We're Living Inside a Perfect Memory
Someday I’ll miss this crazy life at sea
I still remember the way the sunshine fell across the furniture & walls of our old home in Denver. The garden we built with our bare hands over 5 years. The routine walks around the neighborhood. Even the ordinary trips to the gym or grocery store — the ones that felt forgettable at the time.
None of it felt extraordinary while I was living it.
Yet now, in memory, it feels almost sacred.
I know I’ll look back at this chapter someday the exact same way — even though right now it still feels like just another stretch of days.
The sights & feelings I’m having now. Nearly 9 months on a 31-foot blue sloop on the ocean with my husband, Corey, & our cat, Pineapple.
And yet, most mornings still begin like any other.
I crawl out of the v-shaped berth at the bow of Chérie each morning, drag my body out to the cockpit, & turn on the propane so I can heat up water for coffee. Then I turn my head just beyond the toe rails, survey the rows of other ships, & I squint my eyes at the early sun glistening over the turquoise water.
It’s easy to take for granted that we’ve sailed nearly 4,000 miles. I’ll start to think about what I need to do for the day, week, & the next sail. Then about what comes after sailing altogether.
I’ll wonder, “Is this it?”
Then, I’ll pour some coffee, pet Pineapple, & get to writing.
I realize: this too will someday become a perfect memory.
It feels strange that parts of my past that once felt “not quite enough” now sound almost ideal in retrospect.
9 months ago, I had a stable federal scientist job. I was bored by the idea of it going on forever. Yet my memory is full of smiling faces on Zoom calls. Tons of purpose. Problem solving.
I now have nothing but fondness for my old work.
We left a steady, good life to pursue uncertainty — & to embrace new identities.
Full-time sailors.
100 square feet of living space.
No working fridge. No A/C.
We wanted adventure, to get comfortable exploring the unknown. We now have an anchorage full of smiling faces. Newfound purpose. Problem solving x100.
A daily rhythm that often feels exhausting, uncomfortable, & precarious.
This is supposed to be the dream.
But we don’t see this as forever. We know ourselves too well. It’s just a chapter, or maybe a catalyst for whatever comes next.
I keep reminding myself to notice all that’s happening.
Someday we may go back to our life in Denver. Rebuild that garden. Or maybe we’ll settle in the jungles of Central America. Who knows?
People evolve & change their minds.
Chapters open & close.
New ones emerge.
Lately, I’m beginning to wonder if the moments that feel most ordinary are the ones we’ll miss the most.
I’m sharing everything while exploring the world on a sailboat, in real-time.
If you’d like to follow the full journey (& help keep it going), you can upgrade for $5/month or $50/year.
You can also buy me a block of my favorite cheddar cheese.
In the beginning (June 2025), we had no clue what we were doing. We barely knew how to sail. It was awesome.
We set sail from New Bern, North Carolina having never slept at anchor – also never to return.
After each sunrise, we’d zip around & learn a hard-earned lesson.
Before each sunset, we’d anchor somewhere new – sometimes licking our wounds or consoling our bruised egos.
We sailed through the winding North Carolina swamps.
Swerved up the Chesapeake Bay & down the Delaware Bay.
Then we pushed offshore from New Jersey – our first overnight at sea.
Past New York City – a fantasy realized.
From there: onward to Newport, Rhode Island.
On the trip back down south, off the coast of Long Island, our sail ripped in half.
60 miles offshore. After dark.
Horribly seasick. 10-foot waves. No one coming to help.
“We’ve got this,” Corey said.
We didn’t know that.
We acted anyway.
That kind of craziness never happens on land.
And yet — I have never felt more present.
Making landfall days later back in Virginia became one of the proudest moments of my life.
Comfort never gave me that.
Years from now, I know this will be one of the moments I remember most clearly – among the most consequential of my life.
People warned me about the extremes before we chose sailing life. They said I’d experience my highest highs & lowest lows.
But after a year & a half as a sailboat owner, I don’t experience it that way.
The moments that were supposed to be “lows” — learning we’d need a new engine while stuck in the boatyard, the torn sail offshore, maneuvering in 10-foot seas in the dark, riding out storm-force winds at anchor — they’ve already become some of the moments I value most in my entire life.
They were stressful & scary in the moment. But I was unmistakably aware that I was alive — & now they feel sacred.
The ordinary & not-so-ordinary:
Memories I’ll carry for the rest of my life. Experiences no one can take away.
Life at sea rarely feels glamorous while it’s happening.
I asked Corey a couple weeks back, “How many perfect sails you think we’ve had?”
“Probably none. We’re always humbled in some way!”
That was days before we sailed 20 miles south along a rough stretch of the Exuma island chain, going fast through swells & occasional rain showers, and anchored an hour before huge winds started blowing from behind the island.
Since then, we’ve described THAT as an incredible sail.
Humbled only by how long it takes to realize we were having a great day.
Nothing is convenient.
Groceries. Freshwater. Laundry. Sometimes they’re very distant.
Back in the U.S., we’d often land our dinghy & walk an hour in the heat to buy groceries.
In much of the Bahamas, the stores are missing fresh food for weeks on end.
In George Town, the groceries are right there – only a 1-mile dinghy ride to shore is necessary. Yet this often involves wet rides with building winds — & everything is imported & wildly expensive. Yesterday, by the time we got back to the mothership, I was soaked from the swells bashing against our underpowered dinghy in the choppy waters. But we savored those fruits & veggies.
This is reality right now on the water.
No Amazon deliveries.
No bountiful shops.
No fast food.
Out here, nothing is guaranteed — which makes small wins, like an unbruised Gala apple, feel enormous.
One morning months ago, just before pulling up the anchor in Rhode Island, I spent an hour cleaning up raw sewage.
But that day ended like this:
Such is a good life – perfect in retrospect.
I know this because even bad days in Denver feel meaningful now.
The routine grind at my old job feels meaningful, full of great people & purpose.
I miss my garden.
I’ve learned not to judge a thing by a single moment – especially not its worst.
When I was 17, working at a bookstore in the suburbs of L.A., I saved money & told everyone that my real adventure hadn’t started yet.
“Someday, you’ll see: I’ll be living in Portland, Oregon!”
Later, after each milestone, I thought the same thing again. I’d go somewhere different. Somewhere better. The best adventure always seemed to be right around the next corner.
But every chapter I rushed through eventually became something I wished I could briefly revisit.
L.A. → Portland forests.
Oregon State → Harvard libraries.
New England coastlines → Denver mountains.
Federal scientist job → Ocean sailor, writer, guide for others navigating change.
North Carolina swamps → The Bahamas.
I even miss the horrible fluorescent lights of that old L.A. bookstore sometimes — the slow evenings, the stacks of books I needed to reshelf, the version of me who didn’t yet know where life would lead.
I miss parts of the life we left behind.
And I suspect I always will.
But sitting here now, on the sailboat we’ve navigated through nearly 4,000 miles of wild waters, I finally understand:
Nothing is lost.
Someday, I’ll remember the way the sunshine falls across Chérie’s cabin walls — just like I recall my Denver garden now. The sailboat we rebuilt with our bare hands over 10 months. The slow movement of the water outside. Especially those ordinary mornings turning on the propane & making coffee — the ones that felt forgettable at the time.
I had a beautiful life in the past — in L.A., Oregon, Boston, Denver, & even in the North Carolina swamps.
The wind makes the cables clank against the mast, & the sailboat rocks gently beneath me as I write this.
I have a beautiful life now.
And someday, even these imperfect days
will feel like the good old days, too.
Until next time,
—Cory
P.S. Want to support this work directly? Either subscribe or buy me a coffee — every bit helps keep me sailing & writing.
It's kind of cool yet kind of sad that you're reminiscing early. But I get it. Sometimes life is so real--so good--you almost pinch yourself, wondering.
Ah the misty eyed recollections full of the good bits and maybe a few of the not so great but, you didn't walk way from all that because it was perfect you left because you have a burning curiosity to discover what's over the next hill, round that corner, across that ocean. Go back?
I think you'll be restless for the ocean, the sounds and smells of the sea. In the cities the sunrises over the buildings, at sea it rises over the horizon.