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when people asked how long we’d be gone. “One year, maybe two,” I said. I didn’t want anyone to think I’d failed if I chickened out and we returned after one year.
     
    I tem in Day-Timer: Reduce contents of house owned by two packrats to a pile of useful possessions that will fit into a 42-foot sailboat that is only 12 feet, 3 inches across at her widest point. Most of
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, in fact, beyond her bulging midsection, is
much
narrower.
    “How many T-shirts do you think I’ll need?”
    I was ready to throttle him. “How the hell would I know? Have I ever done this?” If I was stressed out before, now I was strung so tightly you could pluck chords in my neck. The last guidebook still wasn’t finished (Steve and his deadlines), and the property manager we’d hired had already rented our house. The first couple who walked through the door snapped it up, so there was no leeway in our timetable: We had to be completely moved onto
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in three weeks.
    While Steve wrestled with paring down his T-shirt collection on breaks from his computer, I packed up the rest of the house. Which cookbooks should I take? Could I live with just one frying pan? Would my wineglasses survive onboard? Each item required a decision before it went into a box: Was it destined for the storage locker we’d rented, the yard sale planned at Steve’s parents’ house, the recycling depot, the garbage, or
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?
    The smallest pile was the one for
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.
    As I gamely tried to consolidate a whole pantry’s worth of condiments and spices into a row that would fit on one tiny shelf, it suddenly hit me: For the next two years, I would be cooking three meals a day in a space barely four feet square. No dishwasher, no food processor, no microwave, no electric coffeemaker; just a three-burner propane stove with a Lilliputian oven and a top-opening fridge and freezer with one-fifth the capacity of the one at home.
    While Steve continued to mouse around at his Mac, I gradually moved our downsized possessions aboard. I had everything tidily stowed by the time he finally started packing and moving his own stuff. “That locker was for my tools,” he said, swinging open a cupboard door in
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’s aft cabin. It was neatly piled with wine bottles, each one carefully swathed in bubble wrap and labeled. He tried another, less-accessible spot. More wine. “I was gonna put my engine spares there,” he said with dismay. He lifted the cushions on the forward berth to get at the locker there. It was filled with nonperishable food, and more wine.
Surely
he didn’t expect me to leave good food and our (admittedly mediocre) wine cellar behind? The snarling that ensued did not bode well for the two years to come.
    As our August departure approached, the daily to-do lists in my Day-Timer became more intimidating than any I ever had at the office: Get physicals, eye exams, dental checkups. Arrange out-of-country medical insurance. Work with family doctor on contents of onboard medical kit. Reassure parents that we really do know what we’re doing while doubting that we really do. Assemble navigational charts and cruising guidebooks. Buy new laptop and equip with software that will allow us—we hope—to stay in touch via e-mail with friends (including the two who are handling the guidebook distribution business while we’re gone). Reassure parents, who are not yet on e-mail, that there are indeed telephones throughout the Caribbean. Enroll in first-aid and CPR course. Reassure parents again. Sign powers of attorney to allow our accountant to handle our finances while we’re away. See lawyer and prepare living wills, just in case. Reassure parents (and self) again. Find a buyer for my car and convince Steve’s parents to store his. See every last friend we’ve got in the city, to say good-bye. Try not to think about all the things I’ll soon be required to do that I’ve never done before. Like sail at night.
    We cut things so close to the deadline