Moving day arrived.
We flew to Washington on a partly sunny day with rain predicted for the next. But weather wasn’t a factor. We found the boat in the warehouse, waiting for a steaming light to be installed.
If we felt emotional about selling our home on the water, we tamped it down. The boat yard staff had provided a metal stairway to get on the boat, something Capt. Mark could easily negotiate, and lots of cardboard boxes for our use. We had one day to pack up our belongings. We needed to get to work.
We worked together for five hours. I put everything we’d decided to keep in plastic bags and lowered them over the side to Mark. He sat below in a chair and packed up the boxes by himself, a good trick when you have only one completely usable hand. Afterward, I dropped down three large plastic bags of items for the trash— expired canned goods, open sundries, and items that were damaged.
I needed him to go through the tools. He came up the stairs and walked hands free across the cabin to the wheelhouse. Sometimes he amazes me. No cane, no walker, and he managed to keep his balance the entire distance. In the end, the tools stayed with the boat. They were all duplicates and too heavy to ship.
The boat yard staff at Harbor Diesel in Anacortes was amazing. They pitched in and carried nine boxes to the SUV we’d rented. We told them they were welcome to tools or the unexpired, unopened foodstuffs we’d left on the counter. Anything they didn’t want would go with the boat.
After finding the UPS store and shipping off our boxes we headed for the broker’s office. Sea Bear would sell quickly, he said. Inventory was scarce and 32-foot Nordic Tugs were popular in the Pacific Northwest. The boat would be splashed just prior to a large boat show (after its interior was cleaned and staged for sale).
We signed the paperwork, promising to send a few needed documents, and we formally closed this chapter in our life. Sea Bear will have many more years of cruising, but we won’t be on board.
And then I cried.