Moving to a new neighborhood is hard.

Last week I hosted a mini-rendezvous at the Essex Yacht Club, one of many events that I have held over the years. This time, though, I tried something new. I used the “member maps” of both the Salty Dawg Sailing Association and the Ocean Cruising Club to identify boats and members within a reasonable distance of Essex who might be interested in joining us.

Sixteen sailors showed up, with less than two weeks’ notice.

It was a simple evening. Drinks in the bar, dinner, and lots of conversation.

Brenda and I split up so we could make sure everyone felt included, and by the time we left, it felt like we’d accomplished something by bringing like minded cruisers together in an informal and manageable way.

The ability to look at a map, see where our people/boats are and then reach out to them in real time was a new way, to me, for bringing folks together. A modern approach similar to what we used to do in an anchorage, moving from boat to boat to invite folks to get together. And it got me thinking about community.

Or, perhaps more accurately, about what happens when you move to a new neighborhood.

The New Neighborhood

In some ways, moving from the Caribbean to the Mediterranean has been like moving to a new neighborhood.

The houses and towns are older. Much older. The scenery is spectacular. Every town seems to have its own castle, fortress or church that has been standing for hundreds, often thousands, of years.

But we don’t know the neighbors yet.

That’s something I hadn’t fully appreciated when we decided to spend several years cruising in the Mediterranean.

For a decade, the Caribbean was our winter home. We didn’t have a house there, of course, but we did have a home base, Pandora, and we had our people.

When Brenda and I first started cruising, even if it was only for weekends, I can remember how disconnected we felt when we left the dock. We’d go away for a few days and suddenly we were out of touch.

Today, of course, that’s almost unimaginable.

We’re living in an always-connected world. Some people actually like the idea of disappearing for a while, of checking out and not being seen or heard from.

That’s not for everyone but I am definitely not one of those people.

I like to say, only slightly jokingly, that I don’t want to be alone except when I’m in the bathroom — and even then, that assumes it doesn’t take too long.

Perhaps that’s a slight exaggeration, but not by much.

For the last week, Brenda has been away at a weaving workshop in Vermont. For the first few days she had little cell coverage and even less Wi-Fi. I’ll admit that I struggled with the “where’s Brenda?” thing. Being cut off from her, even for a day, wasn’t much fun.

And that got me thinking about how much our idea of being “out of touch” has changed.

I’ve covered something like 30,000 ocean miles over the years, and until fairly recently, going offshore really did mean being disconnected. Sure, with my Single Sideband and limited email capability, I was SORT OF able to stay in touch. Now, with Starlink, that’s largely a thing of the past.

Being able to pick up the phone, send a message or get in the dinghy and go see someone, so much a part of our life for more than a decade was a treat.

It’s also something I need, probably more than most.

Our People

That’s really what the Salty Dawgs gave us.

For ten years of cruising in the Caribbean, a huge part of our experience was being part of that community.

There were sundowners and shared meals as the sun dropped below the horizon.

Cruiser events that I hosted at the Essex Yacht Club over the years.

Hanging out on the docks with close friends in St Lucia, during Covid when there was nowhere to go, always being sure to be upwind from others.

We flew various club burgees so other cruisers would know that we were “one of them.”

There were rendezvous with fellow cruisers, too numerous to count, including more than one particularly memorable birthday celebration. In particular, Brenda’s on our very first run south to the Bahamas, our first year in a “real” community of sailors.

There were celebrations when we arrived in Antigua after an ocean passage. I made that round trip eight times, I think, so there was always something to celebrate — sometimes more than others.

The Tot club, yet another community, that meets daily in Antigua, to share a dram of rum and toast the King.

There were island tours with friends. Someone would say, “Hey, want to rent a car tomorrow?” and somehow, an hour later, we’d have a plan.

And, of course, family visits along the way.

None of this was particularly difficult to arrange. Well, family visits can be tough to get on the calendar, but cruisers are good at finding each other. Put a few boats in the same harbor, fly the same burgee or recognize a familiar name and before long, you’ve got a group going somewhere for dinner.

That’s what I realized while looking at those member maps for the Essex rendezvous, that it was like looking at boats in anchorage, a community that I could invite for a visit, just like the old days.

The technology has changed, but the basic idea hasn’t.

The maps simply make it easier to find our people.

Sixteen People and a Dinner

The rendezvous was almost ridiculously easy to organize.

I looked at the maps, found members who were close enough to Essex, sent out an invitation and waited to see what happened.

Sixteen sailors showed up.

We had drinks in the bar, dinner and a great evening together. At the end, we all posed for a photo.

Bruce, the guy on the left in the photo and an OCC member, took the other photo of the clubhouse as he headed back to his boat.

It’s a great shot.

Bruce took this photo of the club as he made his way back to his boat.

What particularly struck me was how quickly a group of people could come together simply because someone made the effort to ask.

And it made me think about what we’ve given up by moving to the Mediterranean.

Don’t get me wrong. I love the Med.

It’s pretty awesome to sail into a place where every town seems to have its own castle or fortress and where “old” often means a thousand years.

We’ve seen places and experienced things that would have been difficult to imagine when we were cruising the Caribbean.

But we don’t yet have a community there.

We have met some wonderful people, of course. We’ve made a few friends along the way. But we don’t have ten years of accumulated relationships, familiar boats, shared history and the simple knowledge that if we show up most anywhere, we’ll probably know someone.

We’re the new kids on the block.

And it turns out that moving to a new neighborhood is hard.

My People

Maybe that’s why I’ve found myself thinking more about this blog and how it fits into my community.

For years, writing about our cruising has been a way of sharing what we’re doing with people who aren’t necessarily sitting in the cockpit with us. It has been a way of keeping in touch.

In a sense, this has become another part of my community as I am able to have a conversation, mostly one way, I’ll admit, but I do hear back with comments regularly and it is nice to know that there is “someone out there” paying attention.

Recently, for my 71st birthday — how did I get that old? — Rob and Chris, along with Brenda, gave me a very fancy drone.

I plan to put it to use and hopefully “up my game” a bit by adding short videos to these pages.

I can’t say that I relish the additional complexity. I’m already discovering that there is a lot more to making a video than simply pushing a button and watching a drone fly around.

But I’m going to give it a try.

And, of course, I expect to call on ChatGPT to help with the editing so that this new hobby doesn’t take too much time away from the thing I actually enjoy: writing.

Because I suppose that’s really what I’m getting at here.

I don’t just write this blog to document where we’ve been.

I write it because I like sharing the experience.

And, after all these years, sharing the experience has always been a big part of what community is.

So, as part of my community, please say something so I know you’re out there.

A comment would be nice.

Better yet, write to me at bob@sailpandora.com so I know that SOMEONE is listening as moving to a new neighborhood is hard.

Hello?

Is anybody out there?

My people?