Saturday

Saturdays on the boat are special.

More of my shipmates are home. There's no work to wake up before dawn to go to. The river comes alive. I can see my home in the daylight.

Outside and in, the boat looks like something the Wombles built when they were on vacation from Wimbledon Common.

Win waving from the deck of the ROR

The ROR, and our two sister ships, were all former working boats that previously hauled coal or other sundries. Just hulls when the admiral bought them, the remainder of the structure has been constructed by the by hand. Like a womble, the admiral has repurposed a lot of architectural salvage to create our home.

Saturday is also the day I come into to contact with the general public. We're moored in a beautiful spot, and on a bright, clear day, the path is full of pedestrians and cyclists, dog walkers and children.

Most of them have nothing nice to say about our boats.

Laden with my washing, not yet showered, wearing my muddy sneakers and knit cap, I climbed off the boat and met an elderly gentleman on the path.

"So, is it all illegal immigrants that live there, then?"

I started back at him.

"No... we're mostly poor young people"

"Ahhh. Poor young people."

He crossed his arms behind his back and continued his stroll.

This filled me with a strange type of anger. I realise this is a well-to-do area, and that the folk that live around here must think the worst when they see our boats. For me, this boat had been a place of immense healing. I love my boat family more every day.

We are a physicist, two uni students, a textile restorer, a security guard.

We're boat management - those who live and work on these boats, doing hard, dirty work every day.

We're a software developer and a care worker and an early childhood development expert.

We're a procurement whiz/jack of all trades for a car sharing club.

I am more angry at myself than at the old man. I didn't do my tribe justice when I went with 'mostly young and poor'.

I continue on to the laundromat. In my minimalist fashion, I enjoy not having a washing machine at home. It makes me think more about my clothes. I don't just wash things 'just because'. One wash a week is enough.

Sitting in front of the dryer is warm

If I am lucky, the physicist comes with me and we wash clothes together. We have join custody over a box of washing powder. We load the machines and head to the cafe for something greasy and some coffee.

I will usually disagree with the bill before we leave. Last time they charged me 30p more than they should have for my coffee.

It's the principle.

Lucky number 28

We usually stay at the laundromat while our clothes dry. It's warm, and you have to check the machines constantly. Things dry in a strange order. You take things out as they dry, hoping that will speed along the damp items that remain.You get down to your last few coins and hope it will do the job.

If not, it's off to the corner shop to buy a bottle of soda to break a bill for change.

Washing done, we wander back to the boat.

Everyone does their own thing until the generator (hereafter referred to as the 'genny') comes on at 18:30. When the lights come on, we cheer. We entertain each other. We watch nature programmes on BBC4 and bitch about our frustrations. We cook.

Once, we decided to drink boutique vodka and gin while watching a Disney movie marathon.

Aladdin takes on a whole new meaning whilst merry

We tore through the Little Mermaid, Mulan, and Aladdin before we ran out of steam, shouting out the lyrics to songs we didn't know we still remembered. The general and slightly inebriated consensus was that we are excellent singers and that Saturday karaokee needs to be a thing.

Saturday ends with stowing things in our cabins, checking the fire, and dampening the flue, before climbing into bed. We drift off to the sound of rain, waterfowl, and the river rolling along.

The Easy Way to Get to the Gym Everyday in 2014

You want to get fit? Want to build up strength and endurance? So, you went and purchased a gym membership, with the new plastic membership card taking pride of place in your wallet. Well done!

Thing is, getting to the gym can be a bit of a process, can't it? It's cold/raining/hailing/blowing with gale force wind outside. You're hungry/tired/stressed/looking forward to watching your favourite television show. There are 1,001 things you could do rather than go to the gym.

The buyer's remorse sets in. You've signed away £40/£50/£80 a month for the next year on that gym membership. If you don't use it, you're wasting resources. You won't get strong. Most importantly, you won't be caring for yourself in the way you intended.

But you're in luck! I have learned the secret to getting yourself to the gym every day. What's more, it's easy! You will wake up in the morning looking forward to getting to the gym. The weather won't matter. What's on TV won't matter. You'll find yourself thinking about the reasons to go rather than the excuses not to go.

The best part - I will share my method with you completely for free.

The easy way to get to the gym every day in 2014 is to have a shower like this in your home:

Enter the shower

First, you need to build it where there is no heating, and with single pane windows that face directly onto a wide open surface. There should be nothing between the outside and the glass to break the wind.

The tanks... basically glorified pressure washers

Then, have no running water. Don't plumb that shower in! Instead, make it a process, where you need to boil up hot water to fill the tanks. Once full, you need to pump them to build up enough pressure.

The 'shower head'

Finally, use no fancy shower head attachments. A large aquarium cleaner head will do!

Once you have constructed your shower, the gym instantly becomes a magical place. There's hot running water you can use, hands free. There's central heating, meaning that you don't risk pneumonia every time you wash and then stand in a freezing room soaked from head to toe. And the shower can last for more than 4 minutes!

Using the easy way to get to the gym everyday in 2014, I've already gone everyday since December 1st, with the exception of Christmas Day and Boxing Day (when I got just a little bit ripe). That's all there is to it.

You'll find that going to the gym becomes as much a part of your day as taking a shower.

The First Month of Boatlife in 25 Bullet Points

It's hard to believe, but I've reached the one month mark. Actually, a bit beyond a month, as I moved in on December 1st. One month of watching and learning. One month of thinking and writing.

So, is it cold? Yes. Is it hard work? Yes. Are some of the people mental? Yes. Do I regret moving on to the boat? Not for one minute.

Here are 25 reflections on my first month of boat life:

• Living minimally has as much, if not more, to do with clearing the clutter out of your mind as it does with clearing the physical clutter out of your space.
• Little things matter. Heat. Electricity. Clean clothes. Showers. Hot water. I appreciate them more.
• Old hippies make excellent conversation partners.
• I feel an enormous sense of accomplishment everyday, because I do more every day.
• I notice the little victories - every time I come aboard and don't end up in the Thames is a win.
• I am a more capable human being than I was a month ago. I can make fire.
• Not having a proper shower at home is one of the best things that ever happened to me.
• It's hard to feel sad for long when you watch the river roll by.
• I am obsessed with the weather. Storms are scary. Rain matters a lot.
• Less internet makes me more efficient when I have it, and more social once it is done for the day.
• There is great pleasure in taking care of yourself. 
• The mind goes quiet when you focus on the physical sensations of your body at work.
• There is a genie that lives in our teapot.
• Related to the teapot, people that did LSD for decades make interesting conversation partners.
• I can use a circular saw, a jig saw, and I am an expert with silicon sealant. 
• Staying over at a friends house feels like staying at a luxury hotel.
• We are so ridiculously lucky, and most of us are so absurdly unaware of it.
• The universe provides, so long as you open your eyes and are receptive.
• There are spiders everywhere and not much you can do about it.
• I get unnecessarily angry when someone shits in the piss loo.
• Even living on the edge, there is abundance. Even if you can't see it at first.
• Chalkboard paint is bad ass.
• You won't die if you brush your teeth with river water.
• People carry lots of different kinds of pain. Everyone has a story. There is value in listening to them.
• Kindness takes many forms. Receive gratefully, show it often.

What lessons are to come in month two?

Essentials: Taking Risks

Living on this boat is like low-level, constant exposure therapy to taking risks. In particular, coming and going from home, a daily thoughtless process for most, takes on new meaning here.

Getting on or off the boat requires you to take risks. Multiple risks. Some are minor - make a misstep and you'll be covered in mud. Some are not - put a foot wrong, and it's into the Thames.

On a boat or in life, there are 6 key things to remember when taking risks:

1. Know your options. Then decide. After making it through the dark, muddy park, the first choice you have to make is how you will get to the tow path.

Option A:

The slippery path

Option A is a slippery path. Advantages - Multiple hand holds (tree branches). More tree detritus for traction. Roots limit how far you can slide in any one go. Disadvantages - Poor visibility. With the right level of rain fall, the path quickly turns into a slick. Some of the trees have thorns.

Option B:

The steps

Option B is a set of steps that a long gone shipmate once cut into the bank. Advantages: Better visibility if the generator is running. Known foot falls. Occasionally some gravel for traction. Disadvantages: No hand holds. Intermittent giant puddle at the bottom of the steps not visible from the top. Large piece of metal jutting out of the top step.

Weigh your options carefully. Consider weather conditions, footwear, how laden you are, if the wind is up, and your level of intoxication. Then decide. One way or another, you will make it to the tow path.

2. Accept that there will be unavoidable muck you just have to get through to reach your goal. Once you have made it to the tow path, you have no choice but to walk it.

The shitfest that is the tow path

As with life, sometimes the unavoidable crap is almost ok, and sometimes it is like a disgusting river of feces. Put your head down and just keep going.

3. Use the resources available to you. Taking risks shouldn't be a blind leap into the abyss. That is a great way to wind up with broken ribs and a belly full of river water.

The gang plank

After wading down the tow path, you arrive at the gang plank. If you thought the challenges so far were daunting, well, they were just the beginning. You now need to make your first move over the river.

What resources do you have? You have your senses. Look at the base of the gang plank. Is it secure? Test the bank side against your weight. Does it slide? You have the choice of 3 tree branches for hand holds. You have your wits - how much are you carrying? Is there frost?

4. Move quickly when you sense success. Gang plank crossed, you will find yourself on a gerry rigged step attached to the side of the OKC, our sister ship.

The step up

Build on your successes. Move quickly. Step up. Grab the rail boat side. Pull yourself up. Push yourself up. Whatever you do, do it quickly. Especially if the river is high and at your heels. Use your momentum.

5. Face the fear. You've done it. You've taken the small risks that have led you most of the way. But the biggest is yet to come. That moment where you have the most to lose, just as your goal is in sight.

Almost home...

You know it's coming. The fear rises. But remember, you know your options, and how to decide. You know it will be unpleasant for a bit. You know there are resources available to you, and that it pays to move quickly rather than hesitate when success is in sight. Face the fear. And then...

6. Be brave. Act. You step up, first on the breeze blocks, then on to the sturdy wooden stump. Lashed to the stump is a steel pole, welded to the hull of the OKC. Home on the ROR is now one step away. But, this is no ordinary step. It is the most important step. It is the most risky step.

The gap of doom

Look down, and you see the murky Thames churning below. The OKC is lashed to the ROR by a single, thick, ancient chain. As with life, sometimes the weather is calm and the last step is easier than expected. However, sometimes the wind is blowing with gale force, rain is cutting at your cheeks, and the boats are moving to and fro in the frantic tides of the river.

Easy or terrifying, there is no other option. If you want to reach your goal, if you want to go home, you have to act. You alone. You have to make that last stretching nearly impossible step.

You hold on to the steel. You test the distance by stretching out your leg. Distance judged, you move. You throw out a short leg, and touch deck. You push off from the pole, you lean into your leap, and in that last airborne millisecond, you hope you will make it. You believe you will make it.

And with a little luck and a lot of practice, you do.

Essentials: Food

Recently, I took you on a short tour of our kitchen. It's small and basic and fulfills an essential function in boat life. Like house-dwelling landlubbers, boat people gotta eat.

On the boat, storage is at a premium. Also, the boat isn't stable - it pitches and rolls along with the movement of the river. We address these issues in the kitchen by hanging things up if they can be hung, and by storing plates and glasses in racks.

Hanging Pans & Storage Racks

A part of communal living is sharing. Food left on the side in the kitchen is fair game, and is usually gone quickly if left out.

Available Today - Pain au Chocolat and Christmas Pudding

For those things you don't want to share, each of us has a food box. Your food box is your private territory.

My food box, stowed up high

You gain a new appreciation and understanding of food living here. We have no refrigerator. It is cold in the boat, and most things will keep at our room temperature.

We're all fond of picking up severely reduced clearance items from the supermarket - it fits the frugal lifestyle. Expiration dates are more suggestions than gospel - I'll now happily eat most expired foods.

We have no oven or toaster - they require too much electricity. To replace the oven, we have a grill outside on deck that makes a decent substitute. For toast, we have a special toasting pan that goes on the hob.

Making toast

Eating this way, something remarkable happens - in line with a minimalist approach to life, no food is wasted. If you buy too much, or cook too much, you share it. Given that the average UK family throws away the equivalent of nearly an entire meal's worth of food per day, there's something to be said for this low-to-no waste effect seen in our communal life.

Once everything is prepared, we retire to the seating across from the kitchen - various stools, chairs, and a big white sofa provide ample perching at mealtimes.

Our sofa, in a slight state of disarray

Like most parts of boat life, food is more complex than it is on dry land. The gain from this additional complexity is a new appreciation for food - storing it, preparing it, and sharing it.

Virtual Tour: The Kitchen

The kitchen is the heart of most homes, and on the boat it is no different.

The kitchen is where we congregate as a community. It part of the same multipurpose communal room that houses our sofa and our one TV. The chimney pipe shoots up through the middle of the room, radiating heat.

Our kitchen has a spectacular view.

The window over the sink

On the weekends, rowing teams training at the local club skate past, darting back and forth on the grey river.

The window behind the hob

In the early mornings, mist and fog rise up from the river. Water fowl laze past, whooping and calling to each other. It's like walking into a cloud while listening to a 'Sounds of the River' CD.

The kitchen is basic - we have a gas hob, no oven. We have two hard working kettles - the large one is for boiling river water for cleaning, the small one is for boiling distilled, filtered water for tea.

Our kitchen

We have no refrigerator - the ambient temperature in the boat recently has been about 4 degrees centigrade, which is about as cool as the inside as a fridge. Left overs stay well preserved out on the sideboard.

Like most things on the boat, using the kitchen requires more work, but carries with it a primal satisfaction. And, if nothing else, you can't beat that view.

Essentials: Work

Keeping a boat running is a lot of work.

On the boat, everyone has a set barge task. Well, everyone at the moment except for me.

The assigned barge work amounts to 2 hours per week. Currently, there are more people than set roles. As the newest person, I haven't been assigned an official task yet.

While waiting for my name to be added to the communal white board task list, I asked the admiral if I could come and help on his newest boat instead.

Up on deck

Currently docked in a shipyard in Brentford, this barge was not more than a hull when the admiral bought it.

I spent a bright Sunday afternoon in December on this new barge, with the admiral and 3 of my shipmates.

The dock at low tide

The setting was one of nautical industry. The admiral was buzzing, seeing his dream of another house barge emerging from the strong steel hull.

My reception on board wasn't entirely warm, however. From one shipmate, I was met with a blunt "Construction work is not for girls" before being promptly ignored.

The day was clear and bright

I find that the best way to deal with being dismissed is to show intent through action. I got stuck in wherever I could, first sweeping and making tea, then moving boards and insulation.

Once it was seen that I was there to work, I was shown how to use the circular saw and the jigsaw and asked to cut some board.

Then, I put up a wall before finally finding my niche - adding silicon sealant to windows and installing them up on deck.

The admiral gave a lot of thought to the windows, looking to make sure plenty of natural light will fill the cabins and hallways below deck. In this way, I worked happily until the sun began to set and all the windows were in.

Satisfaction

As we lost the light, we stowed tools and stacked wood. We tidied everything away, ready for the next day.

Until my contribution is decided at home, I will get stuck in where I can, adding my labour to the communal pool to help make things happen.

It is an essential of boat life - everyone works. Our work has a tangible meaning - the result is something we can see and feel and experience. There is immense satisfaction in this.

Essentials: Fire

I am learning the essentials of boat life from my shipmates.

The first thing I was taught, before anything else, was fire.

The Stove - Where Fire Lives

It is December in Northern Europe. Our boat has no central heating; no switch that you flick for instant, climate controlled warmth. We're on the river.

Without fire this boat would be a very cold place.

The first person home after 4pm is responsible for lighting the fire. Then, coal needs to be laid on the fire every hour on the hour (a rule that is useful; if you come home at 7:30, you know that the fire is ok until 8).

Adding quick burning fuel to heat up the fire

Each of my shipmates so far has shown me different techniques that they use to build, feed and manage the fire. Fire craft is personal - no two approaches are exactly the same.

At the 10 or 11 fire feed, you're looking to have 3 layers of coal. The flue needs to be opened when the coal is laid, and then dampened (with the flue key at a 45 degree angle) once the stove door is closed. This will keep oxygen flowing to the fire, but not as much as when the flue is open, allowing the coal to burn slowly.

The wood has caught and will help the coals to catch

That's how the boat stays warm as we turn in to sleep.

We're reminded of the importance of the fire every morning when we get out of bed.

Lifting up the duvet and climbing to the floor, the boat is about as warm inside as it is outside. Changing out of pajamas and into clothes is done as quickly as possible. Breath steams in the icy air.

It is harder work to stay warm in a home like this - but it is a deeply satisfying chore. Making fire is a communal activity, where we all contribute. Feeding the fire is a little pleasure - when you are feeding it, you are in the warmest place in the entire boat.

I've come to see the fire as both beautiful and useful, and to view my responsibility to is as my first priority when I am home in the evening. With a bit of effort from all of us, I have faith that wintering on the river will be much cozier than I thought possible.

Watch and Learn

I'm posting this a day later than I wanted to. It has been a challenge to get my rustic internet solution up and running, but I am pleased to report that it is working now. Sort of.

I digress - I have moved into the boat, and I have had my first night on the water.

Rule #1 of introducing yourself to a new culture: Watch and Learn

In a new environment, it is safe to assume that you know next to nothing about how things work. You might have an idea or two, you might have read something somewhere... no. The real experts are the ones around you.

My first day on the boat began with moving everything in. With the help of two of the coolest guys that I know, Joe and Norbert, we were able to get everything from the old flat to the boat in one trip in a Zipcar Touran. 

Job done, and following a well-deserved beer in the pub, I returned to my floating home to face the reality of what I'd chosen to do. I got down to the more-complicated-than-in-a-flat task of unpacking and finding homes for my things.

Dressing a duvet in a small space is a challenge. Unpacking a large suitcase in a small space is a challenge. Deciding how to use the shelf space is a challenge. But in the end, I think I got it looking quite good:

The view from the front of my cabin

And the view from the back of the cabin!

The big reveal? All the walls in my cabin are painted with chalkboard paint! This ensures I will always have something to do, even when the generator isn't running and we have no electricity.

My first observations:

• Despite reducing the amount of stuff that I have by 50%, it still feels like way too much
• Fire is incredibly important
• Cold is a state of mind

Moving in to my new home, I was struck by how it reminded me of my adventures long past, moving into a new culture in a far away place. It's not so much a house share as it is a little community, with a culture all its own.

All told, it was a more comfortable, warmer first night than I would have imagined. I am fully in my role as an observer, watching, learning, and asking questions. I will draw on those old memories of patience, get-stuck-initude, and creativity as I work to integrate myself here. 

With some luck, I should start to get the hang of things fairly quickly.

Self Sufficiency Means Always Having Someone to Rely On

I am not sure what it is about having other capable (or even not so capable people) around that makes me want to ask for help.

Maybe it is this latent fear that I'm not good enough or that I don't know what I am doing, but my default instinct when I need to get something done is to ask someone else.

Those who know me know that I'm not lazy - I find pleasure and fulfillment in actively working on something. But I always pause, especially when it is something new, and then will succumb to feeling lost. I will ask for help.

One objective for Operation Greenrock is to train myself in self sufficiency. I've had my first taste of it this weekend, painting my cabin. I've not painted a room since my experiment with wall paper stripping and red paint in 9th grade. I had to get all of my own supplies. I had to provide all of the labour. Most crucially, I had to do it all myself.

The captain and my shipmates were friendly while I was there - sharing the odd cup of tea on a quick break. But no one sat with me while I painted. No one grabbed a roller. Once I was below deck, it was just me, 4 slightly uneven walls, and lots of paint.

As I got started, I felt annoyed. Why was everything looking shit? Why did the roller keep falling off the wire frame? Why won't the masking tape stick? I became my own cheerleader, egging me on to keep going. 

I was back today, getting the edging and difficult spaces done and laying on a second layer of paint to every surface. I contorted into all kinds of shapes, laying on my back to paint the ceiling and stretching to cover any remaining white. All in, I spent 10 hours painting this weekend.

And you know what? It looks really good! All done by me.

Developing self sufficiency, step by baby step, will mean that I will always have someone to rely on.

What should I learn next? What skills in life are as useful as painting?

Making a Boat a Home

There's nothing that quite says 'this room is mine' like painting it. Especially if you are painting it something other than white.

I spent all of today thinking about painting, going all around London buying paint, and then painting. I've still not finished, but I've made a decent start...

This is the view standing in the back corner of my room

This is the view standing at the door to my room

This, apparently, is my bed frame. If you can't tell, that's a door hoisted up on top of a welded steel structure. 

The one wall with a second coat so far - looking remarkably smooth and even!

Back to the boat tomorrow for round two. To build some suspense, let me simply say that there is something very special about this paint, to be revealed on moving in day! Any guesses?

Life is Weird

I had a funny conversation with a visiting friend this weekend. To paraphrase, it went something like this:

"You know, in life there is shit. Bad shit. You never see it coming, but you know it is coming. It came to you before and with certitude you know it is coming again. But bad shit can become good shit, or it can lead you in the direction of good shit. And you never know when good shit is coming, either. It takes you by surprise, too. Putain. We're drunk"

Not that long ago, I was feeling certain that life was going to be nothing more than a long, dull trudge toward death. That's a bleak thought, but then depression tends to be like that. I spent this last summer living in a strange world devoid of all possibility. I was emptied of creative energy and couldn't see what to do.

And then it all changed.

What changed was that I started to make decisions. At first, it was simply deciding to be alone and keep myself entertained. Then deciding what to buy, deciding to cook or get take away. Deciding to be clean or messy. Deciding to be on time or late.

The more decisions I made, the more clearly I could see that this power to decide helps in two significant ways:

1. It makes you an actor in your life. You begin to look at life from a position of power, rather than from the perspective of a passive victim.
2. Things start happening. It is not possible to make things happen if you never decide to do anything.

In deciding, I also accept responsibility for the outcomes of those decisions. Before, I was obsessed with control, I was angry when I couldn't control everything, and I refused to decide. In fact, I actively tried to avoid making decisions wherever possible. If I didn't decide, and things just happened to me, then I wouldn't need to feel shame or guilt if I failed to achieve.

Not going to lie - deciding can be scary. Deciding to move to a tiny space on a boat with a whole mess of strangers is scary. Deciding to get rid of most of my stuff is scary. Deciding to make friends and to try meeting people is scary. 

But it has also returned the colour to my life, and it has opened up the world. Life is full of possibility. And hardly a moment is dull.