I started writing Letters from Kate as a weekly newsletter to family and friends in 2008 when we bought the boat. They went out as emails and when I got organized appeared on a page of the website. Last year I changed format and started using a more modern blog platform to share our “Letters”, thus removing the newsletter page from the website. I thought I would start sharing some of our past adventures with you in a Throwback Thursday series. This is a two part storie, I hope you enjoy! H
I spend the rest of the morning provisioning, keeping my mind occupied by navigating the confusion of the grocery store on a Saturday morning. I let the busyness of the city envelop me, feeling buoyed by the company of so many strangers. I stock up with fresh meat and vegetables, and treat myself to a couple bottles of nice wine and some chocolate. With the diesel tanks full and the water tanks topped up I am hoping to have enough supplies to last a few weeks. There is not much on the shelves in the little store at our anchorage in Boca Chica and the city of David is an over hour’s drive away by bus.
Back on board, when everything is packed away and tidied, I am lost. It has been so long since I have spent more than a few hours alone. I try and read but I get up with every creak and splash to stick my head out of the companion way. After an hour I realize I am still on the same page, reading the same words over and over again. Every time I pass by the phone I check, like a teenage girl for a message from Steve, knowing there isn’t one waiting for me. By the time darkness falls I am pacing our small main cabin like a caged animal. With each little wind and current shift I stand in the cockpit configuring our position relative to every pinprick of light on shore and the few anchor lights in the bay, trying to determine if we have dragged anchor or just pulled back on the chain.
Finally at eight o’clock I turn off the propane, make a final note of our position, check the phone for the hundredth time and head to bed. In the silent darkness of my bunk I listen for the muffled breath and soft snoring noises that I know won’t be there. I sleep fitfully, tossing and turning, all night long looking for my absent bed mate.