Fixing Boats and Facing Departure: Is This a Pilgrimage or Just a Midlife Crisis With a Tool Bag?
So I’m sitting at the boys’ house, waiting for the spackle to dry — again — so I can sand the damn wall and ceiling one more time so the boys can finally slap some paint on it. Which means I’ve got time to talk to myself in another blog post. That’s right — just me, some coffee, and a few thousand words of “what the hell have I been doing with my life?”
Boat Projects & Spiritual Maintenance: Fixing More Than Just the Bilge
It’s been a solid week of progress aboard Ohana. The kind of week that leaves a man sore, smug, and just holy enough to wonder if maybe this whole project is less about sailing and more about sanctification through fiberglass dust.
Big win #1: I got the chain counter working. Finally. Which means no more guessing how much anchor chain is out or yelling back and forth like an old married couple:
“HOW MUCH IS OUT?”
“I DUNNO, ENOUGH?”
Now I’ve got numbers. Truth. Precision. Feels downright biblical. If Jesus had a boat, this would be on it. Probably next to the fish finder that also makes wine.
Tech update: New Zeus plotter and replacement solar controller are en route. Ordered the wrong plotter for the nav station because I did not know the differances. Rookie mistake. The Vulcan works fine — if your biggest voyage is from one side of the marina bar to the other. But if you’re headed offshore? You need plotters that talk to each other like sober adults, not drunk uncles on Thanksgiving. As for the solar controller, it was just the bluetooth in it failed.
So, if anyone wants a brand-new Vulcan plotter, I’m selling one. Comes with a complimentary “bless your heart” and maybe a half-used tube of 5200.
Big win #2: I finally mounted the “line bar” in the locker — on the third attempt. That’s right. Third time’s the charm. First time was optimism. Second time was delusion. Third time was holy war.
I wire-brushed both surfaces like they’d insulted my mother. Wiped it down with acetone, drilled oversized holes in the blocks, slathered on West System 610 (aka Holy Goo), pressed those blocks in like I was baptizing them, and screwed them to the locker ceiling. If there’s an epoxy heaven, I’m getting in.
The locker? Chef’s kiss. Lines easy access and hanging, fenders ready to pop out like drunk party guests, and the “bag of terror” respectfully tucked where it can’t cause me psychic distress. I even labeled things. You know a man’s healing when he starts labeling shit.
And that’s the thing — this isn’t just boat work. It’s soul work. You spend enough time alone with sandpaper and broken systems, and eventually you start seeing metaphors in everything.
A blown fuse? That’s my temper.
A corroded fitting? That’s my issues.
Half-assed epoxy jobs? Yeah… that’s DEFINATY my dating history.
At some point, you stop taping over cracks and start ripping things open, cleaning them out, and fixing them right. Same goes for your past. Same goes for your faith.
Oh, and I made another $250 selling leftover gear from the electrical upgrade on Facebook Marketplace. Craigslist, by comparison, is a spiritual wasteland. It’s just scammers, no-shows, and guys named “Lonnie” who want to trade a broken trolling motor for my $500 battery inverter because they “just got outta jail and really feel called to the sea.”
Prepping for Departure: Voyage or Pilgrimage?
There’s a fine line between “getting ready” and “just not going.” I’ve been pacing that line like it owes me money.
For years, I told everyone I was leaving “next year.” At this point, Antares boat show staff probably think I’m just part of the display — the old dude who drinks his IPA’s in the cockpit and tells cautionary tales. Like a ghost of decisions past.
But this year? No more waiting. No more polite delays wrapped in emotionally-manipulative logic. I’m leaving in mid-September. Off the dock. On the move. Under sail. It’s happening.
I’ll cruise to Annapolis for a month, soak in the boat show buzz, and then finally cut the last line I’ve been emotionally retying since losing Donna and my life flipped upside down. It’s not about weather windows anymore. It’s about not letting the recent X hold me back anymore.
That said… nothing’s ever easy.
Boat insurance? Silence.
Car insurance? “We’ll get back to you.”
Dive Instructor’s cert? John’s still operating on “island time,” despite being in freaking Maryland.
I could settle for divemaster. But let’s be honest — “divemaster” sounds like a guy who peaked during Baywatch reruns and now teaches snorkeling to people in water wings. “Instructor” has more pull.
And yet — in the chaos, I’m peaceful. Not smug. Not manic. Just… ready. That’s what makes this feel less like a voyage and more like a pilgrimage.
Voyage = distance.
Pilgrimage = meaning.
I’ve been prepping Ohana with gear and upgrades: chain counter, solar, lithium, dive compressor — but I think I’ve been prepping myself more. For solitude. For change. For showing up in the cockpit alone and not feeling like half a person.
Leaving isn’t just about where I’m going — it’s about why I stayed so long.
My resent X always wanted to wait. “Just one more season,” “just one more project,” “just one more reason to play it safe.” But it was never really about the boat.
And now? No more excuses. Just wind, willpower, and maybe some grace duct-taped to the mast.
So is this a voyage? Yeah. I’ve got charts, weather apps, a route south.
But it’s also a pilgrimage. A slow exorcism of all the bullshit I clung to in the name of love, safety, or being the “good guy.” A way forward that doesn’t need permission.
Now, if Travelers Insurance would just return my damn call, I could do it all fully insured.
Fair winds and faithful steps,
A salty (now) “monk” with a power drill
