Stopping for a coffee at any time in any place; pushing
through the capitalist octopus of limbs inside, reaching the registers and the
underpaid baristas, contrived terminology, over-priced products of Starbucks
and it’s imitators.
Fresh milk.
$9.99 a day rental cars
Cars.
Friendly efficient waiters at restaurants
Restaurants.
$1 stores
Stores.
These are some of the things I will miss when we set sail
and leave the USA behind us. It’s a count down now in days. A simple 40 mile
crossing to Bimini, but a paradigm shift in many ways.
For the past six months we have been observing, indulging,
following, frolicking, partying to the tune of America’s drummers. We have
sacrificed swimming, snorkeling, solitude for all of this. Glamour, glut,
buy-one-get-one.
It’s so easy, being from such a country, to fall into the
routine of surplus and safety. Where all your needs will be met. Where you can
demand what you want and have the right to receive it. If I’d never ventured
away, I’d probably question why anyone would ever want to leave that. But we
have, and so we are now members of the global wanderers, maritime squatters,
compelled in some way to keep moving, even when there is so much we’d be
leaving behind. So much to do, so much to buy. So much of everything really.
But we’ve spent all our money now. We have new TVs, full
freezers, matching towel sets. It’s time to go. Back to the quiet beaches and
jaw dropping sunsets that mark the days and nights of life in the Bahamas and
beyond. Back to the parts of the world where the US coast guard and Towboat US
will not be waiting around every corner to help. Where we must judge the
weather and maintain our engines and take care of ourselves.
Time to pack away the thick denims and heavy soled shoes. My
toes long for cool sand and the hunter in me longs to find sea shells instead
of bargains now.
The oil and the filters have been changed and the boat
survived. Oil smudges notwithstanding.
Our charts are up-to-date and will hopefully keep us from
running aground in the Bahama shallows.
The sails are in tact. The chain has perhaps another year
before it will crumble into a rusty pile of salt induced oblivion.
So, no reasons left not to leave.
We’ve visited all the friends, pet the manatees, seen the
alligators, partied in the coolest places, and danced to ‘Troprock’ with the
Parrotheads.
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This year we need to find some new horizons. Maybe we will
head to the Western Caribbean. To Belize, and further. To the San Blas islands
where there are no shops nor electricity. No cities or governments. It's been fun in America but it's time for dinghy rides that don't lead to Publix and pubs. Time to close the door on consumer choices and fashion trends. Time for salty hair and sandy bedsheets. To places where mystery and nature are in charge and not Mr. Starbucks...It's time to float and be free. Time to cast off the lines and leave these beaches behind.
To borrow from one of the Troprock icons Jack Mosley, a toast, whatever happens, and wherever we end up:
“to small boats on big oceans, and dreams you can’t drown”.
