I live in Sausalito. Well, that’s not completely true. I should say I live on the edge of Sausalito. On the edge of respectability and romanticism, that is where my sloop shares the enclave known as Richardson Bay.
By Kurt Poeltl
Published: July, 2005
I live in Sausalito. Well, that’s not completely true. I should say I live on the edge of Sausalito. On the edge of respectability and romanticism, that is where my sloop shares the enclave known as Richardson Bay.
"Live-aboards," as we like to be referenced, are rather a misunderstood lot. Perhaps easily typecast but not so easily catalogued, we are as diverse a community as one might find in any Bay Area suburb — more so. Yes, we come in all shapes and dimensions, with different motives and modalities and highlife’s and lowlifes. Whatever our constitution, most water dwellers agree, we live aboard because we prefer it. It gives us a sense of autonomy, while at the same time being part of the environment. We feel invigorated by, and more in tune with the natural elements, despite, sometimes, being shoehorned in with other seemingly similar vessels.
Of course, I am only really privy to those not-so transient souls that occupy my particular dock, in the periphery of my 130-something steps. From my big-brother "security" gate to my palatially priced slip, I take in all manners of the banal.
A common misconception about live-aboards is that were all a bunch of Jimmy Buffet bohemians, with nothing more pressing than lying in a hammock drinking Mai-Tai’s or whatever. The truth is: most of us are apart of the rat race, some blue-collar, others not, out by eight in the morning and back, hopefully, in time to take notice of the sun’s last dance on the water. Of course, I may have misled… some sailors are, in fact, lazy and not smart enough to work, but then again, some workers are lazy and not smart enough to sail.
There are an industrious few who manage to eke out a living by putting their "love of all things nautical" skills to work. They are usually putting away their tools when others of us are turning off our computers. The former, I notice somehow seem more relaxed. Perhaps it’s because they’re not sparring for position from Van Ness to the 101 twice daily. Or maybe it’s just because they restore life, in otherwise neglected, graceful shapes.
Camaraderie and neighborliness, for those who seek it, exists in good supply. Like most communities some prefer to participate, while others can only manage a nod and a tight-lipped smile. Like America in the barn-raising days, expertise, good advice, bad advice and sometimes even tools are offered liberally. Nevertheless there is a weariness that pervades, in the more seasoned sailors especially. Since they have migrated a dozen of times before they first consider, perhaps, that they might one-day leave Sausalito’s harbor.
Steinbeck wrote in his non-fictional account, The Sea of Cortez, that the type and condition of one’s vessel says a lot about that individual. Some of us care deeply about only the essential aspects, i.e. sails, motor, integrity of the hull -- as if our life depended on it. While others of us care primarily about the aesthetics of our craft — the paint and polish people. Although these sailors do often speak of grand adventures, their conveyances carry only the semblance of, I fear. Of course, the most conscientious of individuals tinker endlessly on all aspects, bow to stern. These individuals truly seem in confluence with their pursuits.
Segueing into the suburbanites, weekends on the docks take on a different feel. Weekend sailors (and motor-heads) are usually about fun and therefore irritate only the most parsimonious of old salts. Bless their differences. The weekenders tend to be more spread out than us, on the docks with children, friends, and L.L. Bean tote bags packed with only the best of microbrews and store bought baked goods. The owner’s guests are constantly shifting from dock to boat, moving nowhere in particular, but ‘on the ready’ for orders from their captain lest they not get invited back later in the season, when the winds on the Bay aren’t quite so stiff.
The surest tell, between weekenders and us, is the tan. Theirs are more even, more deliberative perhaps. And they are great looking people by the way. Upwardly mobile, smart and civilized, just like the yachting attire they adorn. For better and worse, our tans tend to be deeper, less even. Some of us keep profoundly lined faces marking the years spent in temperate latitudes — where we adorned not much of anything. Of course, that was then. Now we are conspicuous and mildly aware.
Nonetheless, weeks or weekends, calmly fixed at the hub or an indulgent breeze circulating the Bay, invariably, an aggregate of favorable climate wears away the contrasts.
