Reflections from Ashore: Choosing the Next Boat
Anyone who has spent time without a boat knows the odd, persistent ache of boatlessness. It’s not simply missing an object; it’s a running commentary in the back of your mind. A storm on the forecast and you’re imagining extra lines. A sudden cold front and you’re picturing haul-out schedules. That phantom-boat feeling is familiar to many of us who’ve tied up, motored in, or simply longed for the steady rhythm of life afloat.
Being ashore for a while gives me the chance to think deliberately about my next boat. Choosing wisely requires honest self-assessment and an awareness of how optimism can tilt judgment. That optimism has led me into difficult situations at sea more than once, but also into memorable and meaningful voyages I don’t regret. The trick is to remember both the rewards and the costs, and to let that balance guide the next purchase or refit.
On a recent drive I listened to a segment of the TED Radio Hour about finding meaning through work and challenge. Psychologist Daniel Ariely described mountaineers who, despite frostbite, altitude sickness and acute discomfort, rarely quit after a successful summit. Instead they go back again and again because the challenge offers profound meaning. That insight landed with me the way a gust catches a sail: it explained why sailors return to the sea despite its dangers.
That idea brought to mind Jeanne Socrates, who at age 74 was preparing for another solo, nonstop circumnavigation. Her determination and experience illuminate a truth many of us recognize: grand challenges keep some people alive and engaged. I’ve spent enough nights offshore to know what much of that experience feels like—endless ocean, shifting weather, noisy seabirds and the steady, small chores that become a kind of meditation. Those hours form perhaps 95 percent of a long voyage and are overwhelmingly addictive.
The remaining five percent, however, is where sailors are tested. It’s the tense hours when you batten down, lash everything you can, and hope critical gear doesn’t fail. You brace for a blow and steel yourself to ride it out. Those passages leave vivid scars on memory — but over time we tend to remember them as victories. The pain or fear of the moment blurs, and the narrative hardens into a story of endurance rather than a record of suffering.
There are activities I’ve tried and enjoyed only once: skydiving, hot-air ballooning, deep scuba dives and roaring down a highway on a motorcycle. The thrill was real, but I decided not to keep doing them. Sailing is different. The sea’s quieter, repetitive joys — an afternoon closehauled on flat water, trimming sails to a whisper, watching light change on a distant shoreline — continue to call me. I can’t imagine being without a boat for long because I miss those small, absorbing pleasures.
Still, I also force myself to revisit the worst storm I’ve endured. I recall the sleep-deprived hours, the relentless motion, the mental calculations about when and whether to reef or heave-to. Those recollections keep me cautious. They temper romantic notions of solo circumnavigation or daring passages. If I dream of a new nautical challenge, a solo trans-Atlantic crossing feels like a more realistic next step than attempting a global voyage. It offers an edge of risk and accomplishment without the scale of nonstop circumnavigation.
Adventure takes many shapes. For some, it’s the extreme solo feats; for others, it’s the steady competence of coastal cruising or the deep satisfaction of learning new skills. I admire sailors like Jeanne Socrates and the mountaineers Ariely described. Their pursuits are different from mine, but they’re all anchored in the same human drive for meaning found through challenge.
In the meantime I imagine future days aboard a vessel that fits my temperament: a bright, calm morning, close to the water, trimming the telltales and keeping an eye on the sky. I picture returning to a mooring before weather turns, building a small fire ashore, and pulling a sea tale down from the shelf. I’ll live vicariously through the pages, grateful for others’ braver or more restless experiments, and satisfied with my own modest stash of sea stories.
Choosing the next boat, then, is both practical and soulful. It means being honest about what I want from time on the water, what level of risk I’m willing to accept, and how much daily comfort matters. It means balancing the addictive appeal of the ocean’s quiet rewards with a clear-eyed recall of its tests. Never say never—I may still cross an ocean solo—but for now I’m content to let the memories guide me toward a boat that will deliver many calm, meaningful days afloat.
This article originally appeared in the December 2016 issue.