and boats,” ventured my boyfriend.

And with those words uttered and the final swallow of champagne gone — we toasted to a new adventure of sailboats and sailing.

The next day, we bought a Micro Minnie Winnie and loaded ourselves into all 19′ long and 7′ wide of her to begin our sailboat search.

And that search began with a road trip. I imagined cruising down the open highways, stars lighting up the night sky, wind whipping through my corkscrew hair, and Red Hot Chili Peppers crooning in the background.

We would make smores in the shadow of a mountain and drink coffee by a stream. If there was a boat to look at, we could ‘pop by and have a look.’ I was in.

While I prepared an incomparable playlist of everything from grunge to country, Chris began his own hard-target search for everything sailboat.

As I said, it wasn’t the best thought-out plan.

The sailboat search begins…

In Winchester Bay, Oregon. Advertised as a home-build 44-cutter and priced at $36,000, she sat in her slip under a blue tarp as if she wasn’t expecting any visitors at all. Her owner had died, leaving the boat to a son, who, like me, was not a sailor.

‘Home-build’ is a euphemism. It can mean a lot of things from, ‘I went to Home Depot, bought some windows and plywood, and crafted a vessel’ to this current showing, a ferrocement boat. But all I saw was cement — what I envisioned the inside of a prison cell would look like. It was not pretty or stylish. There would be no place to hang my cute curtains or throw a decorative boho blanket. The boat was old, utilitarian, and built for function–that function being war.

Next, the broker lifted the tabletop, revealing a piano underneath. It was beautiful — but big and heavy, with mahogany pedals and ivory keys.

Was there a piano on the Titanic?

The look of confusion on our faces was met with an abrupt end to the showing. We were shown the companionway hatch, also known as the door, and invited to continue our search elsewhere, thus ending our short, not–sweet showing.

Next, we headed towards Tomahawk Island near Portland, Oregon, where we did not meet chocolate-covered Graham crackers or Chili Peppers. Instead, we met a sailboat named Unida.

She was a Hans Christian 38’ Mk2 with a teak sole (floor), a large galley — (kitchen), a nice-sized Pullman berth (Murphy Bed), and a very cool head (toilet). But she was not for us. It would take a lot of work to maintain her and her antique decks. She was overpriced at $109,000 (three years later, she is still for sale).

Following the I-5, we went to Port Orchard, Washington, where we met Moonchild, a 47’ Vagabond. She was a beautiful condo on the water, weighing in at a hefty 40,000 pounds; she was a lot of ‘boat.’ As beginner sailors, she was too big for us.

From Port Townsend to Anacortes, Washington, from Anacortes to Mexico — we drove and stopped at every wide spot in the ocean. Seattle; Newport Beach; Coos Bay; Crescent City; Napa; Oxnard; Marina del Rey; Dana Point; San Diego. You get the idea.

Some boats sat in the water, and others were ‘on the hard,’ balancing on metal legs in boatyards or concrete parking lots.

We met a 1984 37’ Tayana named Tundra Spirit, which turned out to have no interior; she was a literal shell.

A 1986 39’ Cavalier named Silver Cloud was beautiful, but my boyfriend couldn’t fit in the bed.

A 44’ Cheoy Lee Golden Wave named Argonauta had a very strange layout — perfect for a younger, swinging crowd, but not for us — the un-swinging couple.

Followed by a 41’ Island Trader Ketch named Ethereal, who had a rough couple of years. Her most recent owner was an older man in his mid-seventies who dreamed of sailing off into the sunset.

The problem was that he waited too long to chase that dream and now suffered from things that happen to us with age — everything slows down, from our movements to our reflexes to our thinking.

He bought the boat in Washington, hired a captain, and began the sail down the West Coast.

But the west coast is unforgiving, and luck was not on his side. Ethereal was run aground, and eventually, they found themselves in the soup of Bay Area fog. Here, the boat ran into the Berkeley Pier. Not once, but twice. At this point, he got out, repaired her, and put her up for sale, never to return.

Next came a string of boats — a 1973 CT41 named Content; a Mermaid CT42 named Peak to Peak; a 1970s style Morgan 41 boat; a Liberty 458 named Evergreen; a Mariner 48’ named Shangri-La; and a steel boat named Samarium … you get the idea. It was a lot of boats.

They all started looking the same at some point, and my favorite thing about them was their names.

We found our sailboat…

18 months and 32 boats later, we found ourselves in New Zealand, still searching for the perfect boat, when the phone rang. A Sceptre 41 had come on the market in Seattle, Washington, a place that felt so long and so many boats ago.

Our broker visited her and knew she was the boat for us. Thanks to the magic of technology, we did a video walk-through. An offer was made, and we were on the next plane out of Auckland to meet her.

We arrived in the rain-slick city of Seattle in February 2023. It wasn’t love at first sight, but it was close.

She was born in 1988 in the coastal city of Richmond, British Columbia, number 36 in a family of 53. Decked in fiberglass, she had a mighty 55 HP Turbo Diesel Yanmar purring inside her roomy engine compartment. Her design was a stunning but rare Pilot House, which allowed sailors to drive (or steer) from an inside helm out of the cold weather and elements of the Pacific Northwest.

Her first years had been amazing, but eventually, her ocean roaming became more infrequent, and the distances sailed lessened. And then, she sat, no longer exploring the blue waters that surrounded her or the islands that bobbed above the surface so near. That was until we (who had never sailed before) found her.

The boat survey…

Now that we had found our sailboat, it was time for a boat survey. If, like me, you have no idea what that is, it is when a professional marine surveyor is hired to assess a vessel’s seaworthiness and maintenance. They inspect the vessel to ensure it meets specified design, construction, stability, safety equipment standards, and interior and exterior.

The boat would be hauled out of the water, and the hull, bottom, props, rudder–everything below the water line — would be inspected. If you have ever worked in food service, it feels like an intense health inspection that lasts for eight hours — in the end, you pay for it. In our case, that payment was about $1,200.

Matt Harris conducted the survey, and I mention this only because he had been the project manager overseeing the birth of these specific sailboats. The Sceptre 41 Sailboat was made from 1982 to 1993, and their father (designer) was Hein Driehuyzen.

Fifty-three hulls were built in total, and Matt could be considered their Godfather, as he oversaw their construction and put the first one in the water. The survey on our boat would be his last before he retired. So, he knew the boat well, and his 45-page report proved it.

From leaking hatches to rusted screws, from tired lines (ropes) to dead batteries, from damaged floorboards to torn sails, it was all there, and the dollar signs continued to climb.

But her reputation was great, her bones were better, and my 6’ 2” boyfriend had ample headroom and could fit in her berth (bed). Yes, we could live on her. So, we did a sea trial on Lake Union in the seaport city of Seattle, Washington.

The sea trial is exactly what it sounds like — we took her for a test run in the sea.

At thirty-five years old, she was not in her two-stepping prime, but she shocked and awed herself out of that lake and gave the younger, newer modeled boats a run for their money. She performed, she shone, and we were in love because, like us, she was still young at heart, just older in other places.

We bought our first sailboat!

We returned to our tiny house on wheels — (yes, we were new to sailing, but not to the tiny lifestyle) and decided to make her ours.

Like buying a house, the paperwork goes through a title company, where funds are held in an escrow account, and all items are transferred between buyer and seller. Soon, the closing paperwork was signed, sealed, and delivered, and we owned our first sailboat — for a mere $144,000.

If you dug this story–check out The Story of Our Sceptre 41 Sailboat.

Have an amazing day. Thanks for reading!