She’s Getting There. And So Are We.

Sometimes progress doesn’t look like a grand departure. Sometimes it looks like a freshly painted boot stripe, an empty cockpit, and waiting for the rain to stop.

This morning, there is actually a chill in the air.

I’m sitting outside the marina office in shorts and a tank top, and for the first time in what feels like forever, I’m cold.

And I love it.

The marina is quiet. I can hear the birds calling from the trees and every once in a while, a fish breaks the surface of the water.

Splash.

Then everything becomes still again.

I sit here listening and watching the water, dreaming about being out there again.

Not sitting beside it.

Not looking at it from a boatyard.

Out there.

At sea.

It has been a long road getting LunaKai ready.

Longer than I ever imagined.

There have been delays, projects that turned into other projects, weather that refused to cooperate, and plenty of days when it felt like our departure existed somewhere in a place I jokingly call Tomorrow Land.

But lately, something has changed.

I can see progress.

Real progress.

One More Line Crossed Off

Yesterday, we finished LunaKai’s boot stripe.

It may sound like such a little thing, but standing back and looking at that clean line running along her hull felt wonderful.

Done.

Skip is working on a small repair to the rudder now. Thankfully, it isn’t anything major—just a little fiberglass work.

And the bottom?

It is completely prepped.

After all that scraping, sanding and preparation, LunaKai is finally ready for her barrier coat and bottom paint.

Skip and I are going to do that part together.

There is only one thing standing in our way.

Rain.

We need about a 48-hour window of dry weather, and right now we can't seem to find one.

I keep looking at the forecast hoping those little rain clouds will disappear.

So far, they haven't.

But there's a difference between waiting because you're not ready and waiting because you are ready and the weather isn't.

I'll take the second one.

And Then There’s the Cockpit

If you had seen our cockpit recently, you might have wondered whether a human being would ever sit in it again.

Totes.

Everywhere.

Stacked on top of one another and filled with years of stuff.

Boat parts.

Supplies.

Things we needed.

Things we thought we needed.

And probably more than a few things that made me ask:

“Why in the world are we keeping this?”

Little by little, I've been going through it all.

Sorting.

Organizing.

Throwing things away.

Finding homes for what stays.

And this morning, I'd say the cockpit is about 75% cleared.

That makes me ridiculously happy.

Because underneath all those totes is something I've been missing.

Our cockpit.

Soon I'll be able to sand it.

Then paint it.

And eventually, instead of looking at stacks of storage bins, I'll be sitting there with a cup of coffee looking out over the water.

Maybe somewhere far from Virginia.

Progress Doesn’t Always Look Dramatic

I think that's what I'm realizing this morning.

We tend to imagine progress as something big.

The boat splashes.

The sails go up.

The dock lines come aboard.

We point the bow toward open water and finally say:

We're leaving.

That day will come.

But maybe I've been so focused on that moment that I've sometimes missed all the smaller moments carrying us toward it.

A finished boot stripe.

A repaired rudder.

A bottom ready for paint.

One less tote in the cockpit.

Then another.

And another.

None of those things makes a very dramatic sailing story.

But together?

They're how you get to sea.

And maybe that's true about more than boats.

Sometimes when we've been working toward something for a very long time, it can feel as though nothing is happening because we haven't reached the big moment yet.

But progress isn't always a finish line.

Sometimes progress is simply being able to look behind you and realize:

We're not where we were.

Summer Is Beginning to Turn

Maybe that's why the cool air feels so significant this morning.

For weeks, we've worked through brutal heat, humidity and rain.

And today, sitting here shivering a little in my tank top, I can feel something changing.

Summer is beginning to turn.

Soon there will be cooler mornings.

Different winds.

Different weather.

And hopefully, somewhere among those changing days, our 48-hour dry window will finally appear.

We'll roll on that barrier coat.

We'll paint LunaKai's bottom.

I'll finish reclaiming our cockpit.

Skip will finish the rudder.

And one project at a time, we'll keep moving toward the water.

I don't know exactly which morning will be the morning when I wake up and realize:

This is it. We're really leaving.

But sitting here today, listening to the birds and watching fish jump in the creek, I feel closer to it than I did before.

So today I'm not going to stare at the unfinished work.

I'm going to look at that beautiful new boot stripe.

I'm going to look at that bottom that's finally ready for paint.

I'm going to look at a cockpit slowly emerging from underneath years of stuff.

And I'm going to remind myself:

She’s getting there.

And so are we.

⚓❤️🌊

Rooted in Faith. Guided by the Sea.

— René