Two Days to Move 600 Yards

From our slip at the marina, I can literally see where we want to anchor. As the crow flies, it's maybe 600 yards away. A shallow reef sits between us and the anchorage, so we have to motor around a little island to get there.

A month ago, I would have imagined this could take thirty minutes. Untie the lines, motor around the island, drop the anchor, and enjoy the afternoon.

Nope.

The journey starts the night before.

We study the weather—not just glancing at an app, but actually interpreting multiple forecast models. Wind direction. Gusts. Waves. CAPE. Current. Weather stability. We decide whether tomorrow is a good day to move and whether tomorrow night is a good night to be in a new anchorage. We plan to leave early enough that, if we don't like our first spot, we still have plenty of daylight to move again and confirm the anchor is well set before dark. We coordinate with the marina, pay our bill, and mentally walk through everything that needs to happen before the lines come off.

Morning is for all the jobs that are easier while we're still tied to the dock. Empty the trash. Top off the batteries and water tanks. Do laundry. Make one last grocery run. Fill the dinghy with gas. Fill the propane.

Then we prepare ourselves.

Everyone gets a good breakfast. Water bottles are filled. Snacks are packed. Sunscreen, hats, polarized sunglasses, and PFDs. We review who is handling which lines, which knots need to be tied or untied, and confirm everyone understands their job before we leave the dock.

Then the boat has to be prepared.

Everything gets secured.

Not just the obvious things like kayaks, paddleboards, and loose gear.

The coffee cup someone forgot on the counter.

The goggles drying in the cockpit.

Our fake plants.

Solar candles.

The French press.

The solar oven.

Our ever-growing seashell collection.

Yoga mats.

Sunscreen bottles.

Bathroom toiletries.

The little things that make this boat feel like home all disappear into lockers and bins because, once we're underway, everything has the potential to become a projectile, a safety hazard, or litter floating somewhere in the Caribbean. While this is just a short trip around a tiny island, the last time we made it we encountered some pretty big waves. Keeping the boat tidy isn't really about neatness. It's about readiness. You never know when you'll need to move quickly or when someone might need to navigate the deck in rough conditions. The last thing you want is to trip over something because you left it out "just for now."

Then come the crew briefings.

Everyone has jobs.

Matt is at the helm.

The kids and I manage dock lines, fenders, and the bow.

We communicate constantly because, from the helm, Matt can't actually see every corner of our forty-foot catamaran. I'm his eyes. I'm telling him we're six inches from the dock. He's telling me to have the dockhand release the spring line. We have to work as one.

This is where our "marriage savers" come in.

We bought these headset radios from another cruising family at the end of their voyage after nearly every cruiser we met recommended them. We look ridiculous—like we're running a mega yacht instead of our little floating home. At first it felt silly. We're only about ten feet apart.

But with the wind, the waves, and the amount of information we need to share, they have become indispensable.

Especially when pulling up the anchor with our grumpy windlass—that's a story for another day.

This is what it sounds like:
"Almost there..."
"Six inches to port..."
"Four... two... hold there..."
"Starboard, starboard, starboard..."
"It's slowing..."
"Let it rest..."
"Okay, try again..."
"Port... port... port..."
"Good... forty feet..."
"Stopped..."
"Send Henry to check the breaker..."

But first... back to dropping the anchor in the first place.

Henry studies the distances to neighboring boats and the depth charts. It's his job to help Matt pick a good spot. Once we've chosen one, Grace calculates how much rode we'll need based on the water depth. Henry joins me at the bow to operate the windlass while Grace counts the chain markings as they disappear into the water. Matt carefully positions the boat while I coordinate everything and jump in wherever I'm needed.

We dropped the anchor and immediately decided we didn't like our position. We felt just a little too close to another boat. So we did it all again.

Once the anchor was down, we attached the bridle, reversed to set it, and checked visual landmarks to make sure we weren't moving. Matt dove the anchor to confirm it was well set on the bottom.

Then I climbed to the top deck and spent the next hour watching our position relative to shore, quietly building a mental map of exactly where we should be. In the days that follow, I'll compare that mental picture to what I see every time I glance up, making sure we're not drifting.

Boat life has this beautiful contradiction.

It's incredibly simple.

Our home is small.

Our possessions are few.

Our entertainment is snorkeling, sunsets, and conversations with friends.

But beneath that simplicity lies incredible complexity.

Every system depends on another.

Every decision requires thought.

Every movement requires preparation.

The destination may only be 600 yards away.

But the journey takes two days.

Oh, and I left off the part about the 3 extra days we planned to leave the dock and didn’t because of XYZ, so I guess you could say this move took 5 days!