Text & Photos by Nate Stephenson

Renovating a sailboat to live on full-time, Nate and Megan knew they’d face many challenges. But embarking on this shared life project amidst nature was their way of committing.

I listen to the lapping of water against the wooden hull of the boat. I’ve slept poorly. The wind picked up during the night, and so did my anxieties. Megan didn’t sleep either. She’s already out of bed, peering through the hatch at the channel that still separates the cove where we’re anchored from our home port in Santa Barbara. The forecast predicts heavy swells accompanied by a northwesterly wind that’s expected to become a storm in the next three days.

In an ideal world, we’d stay huddled in this little corner of the Channel Islands to wait out the storm, but I have a job waiting for me on the mainland. It’s time to head back, a less-than-appealing prospect after five weeks aboard Mayfly, our 27-foot sailboat.

Even though we live off fishing, solar energy, and wind power, I haven’t worked in over two months, and prepping the boat for this journey drained my financial reserves. Megan would have preferred to stay. We still have fresh water and a good supply of fish, and she can spear a fish faster than I can get into my wetsuit. We were just getting into the slow rhythm of life at sea. I’ve read more books in a month than I had in the past two years, and Megan still hasn’t finished her knitting project. But she knows we have to go back. She’s accepted it well; we’re a team.

It’s been three years since we started living together in this tiny sailboat cabin. At the beginning, the deck was so rotten that water leaked into the cabin whenever it rained. Our bed and clothes were constantly wet. I’ve lost count of the number of plates and glasses spilled when the waves made it impossible to eat.

Staying at anchor also comes with compromises. We only have one dinghy to get ashore, so we have to coordinate and adapt our schedules. We’ve lost two dinghies to sinking, five phones have fallen into the ocean, and Megan occasionally gets seasick for no clear reason. Plus, pelicans seem to love pooping on me. We try to laugh and stay positive, no matter what happens.

Life aboard, however, has brought us immense joy. Just a few days ago, we anchored behind Santa Cruz Island. The water was so clear... I’ve never seen anything like it. I went diving, floating among kelp forests, with pairs of bright orange Garibaldi fish darting between rocks, and a moray eel watching me from its hole.

Back on Mayfly, I read a bit—half a page of Journal of a Sea Captain’s Wife. These moments are rare in our world.

Sometimes, Megan cooked while I helmed. She made Johnny Cakes on the propane stove, humming as she worked. We ate a lot of these fried cornmeal cakes; they became a ritual onboard. One day, a pod of dolphins swam alongside us for hours, leaping excitedly before settling into our wake. I played an Irish flute tune to thank them.

We dreamed of days like these last year, when we spent all our time at the shipyard sanding, laying fiberglass, caulking, patching, priming, and painting. It took almost two years to get Mayfly ready for this journey.

Our friends often came to help, and sometimes we try to repay their kindness by inviting them to spend a night or two on board. For them, visiting Mayfly is like entering another world. There’s no place to isolate oneself, and privacy is rare. The boat fits four people max—one in the bow berth, another in the “coffin” berth, and Megan and I on the cabin benches. It’s like camping, with a shared tent that must be moved from one place to another—a kind of adventure that strengthens relationships.

Although everyone on Mayfly has a designated role and knows how to sail in these conditions, we still feel anxious about returning in the storm. The plan is ready. I’ll weigh anchor while Megan prepares the sails—two reefs in the mainsail, the jib stowed, and the staysail raised. We’ll try to beat upwind as much as possible. The cabin is tidied, ready to be rocked by waves and tilted 35 degrees. The deck is clear, with safety lines running along the port and starboard sides to clip our harnesses. Falling overboard in this weather would be a very, very bad idea. Fortunately, Mayfly has proven herself.

It might sound strange, but we’re convinced Mayfly has her own personality—her preferences, quirks, and eccentricities. She was built for downwind sailing and for crossing oceans on trade winds at a leisurely pace. She hates sailing upwind despite our best efforts. She also seems to have a grudge against engines since ours has flooded four times already. It drives me crazy. But after all, she’s a sailboat...

One day, I vented my frustrations to an old sailor in Santa Barbara.
“The windward is for birds; downwind is so much more enjoyable,” he said.
“So we should just head to Mexico and never come back?” I replied.
“Exactly!”

I loved his philosophy. It’s not complicated. Trade winds blow parallel to the equator, east to west. Theoretically, you can circumnavigate the world sailing downwind indefinitely. Learning to sail a boat is learning to let go. You often have to abandon your plans and let the breeze take you where it chooses. Over time, I’ve realized that relationships are the same way—understanding and adapting. Perhaps that’s the key.

Now the sun is rising. We leave our anchorage, heading into the wind and waves. Our destination is the edge of Santa Barbara. I glance back one last time. A flock of brown pelicans flies in single file across the sky. Megan smiles at me. I think about everything we’ve accomplished together, all the work that brought us here, now, together.