June 16th, Journal Entry (aka the “land” version of a Captains Log)

One full year away from our sweet Avocet.
We never meant to be gone this long.
But life had other plans—less salt, more soil.

In that time, I’ve come to understand just how rare and remarkable our floating home truly is. Avocet isn’t just a boat—she’s ours. Every detail was deliberate. Every drawer had a purpose. The galley functioned like a well-rehearsed dance, the head was stylish and comfortable, and the hidden projector tucked inside the compression post box felt like a secret just for us. Everything had a place—and usually, a second purpose, too.

Here on land, convenience dulls the edges.
Comfort slips into complacency.
And I find myself missing the friction of boat life—the minor inconveniences that gave way to deeply satisfying victories. Fixing a head pump. Catching a weather window. Scrubbing rust from stainless. These were the small triumphs that shaped our days and filled our nights with stories.

I’ve realized how deeply I crave community—people cut from a similar cloth. Lately, I’ve found whispers of it in the climbing world: dirtbags with chalky hands and sunburnt cheeks, chasing granite the way we chased horizons. There’s a shared spirit there—something root-deep, or maybe anchor-deep—in the way both worlds revere simplicity, resourcefulness, and presence.

Why is simple living such a challenge these days?
Maybe because it stands in defiance of the modern rhythm—everything promising to save us time, yet we’re always running out of it. These gadgets and hacks are meant to make life easier… but easier so we can do what, exactly? Work more?

I miss looking up through the hatch in our stateroom—sometimes at the stars, sometimes at the gentle billow of a spinnaker. I miss the hush of the ocean, the soft slap of waves against the hull, and the sun-baked salt that melted into my skin like a second layer.

With Avocet, we always had a direction. A plan. A course—charted or not.
Here on land, it feels like we’re drifting through the very life we promised ourselves we’d leave behind. The calendar fills. The inbox overflows. And I find myself trying to squeeze into a box that was never built for me.

Still, I decorate that box—inside and out—with treasures gathered from faraway places: a Huanacaxtle seed from La Cruz (don’t tell TSA), our “kissing step” photo from Guanajuato, paintings from Italy, miniature statues from Greece, and paper money from all over the world—washed unknowingly with the laundry, each bill a forgotten memory resurfaced.

It’s been oddly joyful tending a garden—even if the pests are persistent. Raising a zucchini to maturity is almost as hard as finding one in the Sea of Cortez. We’ve simply traded one struggle for another, learning to relish the slower parts of life, the parts that don’t come easy. The best things rarely do.

Chris and I look forward to the day we step aboard Avocet again—soon.
I dream of tracing the teak-trimmed lines of our galley, designed just for me. Of sleeping in the stateroom where we’ve dreamed and schemed so many adventures. Of the slow, steady hum of our Perkins 4.108.
And yes—even the ever-present, faintly musty boat smell that lingers in her lockers.

Avocet, I love you. See you soon.

XOXO,

Marissa