Imagine your house.  Now shrink it down to your living room and kitchen.  That’s the size of the boat my husband and I lived on for two months with seven people as we sailed across the largest ocean on the planet on Llyr, a 53-foot steel ketch.  Now take that space and shrink it down to 40 square feet.  That’s the size of the space Rob and I shared for our 33-day passage between Panama and the Marquesas Islands, and for the weeks of prep-work at Shelter Bay Marina beforehand.  Currently, we’re sharing 30 square feet on a 43-foot Polaris bound for Tonga.

I know what you’re thinking … and, no, we’re not midgets, dwarves or leprechauns.  We’re just brave, or really stupid, depending on your point of view.

One year ago, we decided to start our sailing adventure by crewing on boats, rather than buying our own right away.  This allows us to:

1. Make sure we REALLY like the cruising lifestyle before dropping tens of thousands of dollars;
2. Learn more about blue-water sailing;
3. Test drive a variety of boats to see what we like best;
4. And travel much more cheaply through the South Pacific.

You can read reams of blog posts on how couples transition from living in comfy, spacious homes to living aboard a sailboat.  Our growing pains aren’t that different, really, except that we moved into one small part of someone else’s sailboat, rather than having a whole boat to stretch out into.  When we started planning for our “hitch-sail  around the world” adventure, I hadn’t really thought ahead to how crunching into tiny new spaces might affect Rob and me, individually and as a couple.

For instance: our bed aboard Llyr was the size of my two body pillows back home, and a far cry from the king bed Rob and I could each spread-eagle across.  To be fair, while I missed my body pillows dreadfully, Rob definitely suffered more, since he was a foot longer than the berth.  Our closet consisted of three tiny cubbies and two short shelves. Instead of our own room, we each got our own hook on the wall.

Our berth on LLYR – Small space for Rob

To be clear, Llyr had the NICEST sailboat berth I’ve ever been in.  Seriously. I was expecting one half the size, and was giddy with excitement that we had a big, breezy hatch to open, our own mini-desk, seven foot headroom, and … drumroll, please … a door to close!
Right this minute, I’m longing for Llyr‘s cushy berth as Rob sets up his settee (the quarter-berth on our current sailboat doesn’t fit two people unless one wants a bloody nose in the middle of the night).  But even the biggest sailboat berth is still small enough to create some angst between a husband and wife used to living very independently.

To compensate, we compromise.  A few minor sacrifices during our Pacific crossing maintained the greater peace: Rob let me have an extra pillow on the tiny bed, and a whole hook dedicated to hair ties.  I ignored the constant clutter on the desk, and his boxers hanging in my face from the improvised clothesline.  I got more cubby space since I have five times more clothing, and Rob got an extra shelf for his fishing gear.

It’s not just space we have to share now, either.  Our new lifestyle required downgrading material goods, since all our belongings had to fit in one big backpack each as we hop between boats.  This downgrading was unfortunately doubled one week into our adventure by “The Great Baja Theft” when one of our bags was stolen near La Paz.   Now, we have to swap the one iPod, the small laptop, the one red headlamp, the remaining water bottle, the guitar (since Rob’s learning to play), the single body lotion, the one beach towel, the only yoga mat. At least we still have our own toothbrushes.

Sharing the guitar

Back home in Montana, we didn’t own a huge house, by American standards.  But our 1,700 square feet nestled in the mountains felt luxurious. We each had our own room, or “chaos space.”  Mine was dubbed the ”earring room,” filled with jewelry, clothes, guitars, photos, my desk, and my books.  Rob’s was dubbed the ”gear room,” with his fly-tying station, 12 backpacks, packraft, fishing, hunting and skiing gear all on top of his paperwork and files.  As we crew on different sailboats, our combined clothes, papers, guitar, backpacks and recreation gear must all fit in our seven-foot by four-foot berth.  Oh, and we have to fit in there, too.

Rob on our one yoga mat on the stern deck of LLYR

For two extremely independent people who were used to having inherent boundaries of “my stuff” and “your stuff,” it’s been quite a transition to move onto other people’s sailboats.  The good news: we made it through our first anniversary. The other news: it ain’t easy sharing a tiny space with your partner, but it is possible with a lot of patience, solid communications skills, and an ever-present sense of humor.

Luckily, Rob and I are both communal people, used to sharing our home, our gear, our thoughts and our lives with others and each other.
The only tough part, really, were the up-front negotiations about who gets what when, not the least of which is a bit of privacy.  As long as I can occassionally spread-eagle alone on the berth with a book and he can tune me out with headphones and loud music, we seem to get along just dandy. Again and again, we prove that a deep breath, clear communication, and lots of jokes ease rough moments in our shared space.

Brianna dancing on sailboat bow

We’ve now lived on seven different boats in the past six months, and are pros at maximizing small spaces.  We reach around each other in a graceful and almost-effortless dance. All the sharing of space and possessions has made us a stronger couple.  We are more adaptable, more comfortable with each other, and more confident in our ability to weather all types of storms.

That being said, I still miss our king-sized bed.

About Brianna Randall

As comfortable in fancy earrings as she is in her ratty yoga pants, Brianna loves sailing, writing, snowboarding, diving, biking, hiking, guitar-playing, dancing and yoga.  Brianna grew up where the desert meets the mountains in Southern California, and then headed to the ocean to attend the University of San Diego (where she learned to sail).  She fled the traffic and smog of Cali to get her Master’s degree in Environmental Studies at the University of Montana, and decided the wonderful community and endless adventures in Missoula made up for the 8-month-long winters (but just barely).

Brianna spent 9 years directing policy, outreach, and grants at the Clark Fork Coalition, and has presented on water issues in Spain, China, Australia and across the Western U.S. She is also a freelance writer, and wrote a children’s novel about Montana.

After a decade of ”working like an adult,” she convinced her husband (easily) to try sailing around the world for a couple of years.
Brianna and Rob are “hitch-sailing” as crew in the South Pacific this season — follow their adventures at www.onthehorizonline.com

More on this website

• The Crew Quandary (Admirals’ Angle column #63), by Gwen Hamlin:
  When long passages loom, cruisers invariably wonder whether or not to take on crew. Here are some things to consider.
• Balance of power … afloat, by Jaye Lunsford

“What did we sign up for?!” I thought after our first day at anchor in the Sea of Cortez. We had spent the prior night and wee morning hours fighting through a 30 knot coromuel to get to the anchorage. Both us and the boat were covered with salt.

Alone at anchor in Puerto Don Juan

We took a pitiful shower in the cockpit with the already partially broken Solar Shower but without a watermaker we didn’t have enough water to clean the boat. Instead we walked around the deck spraying the hardware with a water bottle in hopes of preventing corrosion.

We had barely slept the night before and were expecting another sleepless night due to a repeat performance of coromuel winds.

After dinner I leaned over the  side of the boat to scoop salt water in to a 5 gallon bucket. The very bucket that I planned to use for the summer to wash the dishes in salt water before a fresh water rinse.

I don’t like doing dishes in the first place, and now I am doing dishes in a salty bucket? Looking out on the uninhabited island of Isla Espiritu Santo, my husband and I asked each other, is this seriously going to be our life for the whole summer? Is this really what we  signed up for?!

I don’t know if I can do this all summer, I confided that evening.

The next day we took a hike, walked the beach, and had the most magical sunset at anchor. It was as if all the wildlife in the area choreographed a magnificent performance while we sat on the deck eating dinner. I kept waiting for Ariel to jump out of the water with flying fish and manta rays as back up dancers and belt out “Under the Sea.”

From that moment on, we were undeniably hooked.

We would sit on the foredeck with a good  book and maybe a glass of wine and wait for the wildlife dance that took place  every night before sunset to begin.

Waiting for the evening wildlife “show” to start

Away from the comforts of the marina which offers free-flowing water,  electricity, and the ability to sleep through the night, we settled in for a summer of exploration, living off the sea, and self sustainability. After our  first 18 days in the Sea of Cortez we picked up a mooring ball at Puerto Escondido for a couple of nights to refill our water tanks, wash the boat,  change the oil, and refuel before we headed out for the islands again.

Fresh boatmade fish tacos

That was  the longest we had gone without visiting a restaurant since we each started  college. In fact, before we went cruising I cooked an average of one meal a  year for my husband. Obviously things had changed since our land life.

Six months in the Sea of Cortez led to lasting friendships, fabulous  meals on board, learning how to wash clothes by hand, and becoming intimately  aware of how to use our anchor, the tides, the moon cycle, and weather. Not to  mention a slight addiction with the game Baja Rummy. Most importantly we  learned about each other and ourselves.

“If you would enjoy a weekend alone with your partner locked in your apartment without power and water, then you will love voyaging together.”
—  THE VOYAGER’S HANDBOOK  by Beth A.Leonard

A ‘land  friend’ asked what it was like to spend so many uninterrupted days together. “Like we were on an extended couples retreat.” I answered. We had nothing but  time to laugh, play, explore, and talk.

Happy couple

By comparison, life is pretty easy in a marina. But we love the  adventure that comes with being at anchor in the Sea.

This article was published on July 3, 2012 in Lanea Riley’s blog The Voyage of Moondance.

About Lanea Riley

Lanea  Riley and her husband Conor bought an Islander 36, in April 2011 and within 15 days they decided to prepare Sausalito-based MOONDANCE for a southbound trip to Mexico. Six short months later, they left under the Golden Gate Bridge.

They have been enjoying Mexico ever since and spent 6 glorious months in the Sea of Cortez in the summer of 2012.

Lanea maintains a sailing blog at www.svmoondance.wordpress.com

More on this website:

• Lipstick sailor, by Lanea Riley
• Daria Blackwell: What I like best about cruising? Passages and anchorages: a world of your own

All three books speak for a younger generation who choose to reach for the adventure of crossing oceans and exploring new cultures sooner rather than later, who go despite tight budgets in small, uncomplicated boats without waiting for the comforts and wallets of middle age, and who, because they are women, don’t gloss over the challenging dynamics of relationships shared and tested in the intense intimacy of cruising 24/7 in the confines of a small vessel

There are several differences, however, between Tightwads on the Loose and the other two books.

The chief one is that while Janna and Torre spent much of their time pondering the degree (and sanity) of their commitment to the cruising endeavor (while largely relying on their more experienced partners), Wendy is a full-fledged collaborator from the start.

She, too, has a serious, more experienced sailor for a husband, but from the start she is in it to win it. You might say that Janna and Torre are (or at least start out as) girly girls, but Wendy makes you believe that she was infected by a taste for adrenalin since childhood, inculcated, she insists, by her father’s library of disaster-at-sea stories.

I was thrilled at last to read a contemporary sailing saga where the woman aboard is so fully engaged.

Another difference is that Tightwads  is the account of a longer, seven year cruise (pushing northward into the north Pacific,  Micronesia, the Phillipines, China and Japan), an itinerary that required Wendy and Garth to stop and work several times along the way to replenish the cruising kitty and make repairs.  Earning money is an issue many young couples considering cruising ask about, and this  couple’s resourcefulness in finding employment should be inspirational as well as entertaining.

One might think, because all three authors set sail across the Pacific from the West coast, that the stories could feel repetitive.  Certainly there are harbors all three visit, especially in the first legs of the journey, but it is testimony to the uniqueness of every cruise that each landfall feels fresh, each new character encountered a privilege to meet, and every adventure a stimulant to get out and do it yourself!

Tightwads on the Loose: A Seven Year Pacific Odyssey is available through the Tightwads on the Loose eStore, through your independent bookseller or amazon.com.

More from this website

• Book review – Swept: Love With a Chance of Drowning, by Torre DeRoche: Review by Gwen Hamlin
• Sailing as a Metaphor for Marriage, by Janna Cawrse Esarey
• All book reviews

More from the web

• Wendy Hinman’s website

If you have a book that
like us you would like to review,
let us know!

Email kathy@forcruisers.com or leave a comment below.

Photo from www.boatnamegear.com

I don’t mean the t-shirts. I know absolutely nothing about the quality of the manufacturer whose website I found them on. Nor can I blame their product design; they’re simply reacting to the market and public perception.

What offends me to the bottom of my unabashedly feminist soul is the automatic assumption of gender roles — that in any boating couple, the man is the captain and the woman is in the subordinate position. That’s the way the shirts are designed and there’s no other option. The professional one with the collar and the “Captain” designation is cut for a man’s body, and the cute pink one that is cut for the female is designated “First Mate.”

A rather dread metaphor for squeezing children into roles defined at birth by gender, whether they fit or not, now that I think about it.

Gwen Hamlin wrote about relationship power imbalance and the problems it causes.

You know what, though?

Perfect power balance in a relationship can cause its own set of challenges as great as those caused by imbalance.

Dan and I are on the opposite end of the relationship power balance spectrum from the one Gwen writes about – we’re two very strong personalities in a relationship as egalitarian as we can make it. We’re not Captain and First Mate, we’re co-captains.

We recently gave a talk to a group of retired geologists and hydrologists that described both living aboard and the interesting science tidbits we learned along the way. During the Q and A session that followed, one gentleman asked, “Which of you is the captain?” I pointed at Dan while he was pointing at me, we looked at each other and the two of burst out laughing (as did the questioner); guess that says it all.

Little boat in the emptiness … and by the flat look of the water, we aren’t getting anywhere any time soon (photo by Joe McCary)

Or, as fellow liveaboard and mediator  Suzanne Wheeler describes it, “…real love requires two whole, autonomous people who are better together, but are able to stand alone.”

Wait a minute. Two very strong equal personalities? Cooped up together 24/7? In a 33-foot cruising sailboat? For ten years? And not drive each other crazy? If we’re not to be Suzanne’s next clients, there’s a relationship challenge!

We live by relationship advice that anyone on land would well understand.  Ideas about communicating, fighting fair, boundaries, not embarrassing each other in public, and other clichés are available all over the internet and in supermarket checkout stand magazines.

Still, the sailing aspect adds its own unique complications to that stock advice.

Five principles keep our sailing smooth.

Space – the first frontier: We’re trapped together on a small sailboat, sometimes for days, with no exit. If we’re at sea or riding out a storm anchored in “the boonies” we can’t get more than about an arm’s length from each other. We’re locked together in the same room, Dan on port and me on starboard or vice-versa, and there’s often no TV or internet to escape to or other outside stimulation.

Reading, side by side in the main cabin, a good book, a cup of coffee, and a fluffy lap blanket sounds cozy … until DAY 6 of being stuck in an isolated anchorage in Georgia in 30-35 kt winds (I’m not in the photo of course because I’m taking it)

We can’t give each other physical privacy, but we can respect each other’s mental space with “virtual” privacy, courtesies familiar to any cubicle dweller. No shoulder surfing or reading each other’s drafts without permission. (It helps to have illegible handwriting!) No commenting on overheard cellphone conversations (or *bathroom noises.*) Of course you heard it, but you pretend you didn’t, and don’t comment unless invited.

It’s nothing personal, it’s just our policy: Making decisions takes time and energy, so if we can preempt having to make a decision, so much the better. Having a rule set up in advance means we don’t have to hash out every choice, and every decision doesn’t involve a power struggle, a winner, and a loser.

Here’s an example: We’re equal in all decisions, but we can’t afford to fight over every decision while sailing. Sometimes there isn’t time to debate an action, and even if there was, debating every minor point would likely be a strain on the relationship. “Let’s do it this way!” “No, that way!” “NO! ME! MY way!”

Instead, we have a decision rule we call “more conservative wins.” (not not not a political statement!) Whichever suggestion is the safer, more conservative approach to a sailing option is the one we use, no need for lengthy discussion or debate. So, if the wind is beginning to pick up, and one of us wants to reef while the other wants to sail faster … we reef. If one of us wants to take a shortcut while the other wants to honor all the channel markers … we go the long way around.

Remind me again what they told us in school about this: Some people maintain that the best way to learn to sail is to start with dinghies to really get the understanding of the forces involved in a small, fun, agile boat, then go to gradually larger, more complex vessels and systems. Others prefer book learning and vector diagrams before venturing onto the water. And of course there are numerous different ways to accomplish the same result. Often one isn’t “right” or “wrong;” they’re just different.

What mattered most for us was that we both learned the same way, from the same person/organization/class/book, at the same time. Again, no need to discuss or debate whose way is better, or pit advice from my teacher against advice from his teacher. (For this reason, I’m not particularly a fan of “women-only” courses, in sailing or anything else, that would preclude our learning together, merely because one of us is male. A brain is a brain, they only come in grey, they don’t come in pink or blue, and a task on a boat is just a task, it doesn’t matter who does it as long as it gets done.)

Don’t ask, don’t tell (DADT): Another one about respect for each other’s virtual privacy. There’s very little discretionary space aboard the boat. Once we’ve filled the lockers with food and tools and safety gear there’s not a lot of room left over for personal gear (clothing and hygiene) and even less for toys.

My private DADT locker, full of seashells and sentimental keepsakes and sparkly things

Still, although almost all the lockers are communal property, each of us has a personal locker that the other doesn’t access.

In mine, I can store frivolous items like collected beach glass and seashells, silly sentimental keepsakes, or the pastels that I keep thinking I’ll miraculously acquire the talent to put to good use, and Dan doesn’t get to comment on how that precious storage space could be put to better use storing something that will, you know, actually serve a purpose.

In Dan’s he can also store, without comment … um, I have no idea what he stores there. That’s the entire point of a DADT locker.

Alike and equal are two different things: Although we learned to sail together, we quickly found that we divided the work. Each of us can do every single one of the tasks that the boat requires, after a fashion. But that doesn’t mean that we’re both equally good at, or both interested in, the same things.

Dan, checking on the shape of the sails to try and squeeze out a bit more speed on a light air day in the Chesapeake (photo by James Forsyth)		Chief navigator! Bringin’ us back in from the ocean to the Intracoastal Waterway

We both acknowledge that Dan’s the better sail trimmer, he can eke an extra quarter of a knot out of any configuration, and he loves to tweak and try. I can adjust the sails well enough to get us going where we’re going, although it may not be as fast or comfortable as when he does it. When it matters, he’s got the expertise to pick the best way to accomplish the task.

Similarly, I’m the better navigator, quicker to read the charts and geekier with the chartplotter.

Even though our skills are not alike, we respect and treat each other as equals in the relationship. For us, one of us being better at something doesn’t change the power balance.

Of course, not all our tips would work for everyone, depending on where they started from, sailing skill level and interest, and relationship dynamics. Hopefully, though, they’ll provide a starting point for conversations that can help minimize conflict.

About Jaye Lunsford

An hour after Jaye hung up the phone on her last-ever teleconference as a career senior environmental scientist for the Federal government, she and husband Dan untied the docklines of their CSY 33 and set out down the US East Coast for the Bahamas.

She writes the blog “Life Afloat” for the Annapolis Capital-Gazette newspaper and occasionally lectures on pirates and maritime history, and environmental science tidbits for non-boaters.

More from this website

• Chain of Command (Admiral’s Angle column #48), by Gwen Hamlin:
  Different couples work out different ways of managing responsibilities and decision-making on board a cruising boat.
• Admiral Abuse (Admiral’s Angle column #24), by Gwen Hamlin:
  Proactive options for women feeling trapped on board.
• Shipboard democracy and chain of command, by Michelle Elvy

— “Yeah, we’ll make it.”  (him)
— “I don’t know…”  (me)
— “We’ll make it; sheet in the main!”  (him)

60 SECONDS LATER…

— “We’re not gonna make it.” (me)
— “We should tack.” (him)
— “Yeah, we should. We’re not gonna clear that boat.” (me)
— “Wait: I think we’re clearing it. Let’s wait a bit more.” (him)

ANOTHER 30 SECONDS LATER…

— “OK, let’s tack away from that boat.” (him)
— “No, it’s too late now. Let’s fall off and jibe around.” (me)
— “OK, you’re right. You do the jib sheets; I’ll get the main.” (him)
— “Yeah; let’s go. Now!” (me)

These decisions happen fast on board our boat MOMO…

…and my husband and I usually reach a conclusion much like we did that day, when we were departing Banderas Bay in Mexico, bound for the Marquesas.

We sailed off our anchor because the wind was just right and because, though we’re not superstitious about bananas and girls on board, we adhere religiously to our own peculiar belief in beginning any long passage under sailpower alone.

We kept a close eye on the nearest boat ahead of us, separately and then together assessing whether we’d sail clear of it.

We don’t always reach the same conclusion at the same time, but one way or another, we arrive at what’s needed.

The dialogue is typical; the banter is our MO. In our familiar rapid-fire way, we talked ourselves through the situation: Tack or not? Will we clear the boat? Yes? No? OK, then: let’s jibe and get the hell out of here!

A moment after that exchange, we let out our sails and fell off downwind into a larger space in which to jibe around. Bernie pulled in the main and released it as the boom crossed the cockpit, I brought the forward sails over to port, and we gracefully completed our jibe and headed into clear water.

We had taken the better, safer route out of the anchorage, falling off the wind and going astern of the twenty some boats anchored off the town of La Cruz, rather than tacking into the wind and weaving our way through the anchored boats ahead.

Either route would have worked (we are not hot-doggers; the question of how much space to put between ourselves and the boat directly in front of us was more a matter of degrees and comfort zone than real danger).

But this is a story about decision-making and not exit strategies.

Most people will tell you that consensus doesn’t work on a sailing vessel. And they might be right.

But I mean to tell you that you just have to do what works for you.

In our case, it’s talking through our strategy, getting on the same page, and then executing the plan, together. There’s a rhythm to it, sometimes a rumble, but, in the end, a good result.

Of course, it would be a lot easier if we’d just follow traditional rules about who’s the boss.

Captain Cook

On most sailboats, the roles of Captain and First Mate are firmly established, almost always along traditional gendered lines (though we know of a few boats where the roles are reversed).

On those vessels, this kind of discussion about departure strategy would not take place.

There’s comfort in that, to be sure: one strong voice of authority reduces any chance of misunderstandings, announces quick decisions, and ensures that directions are followed efficiently. Starboard tack? OK! Bring in the sails? Ay-ay, Cap’n!

No one says, “Do you really think so?” or “Well, I was rather thinking that another strategy might be altogether more effective.”

I see the logic in establishing firm lines of command. Some of the best captains of ships have historically been some of the strictest too. Not one crew member would describe Captain James Cook as touchy-feely, yet he certainly qualifies as one of the greatest sea captains ever.

Still, it comes down to personal style, and what works best on each particular ship.

Jana helming in Tonga

Bernie and I are not out discovering islands or naming continents; nor are we managing a crew of one hundred. Our goals are not so lofty.

And since neither of us wants to be bossed around by the other, we’ve slipped into our own style of how to do things.

We’ve been sailing together over a decade, living and loving together for fifteen. Open communication comes easily (and sometimes vociferously).

We were both historians before we left to go sailing, researching, writing, and expressing ourselves through discussion and debate on equal footing with the other.

When we got our first sailboat together, we wanted to maintain that equal footing, so we took an offshore course, together.

Sailing thru NYC

Never mind that it was like a second honeymoon in the gorgeous sailing ground of the BVIs; even better, we discovered that our separate sailing experiences and skills complemented each other, and we have learned ever since to recognize our individual strengths and weaknesses.

In this way, we’ve grown as sailors, and as a sailing couple.

As in the case of our departure from Banderas Bay, we rely on talking things through and reading each other’s nonverbal signals (yeah, a lot can be conveyed non-verbally). We keep each other in line; neither pulls rank. Mostly, we are generally good-natured folk and try not to let the tension of a particular moment ruin a day.

Sometimes he’s right, sometimes I am.

Usually it doesn’t matter.  We always get there one way or another.

I’m not sure either of us would have cut the muster on Captain Cook’s ship, but we do just fine on Momo.

But lest you think the main point here is to encourage boisterous debate, let me be clear. We women are all enthusiastic citizens of this post-suffragist world, and our voices are important. No one believes that more than I.

But the safety of the vessel is most critical, and I in no way advocate inappropriate insurrection against your captain.

Bernie and I have lived aboard for nearly eight years now with no sign of mutiny (not even from our children) — and that’s because our structure of command and communication is clear.

It shifts from one moment to the next, but when one of us asserts authority in a critical situation, everyone else intuitively understands who’s in charge.

Chain of command is important (even if it looks a little strange), and understanding how yours works (while still exercising your voice!) is most critical to your success as a sailing couple.

Democracy in action (Jana, 18 months)

Democracy in action (Lola, 3 yrs)

About Michelle Elvy

Michelle Elvy is an independent writer, living on a sailboat with her husband and two daughters for the last eight years.

Their travels began between the Chesapeake Bay and New England, and the last six years have taken them across the Pacific, from California to Hawaii, British Columbia to Alaska, Mexico to New Zealand.

Michelle’s professional lives have included teacher, historian, translator, editor, and chief wrangler at a software consulting company. She has written stories about children, food, faraway places, motorcycling, dreaming big, and the kindness of strangers.

She currently lives aboard Momo with her family in New Zealand.

You can read more at svmomo.blogspot.com/ and you can follow Michelle’s musings and publications at michelleelvy.wordpress.com.

More info

• Kids Aboard Resources (on this website)

Related articles (on this website)

• Joint Effort (Admiral’s Angle column #5)
• Admiral Abuse (Admiral’s Angle column #24)
• International Women’s Day then and now: Women Rocking the World in Their Own Way, by Michelle Elvy

How do you make decisions aboard your boat?
Let us know. Email kathy@forcruisers.com or leave a comment below.