Photo Essay: Boat Life in Black and White

Moments from life at sea. A photo essay.

Photos by Alexandra Essenburg. Written by Egor Korneev.

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Honey, let's simplify life! Rent our home, sell most things, pack the rest, and cruise the seas. Simple, beautiful, carefree. I will make you cocktails at sunset and coffee at sunrise, away from the distractions of the city. If only...

The ocean subverts your dreams. It argues against an easy flow of days and gifts you tasks, an endless stream of things to fix. An agent of entropy, it teaches us to accept decay and teaches an art of deflecting destruction. Zen and the art of boat maintenance.

The boat is a fortress, fiberglass and epoxy, built to withstand the fury of the wind and the power of the waves. But it cannot fight the creeping salt without our help. It is in the spray, in the wind, and in the afternoon air. Always there. It insinuates itself into every crevice and ruins it with rust.

Do you know how long a cell phone cable lasts at sea? A month. You ought to buy the cables based on their weight. "Two pounds of USB-Cs, please." At least those are cheap, unlike the metal rigging holding up our mast. Stainless cables, yet impotent to fight the cancer of corroding salt.

The metal rusts, the fabric tears, the sails fray. We want to read and chat, but our staysail is inside, the old stitching flailing from the seams, pried out by a gust. The heavy sewing machine is out, clattering and punching thought the reinforced Dacron fabric. I run the foot paddle, Alex straightens the heavy mess.

That's done! A beer? Wait, the engine is seeping oil through a rear seal. My head is deep into the engine well. I will fix that in a month when we no longer have to move each day. Yes, in a hiatus from the sailing during my rest.

So, the engine is postponed - we win some times. The watermaker! The magic unit turns the salt water into fresh and fills our tanks. It is magic, and it is magic if it works. The pressure vessel cap has cracked and squirts water from the fissure. I have the part. Just wait, honey, it is a twenty minute job...

It has been two days. I heat the end cap of the pressure cylinder, hammer it, and twist and turn, but it is fused and does not budge. On day three, I borrow a bigger wrench from our boat neighbor at a random anchorage in Chesapeake, a retired spec-ops operator who has the tools and the brawn. He will help. The wrench is the size of my leg and does its own magic. The watermaker may be online. Fucking piece of shit. I love it when it works.

Who wants this life of constant strife?

Yet, in the endless trickle of problems, sometimes a torrent, there is a break, when under way, her and I, lean back with a beer in hand, on the outdoor chairs and stare at the perfect geometry of the sails shaped by the wind that is taking us to a place where people are new, landscape is fresh, and beaches are empty. It is worth it, then.

Or, during an evening, in a quiet harbor, with the anchor down and dug into the sand, when the boat is as steady as a house on land and neither sways nor rolls. That rare motionless evening. The sun blends with the horizon behind the pines, and the organic shape of our ship blends with the landscape and becomes a part of it, and we with it, compelled into unity. It is worth it, then.

And on those quiet evenings, I sometimes stand midship with my pen, and write down what floods my mind, a torrent of thoughts that will sort themselves into a piece inspired by the struggle and this momentary relief. It is worth it, then.

Would I recommend the boat cruising life to anyone else? Only if you love every bit of life, including a little bruising.