I had an epiphany in Trader Joe's the other day. Granted, it was early in the morning, and I probably hadn't had enough coffee. But I don't think these factors brought on my grocery-store revelation concerning the meaning of home, a concept that's been as slippery as an eel for me since embarking on the sailing life.
We were back in Maryland seeing family and friends, making the annual round of doctors' visits, and satisfying what had seemed to be a compelling need to go home for a while. Unlike other cruisers we've met, we don't have a house on land anymore, but most of our tribe is within a two-hour driving radius of Annapolis. So we were staying with close friends and family, camping out in spare rooms and on couches while trying hard not to leave toothbrushes and underwear up and down the I-95 corridor. Osprey was safely tucked in for hurricane season on the Río Dulce in Guatemala. We'd been aboard for nearly two years, but we'd never left her for more than a week. When it came time to go, pulling away from her was harder than I'd expected.