Having always been a bit of a people watcher, I find the different reactions people have when you tell them you actually live aboard your boat in a marina extremely interesting. Responses range from the shock/horror type. “Oh no, how can you possibly do that?” or simple cold scorn, “Hmm, well, I could never stand to live on a boat, I couldn’t get squashed like sardines in a can!” There’s even a muttered inference that because you don’t sleep four steps from a pink-tiled bathroom with gold faucets, you must be a bit of a grump, or worse, a member of the hideous marina-bar-frequenting species. ..” The filthy yacht!” May Allah save us from such horrors!

Admittedly, it seems like a fact of life that the further you live from the royal navy clubhouse on your ship, the higher the wrinkle ratio in your shirts and jeans, but at the end of the day, it’s not exactly a crime of hanging, right? All boaties are a bit like that, right? I’ve seen some very fancy yachtsmen that belong to my club who look like they’ve barely escaped a wind tunnel with hairdos to match, but then again, a lot of them look like they’ve got Mercedes convertible sports cars.

Living on board, in a marina is a double-edged sword, I know. Like everything else in life, there are pros and cons, in many different ways. The cons can, on certain days, far outweigh the pros, but hey, life goes on. What are the disadvantages? Well, these can vary in horror content depending on whether you are on a swinging mooring or in a marina. Let’s first remove the swing lashing type. When the weather is good, nothing (I’m assured) beats the quiet and solitude and the feeling of freedom away from paddling neighbors and barking dogs. It must be idyllic, I’m sure, except for the endless line of motorboats that brush past your porthole every two minutes on weekends. However, (actually I shudder as I type) when the barometer dips and a destroyer from the south turns towards our little spot of heaven on Earth promising black rain clouds and strong gales, my heart truly goes out to them. I have often stood by the porthole, comfortable in the cockpit, on a dirty day watching small waterlogged boats go by in the gloom full of cowering shapes and sodden dogs whose eyes are fixed on the nearest terrestrial light pole. I want to applaud loudly for his true determination and incredible tenacity. It’s a hell of a lot cheaper out there and I really think the club should award those solid members with bravery medals and give them free dinners since most of them are the best sailors among us all. I have to admit, I’m curious how some bosses react when one of their employees walks into work on a rainy day as if he’s been in Niagara Falls getting washed down with a fire hose. Saying “I live on a boat” only seems to make things worse somehow.

But let’s move on to the next hardy species, the ‘sea berth’ inhabitant. Again, the distance from the shower and toilet come into play, but the further away you are, the less you’ll be able to hear the warbles and rumbles of the resident band, whose repetitive refrains of ‘fucking Mustang Sally’ for twelve straight weeks throughout the summer. . season are almost too much to bear. Added annoyances are the gigantic washouts of Riviera owners roaring out of the marina at 15 knots dumping their dinner in their laps, and when the wind is southerly the sound of waves crashing against the stern drowns out all speech. Unless you’ve tried sleeping in a washing machine, you’ll realize why boats often walk glassy-eyed. It’s not just the rum, I assure you. Money too, or the distinct lack of it, dictates the comforts of his life. There’s really no comparison to the rich who live aboard an eighty-foot Dyna towering above us, mere mortals living like hermit crabs in wooden shells under the shadows of its giant exhaust pipes.

Yet on a sunny Sunday we all became one. Out on deck, clustered around the barby (the great Australian leveler between rich and poor) with visitors and friends gurgling merrily on their chardonnay, yelling about how lucky we are to be here, etc., etc. and as the greasy leftovers tumble overboard into crews of boiling bream, they sing about how good it must be to eat fresh fish every day, for free. Naturally, we wouldn’t dare burst their bubble of fantasy by telling them exactly why they’re staying under the boat waiting for the clarion call of the toilet pump, it just wouldn’t be fair. Eat one of those little suckers and you’ll wake up to a crowd all around you with tubes from places you didn’t know you had! As for the bream, they are remarkably similar to piranhas and will eat anything when their blood boils. I’ve often wondered what would happen if a little boy clutching a sausage threw himself from the deck into that bunch of biting-jawed killers. I dare not think

There have been some amusing incidents at the marina and I remember with horror the first time I arrived blissfully unconscious for my first shower. Humming merrily, I stopped short after entering the showers, only to see through the clouds of steam, a gang of naked men, all lathering gleefully. Communal showers… oh no! Being a pom I guess I must be naturally shy, never having been to public school of course. This was a shock. Desperately I looked around to see if there were any separate cubicles and there was only one. The problem was that a black-hearted demon had scrawled in large letters over the door, ‘Wooses Corner’. I was sunk Uncle. I had no choice. OK fast and frothy it was going to be. I threw all my gear, acting casually, and scurried to the last empty faucet. Face modest to the wall, I lathered up, however, there was more to come.

One of the misty figures was a plump, jolly old salt with a round belly and white beard. He was happily laughing and joking with everyone else. I happened to realize that he was unfortunately one of nature’s unlucky ones, having been misplaced at the end of the queue when nature bestowed her gifts upon man. In fact, it crossed my mind that he had been in an unfortunate and terrible accident, but no, there were signs of residence, albeit the size of a small mushroom, to say the least. Suddenly through the steam appeared another figure, Adonis himself. Six feet taller, dark, handsome, and with long hair…longer than him, too, by God and a man, we all fell silent as he walked proudly to the shower, his beautiful (and enviable) part of rich natures. Before he could reach out to turn on the faucet, the old white-haired sal came up to him, hands on hips, and gave him a marvelous look up and down… he finally laughed out loud and said, “Jesus, buddy. , you’re damn beautiful, aren’t you?” He’d never heard so much laughter in a man’s shower and much later that night at the bar, I noticed Adonis and the old crusty salt having a drink. It crossed my mind that I had shared a shower and a beer with probably the biggest and smallest members of the yacht club! Happily, to my dented pride I can announce that the showers have been rebuilt and cubicles abound!

Another funny thing happened one day while I was sitting in the stern of my boat. I heard a splash and turned to see some large ripples pooling around the stern of a deserted ship. He had seen the parents and children leave earlier, so no one on board had heard anything. As I watched, I saw a black stick surface and started to walk away from the boat. I thought it must be a fishing rod, the handle filled with air. Jumping into my boat, I decided to salvage the rod and put it back on the yacht. As I got closer I saw it was a rod so I grabbed it and hauled it on board. It hadn’t occurred to me that something had knocked it over, I just assumed it had fallen.

Suddenly the rod made a noise, and to my surprise, the string tightened like a guitar string and pulled the head of the boat. In awe, I sat there wondering what the hell could be towing my boat, but whatever it was, it must have been huge. (It didn’t help that my partner, Nicky, who was nice and safe on the deck of our boat, was humming the Jaws theme out loud) I nervously grabbed the rod and wobbled like crazy, the rod bent in two and finally he saw a great shadow rise from the depths. To my horror, I saw that it was a huge stingray, probably about four feet long… the wings were huge and it looked really peed on. Lucky for me he yanked and went back under, the line snapped. Shocked, I quickly paddled back, leaving the unhooked rod in the boat. I didn’t tell the kids later when they got back, but I bet they wondered what had taken the bait and sinker. As for me, I still have visions of those huge eyes and that damn big beak sticking out of the water. Not so sure about fishing now, after all is said and done, and I really don’t like walking on pontoons after dark!

Certain confiscations must also be made on board. Many ships have cabins so small that if you turn quickly you find yourself walking in, but you get used to that, except, God forbid, if you’re over 5’3″ tall. Then you develop a Kind of a creak. And a peculiar crab walk that immediately announces you as a boating guy. TV can be exhausting too. You have to be patient if, like me, you like F1 racing, for example. After sitting down until 2:30 in the morning the race is almost to the finish with the leaders head to head Suddenly a gust of wind blows your head about 2 degrees and your already snowy picture disintegrates into a full blown arctic blizzard with matching sound effects Who won Who cares Yes, couch potatoes don’t need to apply.

But all in all, positives and negatives aside, I have to consider myself lucky to be one of the lucky few who can’t afford a four hundred thousand dollar shack on a gorgeous Gold Coast bush block and therefore I have to bear all the pleasures and limitations. of life in a long wooden cave that floats. However, the real realization that one day when my ship arrives (and I’ll probably be waiting at the station waiting for the train) and I finally strike it rich, I’ll have the enviable ability to drift on the tide and let the smooth Currents float me north to the Mecca of all boats, the Whitsundays, where I can drink twelve-dollar rum and coke, squashed among the thousands of backpackers lazily rattling away hordes of mosquitoes eager to share my mixed blood. with alcohol… heaven on earth will finally be mine.

Until then, dear reader, trust in the fact that until that distant point in time, I’ll have to walk daily to the showers (and back) in all weathers, queue endlessly for one of the old-fashioned cold-water washing machines ( we have the privilege of using it) and gratefully receive a few coppers off my beer, bravely enduring the scorn of members so rich they don’t even own a boat, dreaming of the day when I can throw off the ropes that bind me into the present and sail into a rose-tinged future complete with my damp bed and an eager crew of smugs. Life on board? ….wouldn’t be dead by the pound, shipmates…head north my friends.