You inherit five million dollars the same day aliens land on the earth and say they’re going to blow it up in two days. What do you do?
– Heathers
Not so long ago Robie and I could fit everything we owned on a 41-foot sailboat.
We cooked in a tiny galley kitchen, turned the cockpit into our living room, had two heads that were barely big enough to turn around in, and lived inside a narrow, tapered space that equaled roughly 368 square feet (or so I unscientifically calculated one day). We spent the days barefoot in bathing suits and grudgingly donned shorts, t-shirt and flipflops when we went into port. But we never felt cramped. Because the limited wardrobe and diminished living area were offset by ever-changing anchorages and expansive views that reached to the horizon.
Onboard we discovered the ingenious hacks boatbuilders incorporated to make closets out of hallways, hide lockers under benches, tuck shelves and drawers beneath beds and along walkways. In the holds of The Last Resort, we hid rolls of toilet paper, paper towels and plastic Ziplock baggies. We forged a kitchen pantry beneath a couchette and stored fresh fruit in tiny hammocks that swayed with the sea.
We stockpiled food, made space for excess sails and rope, foul weather gear, charts, foam lounge chairs, snorkel and fins, a library of sailing books, fishing tackle, an emergency medical kit and enough tools to start our own small hardware store. We made a makeshift office, fashioned an entertainment center to watch our favorite DVDs, installed an outdoor grill, outfitted the galley with multipurpose kitchen tools and turned the wooden base from our cast iron fajita pan into a cutting board and the salad spinner into a mixing bowl and separate colander. And when I found an unused compartment beneath the companionway, I stuffed it with my precious KitchenAid standing mixer.
Because we had the room.
While it often took half a day to dislodge objects packed in a distant corner behind twelve other items, Robie and I had everything we needed and learned to do without the rest. We made pizza on the grill since we had no oven, slept beneath the stars because the boat lacked air conditioning and drank our beverages at room temperature without the electricity needed to power a freezer. But the moment we came back to the real world, things got more complicated.
And crowded.
In the years following our sailing adventure we filled our new home on land with furniture and the latest electronics, packed our garage with cars and more tools and loaded the backyard with a garden and outdoor living room so we could sip our favorite drinks from sweating glasses packed with ice. We accumulated items designed to help us multitask, save time and take care of daily chores. We bought objects to keep us safe and make us comfortable, stuff that entertained, amused and educated. Things that made life simpler, easier, better.
But when it came down to it, how much of what we had did we really need?
As soon as Robie said he was thinking about retiring “sometime in the future, in the next few years, eventually but not soon,” I began poking into the darkened corners of closets and deep inside drawers craning my neck to see what lay behind the tall boxes inside cupboards and cabinets. Despite attempts to keep the various cubicles clean, I knew I’d find a few surprises lurking in unexpected places. Because if living on a sailboat taught me nothing else, I’d learned how to fill the tight storage spaces on board like a 3D game of Tetris for the real world. And once it was time to begin the arduous process of cleaning out, I catalogued everything we owned into one of four piles:
- Things to donate
- Things to throw away
- Things to store
- Things to take with us
As with the boat, it was easy to determine the items doomed to the garbage pile. Only this time, the mismatched socks and stained kitchen towels were joined by jigsaw puzzles leftover from the pandemic and more than a few misguided online purchases like a cheap set of Chinese-Italian pasta tools. I enthusiastically earmarked a closetful of work clothes for Goodwill and reluctantly boxed my library for the used bookstore. I pawned off barely used kitchen paraphernalia on unsuspecting friends along with an embarrassing amount of glassware. But when it came to what to keep, the future was less clear.
For starters, what were Robie and I going to do once we stopped traveling? Would we want to live in a bungalow on the beach or a cabin in the mountains? Would we go for an apartment in the city or a farm in the rural heartland? Would the appliances need American 110 volts or Europe’s 220? And would we wear heavy coats and scarves or sundresses and flipflops?
Similarly perplexing was the decision about where to store whatever Robie and I thought we needed for “someday”. We discussed stashing boxes in my sister’s unfinished basement and renting from Public Storage in Florida. But when we ultimately settled on a facility in Dallas, it made keeping things so easy that many items I should have let go suddenly found their way into packing bins. And once the lids were closed, I couldn’t recall what was inside them.
For a few short weeks I opened bare closets, peered into empty shelves and found a vacant drawer or two. But with so much space, I felt the urge to refill it and started hording the items we used most. I collected notebooks and pens, vitamins and eyedrops, fingernail files and Q-tips, the things Robie and I couldn’t possibly get by without, I rationalized. Because while I knew that some of the places we planned to visit would offer stocked stores reminiscent of the halcyon days before the pandemic when goods were stacked floor-to-ceiling in every color, style and size, others would carry precious few. That meant the chances of Robie finding his favorite conditioner or me locating the expensive lip moisturizer I adored were virtually nonexistent.
As I slowly made my way through our stash, one thing became glaringly obvious. Despite our previous experience downsizing for the boat, this journey wasn’t going to be the same. Because when we set out on a sailboat, we brought our home along for the ride. And with it was everything we owned.
This time, Robie and I were severely limited by what we could take with us. Because while picking up and moving every few months sounded exciting, it wasn’t going to be pretty if we needed a moving van to do it. Our stuff had to travel with us by plane, train or ferry, and since we were going to need more than a bathing suit and some t-shirts, the decision about what to pack got immeasurably harder.
Imagining everything we might need I soon flooded our doorstep with overnight deliveries buying adapters to power our electronics, clothes to replace the ones I’d given away, a Swiss army knife and bagful of toothbrush heads. Because regardless of the hard work I’d done to clear out the house, I hadn’t yet lost the taste for acquiring more.
But the shopping spree couldn’t last, I knew.
In the age of modern international air travel, Robie and I were allowed one carryon and one personal item each. For checked bags, we were limited to one suitcase per person measuring no more than 62 linear inches and weighing less than 22 kilos (48.5 pounds). So when two new suitcases arrived on our front porch, I sat staring at the cardboard boxes stamped with a blue arrow turned up to a smile for a long time. Until it finally dawned on me that my new life needed to fit inside something the size of a large Amazon delivery box.
And with that image in mind, Reid and Robie offer a Heathers-inspired lunchtime poll:
You plan to sell your house and travel the world. What items can’t you live without?
Tell us your must-haves in the comments below or send us an email at reidandrobie@gmail.com. Because enquiring minds want to know!