Friday, November 14th 9:02a.m.

The moment I hung up the phone I was in tears.

I called the Harbor Master to let them know my motor wasn’t starting, and it would be a few days before I could move my boat over to be measured as I apply for a slip in the Marina. They told me not to bother. The Harbor Master had read my blog, and they know I’ve been living on this boat illegally.

I was crushed. For the last several months I’ve lived comfortably in a community of fellow misfits, rebels, and adventurers. After birthday potlucks, drunken debates, sailing lessons, music jams, and a recent midnight trip to the ER, the people of the dock have become my friends and my home. Never have I found such community in a living situation. Now I have three days to be gone.

There’s nothing, though, quite like a crisis to remind me how blessed I am. After sending a few text messages and posting about my situation on facebook, my phone was buzzing with calls and texts from friends offering help moving the boat, couches to sleep on, and consolation. Sweetheart dropped his plans and came over immediately, holding me while I cried and setting to work on the motor.

By evening, word had spread around our little dock. Neighbors brought beer, candy, whiskey, and company, and together we brainstormed options, laughed, and mourned. One of the elders on the dock (we just celebrated his 76th birthday) brought over a waffle, topped with blueberries. Seeing all these friendly people gathered around the table warmed my heart and broke it at the same time.

This morning I went to the Marina Office, apologizing for sneaking onto my boat, and adding my name to the waitlist for legal live-aboard permissions. Tomorrow I will motor off to a new berth, and hope that sometime soon I’ll be back here, home.

In the meantime, I have protests to plan and a flight to catch.


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