The Road to the River
July, 2008
When I was first faced with the prospect of taking The Road down The Mississippi River, my initial thought was, “she’s not up for it.” A 1974, fiberglass houseboat that was designed and intended as a weekend pleasure craft, The Road has already been pushed well beyond her purposes as my full-time, year-round home. A near-2,000 mile journey down The Great River was out of the question.
But then again, since the beginning, almost everything about The Road has seemed out of the question.
Two years ago when I moved aboard, I knew very little about boats. I had never, in fact, piloted a boat in my life. Not a speedboat, not a pontoon, nothing with an engine. I also had next to no understanding of how onboard systems work. And yet, living on a boat had been a dream of mine since anyone could remember. It started in 1st grade.
We had been asked on Friday to think about what we wanted to be when we grew up and then present it to the class on Monday. I agonized over the question the entire weekend. As I understood it, this was going to be it – the answer I gave was not some sort of arbitrary fantasy of mine that could change - no. My classmates and I would chose what we would be on Monday and it was in stone. I would be stuck with whatever I chose for the rest of my life.
I was also determined not to fuck it up. If I chose wisely, I’d be set. Like a tidal wave, I knew immediately what I could be that would make me happy for the rest of my life!
Proudly, I walked into class on Monday, and without hesitation I marched to the front of the room and declared:
“When I grow up, I am going to be a mermaid.”
Mild amusement is not the reaction one looks for when declaring their dreams.
Twenty years later and college educated, the question of what I wanted to be when I grew up had not gotten notably more precise.
PIC: A glimpse into Dawn’s subconscious concept of self.
For years, I had confessed to close friends that I dreamed of living on a houseboat. There was something about it, I mused, that brought into perfect focus what it was to be human. We crawl upon this planet in all variety of elements constantly adapting and evolving to survive in environments that do not, naturally, support us. For millennia we had made tools and developed relationships; we had created and destroyed and molded the world around us. Water, like space, seemed a new frontier. To live there, I thought, was to live fully. I had easy excuses for not going ahead and moving aboard a boat: It’s totally impractical, I had no money, I didn’t know what I was doing…
And then, one day, I went to the river with a broken heart. I had heard there was a marina a few miles up-river that had a few houseboats for sale. It was sort of hidden away, off the beaten track, not a marina you’ve probably heard of.
On a whim I drove down. “I’m looking for a steel-hull,” I told the sales guy, Jason. “I don’t know… I’m really just looking around.”
He smiled and took me to a couple of rusty boats on stilts next to a chain-link fence, and we climbed ladders to inspect them. Even dry-docked and in poor condition, I felt my heart swell as I crept among them
A few ram-shackeled tours later, I was ready to go. I had my fix and could go home with my fantasy, and excuses, in tact.
“There’s one more,” Jason said, “it’s on the way back – just for fun.”
I had a hunch this was some kind of sales ploy and truly didn’t care. My dad used to sell used cars and so I could appreciate good salesmanship without necessarily being swayed by it.
This boat too was in dry-dock, atop stilts on land and with her back to the river. Jason dragged over a ladder from another boat and I climbed up to her decks. He had to run inside his office to get the information on her, but the door was open and I should just go on in and wait for him. I slid open the sliding glass door and stepped inside. She looked like precisely what she was – a 30+ year-old boat with unimpressive curtains and dusty shelves. And yet… I have never felt so much like I was coming home.
I am not, generally, what one would call a ‘romantic’. I’ve never touted concepts like destiny, or fate and would classify myself as a cynic when it comes to most things spiritual. But something happened when I went aboard The Road for the first time – something undeniable.
PIC: The Road, 2006
I remember my breath got shallow, like wading through cold water, and I touched everything. The bright silver helm and the plywood siding; the dated CB radio and the tall captain’s chair. I oozed through every corner gasping and giggling like I had found an old familiar chest of toys. It was imperfect in every way – older than I wanted, fiberglass, un-winterized. Before I could complete the list of reasons this was stupid, I was lying on my back in the Captain’s Cuddy, below decks and gazing out the small window at the foot of the bed. Home. This was home.
My doubt suddenly rose in my throat – I can’t do this… I am a dumb, twenty-something girl, prone to the dramatic and unqualified in every way. I shot up from the bed like a cannon. Overwhelmed with my own stupidity, I grabbed my purse and headed back to the door. I would thank Jason for his time, get in my car, and go back to my attic apartment. Which was precisely what I did.
And then I came back the next day.
Could I just go aboard one more time? I just wanted to check out the blah, blah… and see if it would be possible to yada, yada… Still semi-annoyed with my prompt departure the day before, Jason waved me through the gate without getting up.
I laid on the couch in the stern and stared in at her. I couldn’t believe the ideas that were floating through my brain… All or nothing. I could not also afford an apartment – this would have to be my everything, if I could have it at all. Lazily, I got up and slid open the glass door leading to the back deck and walked out. There was the river, on the other side of the marina, just visible through trees and mass of floating boats. She had sap stuck to her walls and there were muddy bootprints all over the deck. My knee-jerk reaction remains the most maternal I’ve experienced.
She should not be on stilts, on land, and covered in sap! And HOW DARE someone walk on MY boat with muddy shoes!?!
Jason was as surprised as I was when I handed him a deposit check on my way out.
The next few weeks were a farce of emails, phone calls and in-person visits to my bank. Initially, the question of a loan seemed perfectly plausible and I was approved – and then someone actually read the details.
“Oh wait, you’re an actor slash historian?”
That he said the word ‘slash’ made it seem all the more ridiculous.
“Yes.”
“And this is a mortgage loan for a…”
“A boat, yes.” I anticipated.
“And you’re going to live on it here? In St. Paul? Year-round?”
I grinned like an idiot in love.
Shane, my banker, was in his early 30’s, married with two kids and working in a cubical at a suburban bank. He then asked the question I’ve been trying to adequately answer ever since. “Why?”
The answer I gave him was powerful enough to defy every calculation against me. He smiled at me: could I provide three years tax-returns?
“Yes.”
Could I get them there by 3PM?
“Yes.”
Then, maybe, he said, there was a chance I could be approved. Maybe.
A week later, I found myself sitting on the bow – a glass of Jameson in one hand and Gracie’s head in the other. The boat was floating happily in her slip. She had run beautifully in the ‘water test’ and I had signed on the dotted line less than an hour ago.
“Because it’s what I’ve always dreamed of doing.” I had told Shane.
Since then, I have woken to find my blankets frozen to the wall in the middle of a cold January night, and gone weeks without running water. I have suffered the heartbreak of crippled systems, and the inconvenience of a sensitive toilet. I have had crazy neighbors, mouse infestations, blown fuses and bad bilge pumps. But I have never had an instant of regret.
I stumble over my inadequacies as a boater weekly, and she has continuously proven a sturdy vessel despite them. When in doubt, I am often encouraged by the words of Navy Rear Admiral, Grace Murray Hopper, “A ship is safe in harbor, but is that what ships are for?”
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"Who hears the rippling of rivers will not utterly despair of anything.”
Henry David Thoreau
