In which we become houseless but not homeless

We just crossed the finish line of a marathon, and we're pretty dang happy about it.

Janet doesn't look too sweaty, considering she just finished a marathon!

Damon doesn't even have chafed nipples!  (If you're a man of a certain age and have ever run a marathon, you know about this.)  What's going on here?

Although this marathon didn't require us to strap on running shoes or cause body parts to chafe, it did require discipline, deprivation, and endless work.  Anyone who's made the transition to living aboard a boat full time can tell you that making the transition was an arduous task. We can attest, it's true.  Today, after almost a decade of planning, we succeeded in de-housing ourselves.

Who the heck would give this charming place up? (Us. We did.)

We started our journey in a 2100 sq ft house in Maine.  Buying that house had been exciting -- never in our wildest dreams had we imagined that a couple of goofs like us would ever have the money to buy such a nice house.  But we found ourselves living in only a couple rooms in that big house, and we were putting most of our money into it.  It didn't make sense, and we started to ask what we really wanted to be doing with our time and money.  Mow a lawn?  Heat a big house (in Maine)?  Spend our summers painting that beast?  The answer, on all counts, was "no."  We wanted to spend more time on the water, travel to new places, and enjoy amazing people on the way.  In 2015 we downsized to a tiny condo across the river, a task that involved frenzied cleaning, yard sales, trips to Goodwill and the dump, and more than a little bit of angst.  That first step was key because it required us to shed most of the anchors that held us ashore -- furniture, knickknacks, most of the gadgets we had accumulated.  

We bought Fulmar not long after we moved into that condo in Maine.  Since then, we've moved to Georgia to be close to our families and for Damon to work at the University of Georgia Marine Institute on Sapelo Island.  We consciously chose to live in a small, simple home again, and purchased another little condo.  Last year, we finally made the decision:  it was time to go sailing.  Time to sell out and move aboard.  Time to take the final step.  Giving up the condo evoked mixed emotions.  On the one hand there is fear of the unknown, sadness in saying goodbye to our art and comfy furniture, and anxiety about what it will be like to live full time on a boat that's much smaller than even our tiny condo.  On the other hand, there is freedom, adventure, possibility, and beauty.  

Luckily, we are not alone in our task.  First and foremost, we've had the support of our families.  Thanks to them, we have a bit of a safety net if everything falls apart, a place to hide our most valuable things, and people who encourage us (even if they think we're a little crazy).  We also have a bunch of examples of people who've done it before us.  Sailing Uma famously tells us "Don't Buy a Couch".  Sailing Totem came out with timely advice on Radical Downsizing.  These folks showed us it can be done.  

We sold our condo to these lovely folks who are excited to explore the waters of the Altamaha Delta and the barrier islands of the Georgia coast.

How do you celebrate an accomplishment that took years to complete?  Well, on Fulmar, we break out some Veuve Cliquot, because we're fancypants like that.  We also break out veggie dogs and mac-n-cheese, because a) it was National Hot Dog Day, b) we have a fridge full of food that needs to be eaten, and c) we seriously can't afford an expensive meal out on the town right now.  Are you kidding?  Anyways, no restaurant could top the views from our very own cockpit.

Veuve Cliquot is excellent paired with Amy's mac-n-cheese and veg dogs

What restaurant has views like this?