4/29/2026 - Jules and I met when we worked together in a job that had become difficult (a new boss entered the scene), and some might even say abusive at times, or at the very least, emotionally heavy. Through those years, however, Jules and I carried each other through long days, difficult moments, and the shared understanding that comes from simply enduring (surviving) something together.

Back then, we were always striving for peace — searching for balance beyond the noise and pressure. Through it all, we found ways to steady each other — through humor, shared glances that said I know, and the kind of camaraderie that forms only when two people have weathered the same storm. It feels fitting now that we find ourselves traveling together again, but in a completely different way. Slower. Calmer. More intentional.

Some friendships are shaped by hardship, strengthened by time, and rewarded with moments like this — peaceful, unhurried, and full of gratitude. There’s something comforting about trading stress for stillness, deadlines for open water, and hard seasons for quiet reflection. This trip wasn’t just about where we went; it was about recognizing how far we’ve both come.

We have had years of fun together since both leaving that job — years marked by lighter days, easier laughter, and the kind of friendship that settles in rather than burns out. There’s a quiet beauty in realizing that some people remain part of your story through every chapter, no matter how many times life rearranges the scenery. This second trip around Port Townsend Bay felt especially meaningful because it was shared with that same dear friend — someone who has walked beside me through far more than miles.

Out on the water, the contrast was impossible to miss. Instead of deadlines, there was an open horizon. Instead of urgency, there was the steady rhythm of the boat moving through the bay. Instead of bracing ourselves for the next outburst, we were present — two people who had earned the right to exhale.

Some friendships are shaped by hardship, strengthened by time, and rewarded with moments like this — peaceful, unhurried, and full of gratitude.

Harbor to Harbour, we keep finding our way forward.

05/01/2026 - 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.

5-24-2026

A Day Out With Linda — and a Quiet Hello to Jim

Today felt like one of those rare Port Townsend days that manages to be both lighthearted and quietly profound. We took our dear friend Linda out for lunch to Port Ludlow at the Fireside Restaurant in the Port Ludlow Inn — sunshine on the water, easy conversation. Frances Mae carried us across the bay like she knew she had good company aboard.

The bay was in a generous mood, all soft light and tidy ripples, as if it had been brushed into place just for us. Lunch was lively — laughter, the familiar cadence of Linda’s bright laugh carrying across the table.

And then, on the way back, we made our quiet turn.

Paul steered us toward the waypoint he keeps marked on the Garmin — the place where we returned Jim to the water two years ago this April. It’s a simple dot on a screen, but out there it becomes something else entirely: a small, sacred geography of memory.

The boat slowed. The breeze softened. And the three of us settled into that shared stillness that doesn’t need narration. We didn’t make a ceremony of it — Jim would have rolled his eyes at anything too solemn — but we gave him what he always loved: a beautiful day, people who adored him, and a moment of honest presence.

We said hello. We miss you. We let the water say the rest. Two years gone, and still his absence has its weight — but so does his memory. Today, the memory won. It felt like he was right there with us, leaning in with that dry humor of his, pleased that Linda was out on the water again, pleased that the day was unfolding exactly the way he would have liked.

Afterward, we carried on home — sunlight, the easy rhythm of friendship. Because that’s how you honor someone like Jim – you keep living the kind of days that he would have loved.

And today, we did exactly that.