Living aboard means adjusting ourselves not only to the changes in routine and movement patterns (from the planning movement of navigation to the literal movement requirements of ‘duck before nailing your noggin on the boom’ and ‘lift your leg high out the companionway to keep from denting your shin’), but also to the sounds of our onboard life. It makes me feel a bit like a wild animal, being so attuned to the slight changes that are indeed quite meaningful to our safety and survival needs; I love it. (It’s also amazing to think about wandering around in our house on land, and recognizing how little I actually hear in it, and how little I pay attention.)
When we sleep, we are aware of the sounds of the snubber gently shifting the pressure from starboard to port, port to starboard. We are always keen to the noise (and motion) of a shifting current, tide change, and at one point this year, the snubber hook falling loose, and the chain clanking against the roller. When we pay out all of our chain, the stretch of the rode creaks from time to time as the boat sways. All good things, as Frozen’s Olaf would say, but nighttime considerations nonetheless. Sleeping onboard is akin to sleeping with an infant nearby- the rest you get feels so heavenly, but light sleeping is key to the operation.
A noise we don’t want to hear while sleeping (among many others, including those obvious intrusions such as bilge alarms, loose halyards thwacking on the mast, the kids’ Fitbits’ forgotten alarms buzzing on the table at obnoxious hours, and the sound of large vessels steaming toward us, say) is the pressure pump kicking in. This would indicate a tap not turned off properly or worse, a leak somewhere. Worse still and more immediate to our rest, it means someone forgot to turn off the breaker, and that we have to get up to do so. Blerg.
By day, I channel my inner owl to hear the very start of the coffee water boiling, so I can shut off the stove and not waste an ounce of propane. This year Andy’s ear has taught him the slightest of decibel drops when the alternator is charging versus when it’s not, without looking at a gauge to confirm.
While motoring, learning sound variations of other things over the sound of the engine has its own challenges, but we’re like jackrabbits tuning our ears for the ‘whiiirrrr’ of the fishing line reeling out with a fish on, or knowing when the holding tank is empty by the shift of load sound of the macerator pump.
Coming up on deck to continue writing this and having the Bird follow to cozy into her perch above the companionway, we were all jarred by perhaps the worst communal sound aboard- the crunchy, gritty sound of the companionway hatch sliding over too much sand in its tracks. Think nails on a chalkboard, but louder and more damaging to boat parts. Shiver.
Lily’s least favorite sound is the light-but-annoying clanging of their stateroom door when V vacates and forgets to close it, and her favorite sound is when one of us tells her that the WiFi is working so she can Nerdcraft with her friends. Violet’s least favorite is the sound of the preheat alarm of the engine, and her favorite is always the sound of the engine shutting off. (You’d think this would indicate a sailor through and through, but it’s more often easier attention paid to movies watched underway.)
Our favorite sound? The ssshhh of the waves on the hull and the gentle patter of wind in the sails on a beautiful day’s close reach. It’s time to cease the tap of the keyboard to get back to it.
