How I came to live on a Sailboat

When I bought my Columbia 29, in March 2004, I knew zilch about sailing. The boat was in Long Beach, and my soon-to-be home port was Morro Bay, 200 miles away, and the infamous Point Conception was between us. This presented a logistical problem! I'd spent 10 days aboard a tall ship many years ago; and I've been kitesurfing quite a bit; but as for the theory, practice, and terminology of small sailboats, I knew nothing. But I was determined to live aboard a sailboat.

Why? First of all, I wanted to boycott the concept of rent - I despise giving landlords my money - but also, I'm an ocean fanatic, and Morro Bay's ideallic glassy estuary is like a cold water paradise. Smooth like a mirror, nestled between mudflats and sand dunes, under the watchful eye of Morro Rock rising 300 feet high, the bay moves with the ebb and flood of the 6 foot tides, morphing constantly and transfixing my dreamy mind.

I felt a calling, a beckoning from the sailer within, who longed for the infinite horizons and the romance of a black storm. Few times I'd been aboard a sailboat; but I'd always felt a certain familiarity, a warm recognition like I'd once been a sailer, or had always dreamed of being one, and sometimes I'd get tears of emotion in my eyes. I knew that sailing was part of my future.

I began my search for a sailboat. On Ebay, of all places, I found an incredible deal. Just $2000 for a 29ft Columbia Defender. According to the owner, it was fully operational with engine, rigging, sails, and a bombproof 1964 fiberglass hull. No other deal I found came even close. The only problem was that it was in Long Beach. I told the owner I'd love to buy his boat, but I didn't actually know how to sail.

I never would have expected it, but John turned out to be a bit crazy- the good kind of crazy - which was to my advantage. During our conversation, he suddenly said, "You know what? I could use a little adventure. I'll sail her to Santa Barbara with you, teach you how to sail, and you can take it from there."
"Uh, you think I can sail her from Santa Barbara to Morro Bay on my own?" I was skeptical.
"Sure!"

I wasn't convinced about that, but I was definitely pumped up on the boat. If the owner volunteered to sail 100 miles with me, it couldn't be that bad! Three weeks before that, I was walking along the beach, and met a girl called Sarah who had just finished her diploma at San Fransisco's Marine Institute; we had connected instantly and exhanged phone numbers. I hadn't talked to her since, but I called her out-of-the-blue, and asked her if she'd like to go on an adventure. Sarah's incredibly smart and handy, but she shares a characteristic of mine: an under-developed sense of self-preservation. All in the name of fun, of course.

"I know a lot about navigation and big stinky diesel engines, but I don't know much about sailing." She hesitated for a minute. Then, seeing that my own lack of knowledge wasn't keeping me from doing it, she stepped up to the plate. "You said this guy John would teach us? Alright let's do it."

There was no way I could back out now. Two strangers were volunteering their time for a risky venture: sailing in winter with a sketchy boat and an inexperienced crew. If they thought it was possible, how could I back down? It was the beginning of an epic effort to bring a sailboat into my life.

the Raza

Dodging the Storms

For about 8 months, there wasn't one decent rainfall in Morro Bay. Since I bought my sailboat in March, all the way to October, the only form of precipation was fog. There was plenty of fog, plenty of grey. But everything was calm for months. Then the first storm of the season swooped down on us, the unsuspecting prey, and several boats ended up on the mudflats. 50 knot gusts had turned the bay into a wild sea, but luckily my boat was in the Santa Barbara marina. I had taken the train down there on a moment's notice and motored the Raza vessel from her anchorage by the pier to the marina's protected waters.

After the storm wrecked havoc, the sunshine came out. Blissful autumn days, warm and calm, were in full effect. A few weeks later, the morning after I pulled my boat into the Port San Luis Harbor, the second storm hit. It rained like crazy for three days straight and my dinghy got obliterated- but I was able to fix it eventually. The weather reverted back to perfection - hot offshore winds for several weeks, everyone was out in their flip-flops in December. Then the third storm hit.

Nobody had talked about it in the news. It wasn't a big deal. Then LA and Ventura counties got record rainfalls. Hollywood was flooded. It kept raining for over a week, hard driving rain. My boat was absolutely soaked. I stayed a few nights out with it, to make sure the anchor gear was holding, and that my cabin wasn't flooding; but it was holding up fine. However, like an old house, my old boat has all kinds of leaks and eventually it was quite soggy inside. Even my previously "dry safe" areas - the couch, the bed- were getting damp. Thankfully the rain stopped, and I took everything to the laundromat.

The ocean was murky brown from the rivers, dumping the accumulated mud and soot which had finally broken free. 8 inches of rain had flooded the streams, and filled the big lakes. On New Year's Eve the last remains of that storm drizzled down, teasing us with the occasional sunshine. We had 3 days of dry weather. Then I looked at the local newspaper's front page, this week:

"TRIPLE THREAT OF STORMS THIS WEEKEND"

Holy Moly here we go again. This time, no one was complacent about it. Meterological experts analyzed how three different storm systems, the "Pineapple Express" coming from the west, the "Artic Express" from the north, and an unnamed tropical flow coming from south of Mexico, were on a collision course this weekend in California, in what could be the region's "meteorological event of the decade". The TV had images of people buying sandbags to protect their driveways. Radio stations advised trailers and trucks to watch out for high winds. Reports said "Friday morning could see winds rapidly increasing from 20 to 40 knots, with possibility of 60 knot gusts". And more: "Central coast could see another 7 inches of rain on already saturated ground; beware of floods."

How much of this is hype, and how much I should worry, is a fair gamble.

The Myths of Sailboat Life

There are two myths of sailboat life, on either side of the spectrum: one is the romantic ideal of "sailing into the sunset"; the other is the uncontrollable fury of nature's Perfect Storm. Movies and songs always reinforce these two images. The lone fisherman/sailor fighting for his life. The retired couple sunbathing in the Carribean. These are the stereotypical extremes, but the weird thing about sailing, is that both extremes are true.

When people find out I live aboard a sailboat, either they think I'm nuts, or they're totally envious. The reaction is never ambiguous, depending on which stereotype they have in mind. Everyone freaks out, either at how cool or how crazy the idea is. The concept of living afloat, and being completely exposed to the elements, is very foreign to the majority of landlocked folks. It's such a different world than what the average person is used to, that people are really curious about it. "Is your boat on the dock? No? So how do you get out there? Rowing a boat, right. But what about a bathroom. Do you have a shower?"

There are a lot of people that have lived in boats all their lives. In comparison, I'm a fledgling - I've lived aboard my 29 foot Columbia, the Raza, for only 10 months. Everything is still new to me. I'm in a constant state of adjustment to my marine environment. Although I've spent all my life by the ocean, I'm still a landlubber in many ways; the sailboat life was foreign from the start and continues to be intimidating. But that's Ok! A distinguishing trait in my personality is that I enjoy the intimidation; the Challenge, that is. Which makes every day an adventure- what more could I ask for.

So my task is to record all the intricacies of boat life, while I'm here doing it. I don't know how much longer I'll have my boat. For the benefit of those who are curious, and for my own introspective delight, I'm going to begin a multi-part series entitled Boat Life. I'm going to use flashbacks from the past year, and details of the current moment, everything from the mundane to the extraordinary. The extremes of romance and fury come and go; but there's more to it than just the myths. Boat Life is a thing all of its own!

A Single-Hander's Log Book

SAILING AROUND POINT CONCEPTION

Monday, November 1st

11:30AM
Sunny blue skies, light offshore winds. A perfect day in Santa Barbara. Matt the Mechanic is the water taxi out to my sailboat, the Raza. "Bro, just look at this weather. You're gonna be fine. Seriously." The forecast is also ideallic: light variable winds until the end of the week. But this is a big deal to me. Single-handing a sailboat up the coast for 120 miles is no light matter, especially for someone who 8 months ago knew nothing about boats.

The learning curve has been intense.

Matt the Mechanic drops me off, and motors away in his dinghy. He waves in farewell, and I wave back, thinking, "I can't believe I'm actually going to do this." But you do whatcha gotta do. So I hoist the mainsail, pull the anchor, and head out to sea.

1:15PM
Westerly breeze 10-11 knots in the Channel, which gives the ocean a slight rustle, but not enough to start whitecaps. At first I head at a bearing of 210 degrees, in a southwesterly direction. Then as I get further offshore the wind swings to the north, and eventually I'm heading to 250 degrees. According to my archaic, early 90s GPS, my speed is about 3.5 knots.

I turn on my VHF radio and listen to the automated weather observations: Anacapa Island NE wind 40 knots with 50 knot gusts. Only 35 miles away it's blowing gale force, while I'm cruising in easy winds. The "Santa Ana" winds are in full effect, blowing hot dry air from the desert towards the ocean. Anacapa Island lies offshore from a valley which funnels and magnifies the offshore winds, creating wind waves up to 4 feet tall. You really don't want to be in the middle of that.

But I'm heading in the opposite direction, towards Point Conception - the "Cape Horn of the Pacific". Santa Ana winds are rare, but they do create mellow conditions around the Point. During normal weather patterns though, the wind howls all day at the Point from the north-west, and together with the large swells and currents also coming from the north-west, makes the task of travelling north-west very difficult. That's why it's taken me a month and a half to finally do this trip; trying to coordinate time off work with brief windows of calm weather was tricky. But when I suddenly had a week off work, and noticed that the Santa Ana winds were blowing, I decided to go for it.

3:30PM
I'm about even with UC Santa Barbara, and 6 miles out to sea. It's taken me two and a half hours to cover the same distance a car drives in 20 minutes. Slow going!

The genoa - the big headsail - is balancing the mainsail perfectly, so that the boat sails straight without having to touch the tiller. Everything has to be just right, the wind speed, the sail trim and size; then you can go into the cabin and make a sandwich, come back and the boat is still on course. Pushing along, bit by bit, with the power of the wind.

6:30PM
The wind died down. I have two choices: motor towards shore and anchor for the night, or just float in the Channel until the wind picks up at dawn. It's one nice thing about being alone. I don't have to feel responsible for someone else's safety or comfort, I can make my own choices - wisely or not! My energy level is very high (though I could fall asleep in an instant), and I don't feel like wasting the time to find an anchorage. I'd heard reports that the boat will make slight headway overnight if you let her drift; or at least, she won't loose ground. I leave my running lights and anchor light on so other boats can see me. So I begin to take down GPS coordinates to make sure I'm not going in the wrong direction. After all, I don't want to get too close to the shipping lanes or oil platforms while I sleep down below.

6:45PM
Latitude: 34d 20.82 N
Longitude: 119d 56.42 W
Wind west 5 knots, sails down (bare poles). Boat is rolling around wildly.

11:00PM
Latitude: 34d 19.65 N
Longitude: 119d 50.15 W
Wind calm. Oil platforms far away. Shipping lanes are at 34d 16.00N so they're still far away.

------------------------------------------
Tuesday, November 2nd

1:30AM
Light easterly wind, decent enough for sailing. I feel rested and ready to go. However, my battery is almost dead, since I left the lights and GPS on all night, and the battery hasn't been recharged since before the trip. The only way to charge the batteries on my boat is by plugging into shore power, or running the engine. There is a special battery just for the ignition, so I fire up the Atomic 4, my precious yet fickle engine - motor sail up the coast, until my secondary battery charges up.

WISH LIST: solar panels or wind generator.

3:00AM
Shut down the Atomic 4. Hoist up the genoa, balance the sails under light breeze as best I can, and fall asleep in the cockpit. I'm tired. Wake up every once in awhile to make sure things are Ok, going in the right direction.

7:00AM
The Raza is cruising up the coast on her own. Although we've had our share of arguments in the past, now that we're homeward bound and there's no turning back she's behaving herself quite nicely. As the sun is rising, bringing that magical glow that only dawn reveals, we cruise by the big bright oil platforms, like floating casinos. "Harmony" and "Heritage" are their names, as written in the nautical chart.

Oil being one of the great political issues of our generation, suddenly I'm reminded that today is Election Day! I'll have to really hustle north if I'm going to make it to civilization by this afternoon, and fulfill by democratic obligations. Actually, it's borderline impossible for me to make it, but I still use that as motivation to keep going. I've got to sail north as fast as possible, get my vote out, change my country!

9:30AM
Approaching Cojo Ancorage. This is the point of No Return, the last south-facing beach before Point Conception and the fury of the central coast. Usually, sailboats spend the day at Cojo, wait until midnight when the winds are calmest and motor around the Point. But the buoy reports on the radio tell me it's blowing SSE 5 knots at Conception, a rare blessing. I decide I can't miss this opportunity. Plus, the latest forecast had an abrupt change, saying that the wind on Wednesday (tomorrow) would pick up to a dangerous 15-25knots. I'd have to wait at least a whole other day at Cojo until the weather calmed down. So I went for it.

10:00AM
Just before the Point, the wind dies down. I knew it would pick up again in 1/2 a mile but without sail power I'd spend all day getting there. I crank up the Atomic 4. And it promptly stalls. That's weird. I try it again- it barely starts, then stalls again! What now. My heart is in my throat. We're at a critical point and the Atomic machine is letting me down. Don't quit on me, Number Four! I fire her up again and vrooom! give her full throttle and hope whatever was clogged burns off. It seems to work, after a few huffs & puffs. The Raza is feeling kind today, so far. Knock on wood. Not to say that I couldn't sail all the way north, especially with the current conditions. But given my inexperience I really like to have the Atomic power to fall back on, when the going gets rough.

4:30PM
Slow... slow... so slow. Sailing is so slow. The Raza advanced about 18 nautical miles in 7 hours. Just under 3 knots speed. But it is very beautiful- flocks and flocks of seals swim right by, jumping clear out of the water where the boat's wake makes the surface glassy. As the sun is about to set, the sky becomes littered with wispy clouds, indicating high altitute wind. Though it is glassy calm right now, the wispy clouds tell me that tomorrow the wind will be tooting. The automated weather forecasts have changed throughout the day, gradually predicting that the conditions on Wednesday (tomorrow) will be worse and worse. From "a chance of showers", to "likely thunderstorms, 30 knot winds, 12 foot seas". Now the mission isn't to arrive in time to vote; it's to find safe harbor before the storm. The sunset lights up the clouds, both mesmerizing beauty and a reminder of tomorrow's violent seas.

The anxiety begins the build. Decisions need to be made... I have three choice of anchorage. The closest is Point Sal, 5 miles away, next to Vandenburg Airforce Base; there is no harbor or protected waters, so it'd be a sketchy anchorage at best. The next anchorage is at Port San Luis, 16 miles away; they have a harbor patrol, 3 piers, and I'd be close to home. The final choice would be Morro Bay, my destination 31 miles away; but I ruled out the chances of getting there without total exhaustion. Different parts of me wanted different things. My adventurous part wanted Point Sal, because it was unexplored territory (inaccesible by the public) and it was the closest- my energy level was pretty shot already. I always have to consider the possibility that the motor might fail at any moment. My sensible part wanted Port San Luis, guaranteed safety and ability to go into town if needed. And my grumpy part, which was getting tired of dealing with this boat saga, wanted Morro Bay so I could get all this out of the way. Between watching the amazing sunset and listening to the storm forecast, I debated my options.

As luck would have it, by the time I got to Point Sal darkness was complete; and there was no way I'd try to anchor in pitch black, if I could avoid it. Though it was tempting, I discounted that option, thank goodness, for the storm which came was fiercer than all the forecasts. As I set my course for Port San Luis, I looked at the glowing lights at Vandenburg Airforce Base. The missile silos, warehouses, and landing strips were ringed in lights like the bonfires of an invading army.

7:00PM
The wind is calm, I rely completely on the Atomic to get me to the harbor. I give up worrying about whether or not I'll arrive. I'm tired of stressing out. The storm will come; I will do my best to reach safety; if I get caught in it then I'll deal with it. The Atomic feels really solid though, kicking forth like a young buck. When the smells of the home port mix with an approaching storm, the engine finds its gallop.


1:00AM
The moon rose like a yellow serpent's eye behind the mountains. I stare at it, transfixed, as the hours roll by, running on caffeine and adrenalin. Finally I pull into the harbor, weaving through the red and green indicator lights.

"Port San Luis Harbor Patrol, come in, Port San Luis Harbor Patrol, this is the Raza. Over."
I don't know where I was going in this dark harbor. Minutes roll by before I get a response.
"This is Port San Luis Harbor Security. Come in vessel Raza. Over."
It's great to hear a voice to guide me into safety, as the cold wind is already strengthening. The Harbor Security tells me to anchor between the steel and wooden piers. There's no boats nearby, so it's hard to judge where to anchor. I bring out my jury-rigged depth sounder and find a safe depth of 30 feet, toss the anchor, make sure it's set, and close the hatches.

Ahhhhhhhhhhhh........

Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.....

Thank you Raza.

Thank you Atomic.

Thank you wind and sea.

Thank you warm blanket and multiple pillows that I curl up into, and sleep soundly until the rain starts hitting in the morning.

bring the RAZA back home!

STUCK AT THE SANTA BARBARA ANCHORAGE

Some things are so wonderful, yet at the same time so god-damn-tough, that you have to wonder: is it all worth it? All the hassles, joys, and insecurities! At the end, of course, it's always worth it. But there are critical moments along the way when success seems impossible, and we'd rather just crawl into a corner and forget about it all.

The blessing and curse of owning a sailboat: those critical moments of stress can be amplified to new heights. Case in point: a month and a half ago, I anchored the Raza, my 29ft Columbia, at East Beach in Santa Barbara. She has been there ever since, leaving me to wonder and worry about her wellbeing from afar - 100 miles away, from my home in Morro Bay.



In September my friend Dave and I returned from a surf adventure out at the Channel Islands. The trip was awesome. Everything from the weather, wind, and swell went smoothly; even my fickle motor behaved itself. The mission was particularly an accomplishment given that 8 months beforehand I knew nothing about sailing - and there I was, cruising in search of waves! But on our return to Morro Bay we had some difficulties with the weather. The winds turned gale-force, and we were forced to abort the mission. The gods must have figured, "Enough is enough. This kid thinks he can just brave the seas without experience and get away with it? Ha! We'll give him some sweet struggles to remember."

With the North West winds blowing 25 knots, we returned to Santa Barbara, anchored her near the pier, and headed on our separate ways. Dave had to return to school; I was busy at work. Several weeks went by, and the boat was left on Faith alone. Then the first storm of the season slammed the coast with phenomenal strength, and I had to drop everything and go tend to the Raza. I jumped on the next train to Santa Barbara, arriving just as the wind and rain began to pound.

I had to move my boat into the harbor, as fast as possible. Three foot swells were already starting to cap all around, sending the Raza into a frenzy. Pulling up the anchor was near impossible - the 20 knot gusts would push the boat back with much more power than I could reel her in.

Turns out this was the first time I'd ever pulled the anchor on my own; usually I have a buddy along, which makes life a lot easier and safer. The situation was particularly precarious because the historic Santa Barbara pier lay 50 feet away on my lee shore - the wind would push us straight into the pilings if I lost control. But thankfully the old 1964 Atomic gas engine held up, and I managed to get the anchor on board and motor into the calm harbor. Like an overheating car which is fine until it slows down enough, I must have boiled over because as soon as I pulled into the slip I passed out. For the rest of the day I slept, with the drip drip of the rain pleasantly above.

PLEASE MR.RAZA, CAN WE GO NOW?

My plan was to wait out the storm, recruit some crew during the weekend, and take the boat back north. By chance luck that weekend had a very decent weather forecast, favorable for beating upwind around Point Conception. The prevailing head wind is brutal for those heading north, and to pick a good weather window is essential. It was lucky that the weather window was coinciding with a weekend- when others have time off to help me sail. After all, at this stage I wasn't even considering doing the journey alone.

But there were two things I didn't count on: One, is that people have lives. And lives always change! Even though they might usually be free during a weekend, you just never know. My brother's wife got sick; my friend had to attend an infrequent Saturday class. Dave, my first mate from the Islands trip, said he'd commit despite his upcoming midterms - as long as he was back in San Diego by Sunday night. And there was no way I could guarantee that. I began to think the unthinkable: I may have to do this journey alone.

There was a second thing I didn't count on, to further complicate my trip north: my boat has feelings. The Raza is fairly relaxed vessel, usually in a good mood. But when she doens't want to travel, she's like a fat grumpy dog which doesn't budge. My friend Matt Khach, mechanic extraordinaire and great guy, confided, "Whenever you plan to go somewhere, whether you leave the boat behind or bring it with you, you've got to ask her: Are you going to be OK? Are you sure?? Because if she's not OK, you just have to change your plans." You know the boat has taken over your life if you're making decisions according to what convenient to them, not necessarily what we want to do. But that's how it is!

So you've probably guessed by now that the Raza refused to make the journey north, whether I was alone or not. I had a series of engine problems which kept delaying my trip until I ended up missing the good weather window. I was besides myself in frustration.

In retrospect I realized it was for the best. Boats, like most inanimate objects (and occasionally primitive life forms) have a much better sense of intuition that I do. Clearly, the Raza knew that I wasn't yet ready for the solo journey. I can respect this opinion, but I remained bummed: why do I have to keep waiting?

PULL BACK & GET SOME PERSPECTIVE, BOY.

Two days later I returned by train to Morro Bay and found out why I had to wait. I'd had two assumptions about the journey north around the infamous Point Conception: 1)I need at least one other crew member to help me out. 2)Only a fool would try to sail around the Point; everyone motors north when the wind is calm. Since the prevailing headwinds are so strong in that area, attempting to sail upwind is a recipe for a time-consuming, wet, and painful experience. No one sails north around the Point anymore, these days.

Enter centerstage Mike "Moxie", the dread-locked dude I met at 2 Dogs Coffee. Mike sailed his 27ft Catalina single handed all the way to the Mexican border and back, without a motor. During the last storm in Santa Barbara, he had pulled into the harbor the same day I did. When the weather cleared, and I was wasting time and money on my faulty engine, Mike was sailing up the coast to Morro Bay. Sure it took him a lot longer than if he'd just motored - but he still got there at a reasonable time. I knew such a feat was possible; I just hadn't met anyone who'd actually done it.

Suddenly, the world of my possibilites expanded dramatically. My previous assumptions were replaced: One, I can bring the boat up the coast alone, if I have to. Two, I can sail north without a motor, if I have to.

This realization was huge. Now I was ready to do the trip.

TO INFINITY AND BEYOND

My boss gives me a week off work. I check the weather. Winds: light to moderate. Swell charts: a few pulses, but nothing major. Sunshine is in the forecast; no fog. I pack my bags and head for the train station.

I stare out the window in the train. The countryside is rolling by quickly. This is an old train; the windows have millions of scratches which turn the sun's rays into an orbital rainbow. I watch the setting sun over the ocean - the very same ocean I plan to cross in a few days. Possibly alone. Possibly without using my motor. Possibly I will have fun. The critical moment of hassle, joy, and insecurity is being extended indefinitely; and when I get to the other side, oh how wonderful it will be.

Tabula Rasa Lifestyle

THE NEW SAILBOAT LIFE

In the search for affordable housing, I came accross an unconventional idea: living on a sailboat. Since I work at a restaurant that overlooks the bay, I was greeted with a daily view of inspiration: achored sailboats, flocks of birds, and the sunset. The prospect of free rent, peaceful solitude, combined with a million dollar view, was too enticing to dismiss. After a month of intensive research I settled on a 29ft Columbia sailboat, and a bank loan which would essentially leave me bankrupt. But hey, it's home owner-SHIP, right? Excuse the pun...

The challenge was that the home port of this lovely boat (to be named the Tabula Rasa), was in Long Beach; given my very limited sailing experience, the prospects of my surviving a single-handed 200 mile journey up the coast to Morro Bay seemed dim. As luck would have it, the owner of the boat volunteered to sail with me to Santa Barbara, to give me a "sailing lesson". I had also met a recent graduate from SF's Marine Institute, who, even though her expertise was with navigating container ships, was convinced that this was an adventure worth undertaking. Lastly, a tall ship sailor turned massage therapist (friend of mine) took pity on our plight - "Point Conception ain't no piece of cake" - and joined our eclectic crew on the last minute.

The only imagery that comes to mind, when I think of that memorable sailing trip, is that of a sadistic rollercoaster, taking hellish drops before careering into a heavenly ascent. The speed at which everything would turn into the chaos of black proportions, and then swing into dream-like order, was astounding. An overheating engine, a leaking gas tank, the ensuing seasickness sprouting from gas fumes, were some of our tribulations; cruising under sail with dolphins, basking in the sunshine enroute to Santa Barbara, singing and storytelling during the nighttime 4 hour shifts, were some of our more blessed moments. Unpredictability! how invigorating.

When we pulled into Morro Bay Harbor, I felt very fortunate indeed. Of course, the difficulties didn't just cease; there remained issues of safe anchorage, battery power for my lights, the porta-potty, access to drinking water, etc... After some serious organizational stress though, I managed to arrive at an ideallic situation: my little taste of free ocean-side living!