Evenings on the boat

Evenings on the Frances Mae have become their own small ritual for me — the kind of ritual that sneaks up on you and suddenly feels like the best part of the day.

Most nights after work, I grab my bag, head down to the dock, and climb aboard as if I’m clocking into a different life. Sometimes I bring supper and eat it in the cabin; sometimes I don’t even bother with food because the light on the water is enough. I always have a book with me — whether I read it is another matter entirely. Half the time, I just watch the boats come and go, the tide shifting under the hull, the marina settling into its evening rhythm.

Learning to enjoy my own company

What’s surprised me most is how much I enjoy being alone there. Not lonely — just alone, in the best sense. I’ve discovered I’m excellent company for myself. I think funny thoughts, and then I laugh out loud at them, which probably looks unhinged to anyone walking by . . . but honestly, if you can’t laugh at your own internal commentary, you’re missing out on some premium entertainment.

There’s something about the Frances Mae that makes solitude feel like a choice rather than an absence. I sit there with my book, my supper, my thoughts, and the soft slap of water on the hull, and I feel . . . content. Not nostalgic, not wistful — just quietly delighted that this little boat has become a place where I can unwind, reset, and enjoy being exactly who I am, without needing anything more.

A small, steady joy

Retirement is coming, and big adventures are ahead, but these evenings — these simple, ordinary, quietly funny evenings — feel like the warm-up act. A reminder that joy doesn’t always arrive with fanfare. Sometimes it’s just you, a book you may or may not read, and a boat that feels like it’s waiting for you to show up.