Crikey, it’s hard to admit that. It’s also hard to do. Like, what does one tell a border agent when jumping from one banana republic to the next every few months, just so we can stay together? They need to know that their country won’t be stuck with a couple of dossers on a clapped out sailboat, if they let us in. Aye, I ken that.
So we wave our disparate passports and hope for the best, while keeping a firm grip on the helm and lines for a hasty retreat to the safety of the high seas.
It’s happened more than once, so we’re pretty good at it. No biggie, ‘It’s a lifestyle choice,’ my dear mum reminds me.
A choice? Like, we live on a boat because we don’t have a car!
Living in a car has its own challenges. We know; we’ve done that too. Of course, vehicular habitation has been nixed for us by Putler’s war on Ukraine: there’s only two countries left that share a land border AND allow both Canadians and Russians entry as tourists. Montenegro and Serbia… and, well… shite on a pike, I’ve been a castaway and away from home (or the country I lie to officials, I have a home in) for so long, my stupid driver’s licence expired years ago! Elena is in worse of the same situation… so thank my lucky stars we have a boat, and Uber or Gypsy cabs. Of course, one can’t ring up Uber-domicile, as far as I know.
And another horribly embarrassing admission: we say ‘Uber’ or ‘taxi’ or ‘car’ like it’s just a matter of access, but more icy reality folks, we couldn’t afford it. Aye, we’re feckin skint. That is a hard one for me to choke out. Having been a formerly ‘housed’ individual with assets, a fixed address, a real phone number (try maintaining a life with a VoIP number and/or burner SIMs!), a drivers license, medical insurance, friends, family, and some modicum of self respect (however misplaced that may have been), that admitting I have become literal flotsam with narry a pair of shekels to rub together is hard for me!!!
Hardest of all that loss of safety and humanity is looking back at Elena. Did I do this to her? Is she Eurydice to my Orfeo?
Whoa, the moral of that story is, crack on through hell, and never look back! Garrr, me mates, lash yourselves to the mast and bend canvas to wind ’til you can’t, or the damned Sirens call you to rest on the jagged rocks.
And here’s the kicker with rocks: they all belong to some country. If we fall victim to the Sirens’ alluring songs, let’s just hope they allow both Russians and Canadians to be wrecked upon their wicked shoals.
Featured image: Elena and I during one of our usual sunset discussions about where to next.