Our First Boating Blizzard

A year and a half ago, my husband and I decided to take the plunge – literally – and live out a dream we had been discussing for more than 12 of our then 22 years together. The idea first came to us during a 10th anniversary trip to Paris when we saw the river barges on the Seine. I think it was the rooftop gardens that appealed to me most, whereas it was the efficient use of every nook and cranny that became the focus of my husband’s attention. After all, he is the one who sketched out every apartment or house we ever lived in — to scale, using graph paper — so that he could plan with great precision where each piece of furniture would go well in advance of moving day. Or maybe it was just the romantic idea of the people we imagined to be living on those boats, and the life stories we attributed to them, that stole our hearts and minds. Regardless, on a cold January day in Paris, we made the decision that someday we, too, would take to the sea and live on a boat. Of course, I think we both envisioned a spacious boat docked in some aqua-water location where the temperature never went below 80 degrees, but life has a way of working out the way it can, rather than the way you dream it to be! 

We moved onto our boat in October, 2008. If you are thinking luxury yacht and warm-weather location, think again. Instead, our great adventure takes place on a 1983 Gibson houseboat that my husband affectionately refers to as the floating FEMA trailer.  Far from luxurious, our 180 square feet of indoor living space (one room) takes us immediately back to the 1980′s, the days of big hair and shoulder pads, the days of my high school and my husband’s college graduation. In fact, a piece of the original blue shag carpeting remains in the cuddy cabin, as does the lovely brown naugahyde, which covers the abandoned navigation station. Our floating sanctuary isn’t docked carefully between palm trees and tiki bars, but instead between a security fence and an open channel in southwest Washington, DC.

We thought that last winter would be our hardest.  We didn’t have running water in our boat for the first six months we lived here, and with only one electrical outlet, we could turn on a heater, or run the microwave, or brew a pot of coffee, just not at the same time. Surely this winter would be better. This winter there would be running water (kind of — one never “runs” the water when one knows that she has to stand in the cold, using a winter hose under very low pressure to fill her water tanks), though a morning shower still requires a half-mile stroll down a very cold pier to a nicely appointed bath house that sometimes even has warm water.  This winter we would have a “camping potty” on standby for those nights when nature calls but the half-mile walk to a flushing toilet is more than one can tolerate (holding tanks cannot be pumped out when the temperatures are below freezing).  Did I mention the half-mile walk to the toilet and showers? This winter we would have a second electrical circuit so that we could run the heater AND the coffee maker.  This winter we would put plastic over the windows so that the cold air wouldn’t blow over our heads while we slept (we now understand why people wore nightcaps in the days before central heat). This winter would be different!

This winter, we had prepared for everything. Well, everything except a blizzard! Not to worry — Washington, D.C. never gets more than an inch or two of snow at a time!

I must admit that when I went to bed on Friday night, I felt like a child — almost giddy — wondering what it would look like outside when I woke up the next morning!  I couldn’t wait to see white snow, piled up on the docks and boats and trees and water as far as the eye could see.  What I hadn’t prepared for was the fact that heavy and drifting snow can push a boat precariously towards the limits of its balance and buoyancy. I woke up on Saturday morning to gusts of wind that made our boat bounce back and forth between taught lines, and to the sound of snow swooshing against the window at my head. But it wasn’t until I tried to walk through the center galley, and instead ended up falling into the wall, that I realized how dangerously pitched our little aluminum cave was as a result of snow that had drifted to the port side of our boat.  We emerged from our cocoon of down comforters to throw on boots and gloves and start shoveling. 

We peered through the fog and swirling snow to see our yellow-coated neighbors similarly shake off sleep to protect their floating homes from the dangers of snow. Dock hands were trying to plow through feet of snow on rugged piers, and were swarming the marina to identify boats in danger of going under. Residents came to help with with shovels, trays, brooms, brushes — anything that could move snow.  A neighbor caught me lying on my back doing snow angels to move the snow when someone else was using my shovel! Already two boats had gone down and others looked like they might follow. There are about 60 or 70 of us who live on our boats year round, but plenty of the boats at the marina belong to weekend warriors who wouldn’t return until spring. My husband and I flashed each other a nervous smile … the kind that says, are we crazy to love this so much? … and then we got busy. 

For a moment I wondered what I was thinking when I decided that it was a good idea to live on a boat, but  quickly I realized why, despite its many challenges,  we are so happy here. Without fail, as people shoveled their own boats to the point of safety, they didn’t retreat to a warm cabin or a second cup of coffee, but instead, they went looking for other boats in trouble.  Neighbors came together to clear the decks and canopies of boats large and small, to dream out loud about the warm summer evenings that would soon be upon us, to start planning for the July 4th carnival we would host again this year, to share recipes for snow ice cream, and to tell — once again — our stories of how we each had made the transition from land to water … and how each of us dealt with the purge of stuff that is necessitated by such a move.  

We shoveled, and shoveled and shoveled, and when we thought we were done, we started shoveling again.  It was so good to be outside, so wonderful to see the neighbors with whom we linger over bottles of wine and potluck suppers all summer long, but whom we scarcely see during the dark and cold days of winter. We paused to watch some seagulls catch and gobble up some near-frozen fish.  The old-timers told stories about the year when the water was completely frozen and people could walk across the channel.  We shared mini-shovels (full-sized shovels cannot be stored on a boat), brooms, scrub brushes — anything we could find to move the snow. We laughed. We wondered out loud about neighbors whose jobs take them all over the world, and who we wouldn’t see for months.  We counted our blessings for having been brought together by our shared love of the water.  We celebrated the snow for its beauty, and for bringing us outside … together. 

We each went to look at the boats that had sunk.  The silence of a sunken boat is haunting. The loss is palpable. Nothing can be salvaged from the water. Did you see the boat on A dock? Do you know how quickly it went down? Everyone is quietly rehearsing their own escape plan, should the unthinkable happen. Where are my wooden emergency plugs? Was anyone in those boats? Did they get out in time?  

We gathered for coffee this morning, as we routinely do on Sundays. We celebrated our friendship, we admired the quick (relatively speaking) work we made of moving tons of snow, we emailed those who are overseas to reassure them that their pied-a-mer was safe and sound, and we reassured ourselves that we love our way of life, not in spite of nature’s wrath, but because of it.