Resilient Communities

 

 #1654

 

 

 

(Since many of my blogs this week are focusing on personal and community preparedness, a few offerings from the past seem appropriate. This is a repost from Feb, 2007)

 

 

 

 

 

As some of you may know, I was a part of the cruising community for more than a decade. We liveaboard boaters come in all stripes and hail from all economic strata's, but there was one constant:

 

We looked out for each other.

 

If you left your boat in an anchorage, or at a marina, and were gone for a day or a week or a month, you could be pretty sure your neighbor would watch it for you. If your boat started taking on water, someone would notice and bring over a bilge pump to keep her afloat. If an anchored boat was dragging, another boater would hop aboard and reset the anchors. If a hurricane was coming, and you couldn’t get there in time, someone would have put extra lines and bumpers on your boat.

 

And if you had a problem, any problem, there were always volunteers ready to help. Have an engine that won’t start? You can expect a couple of diesel mechanics to row over and try to fix it. Need a lift to the grocery store? Someone at the marina, who has never laid eyes on you before, will likely hand you the keys to their car.

 

The law of the sea is that you never refuse to help a fellow mariner in trouble.

 

I never really thought about it much, just accepted that this was the way things were. I grew up aboard a boat in a marina, and this was `normal’ as far as I knew. But it begs the question: Why?

 

What makes this small, largely transient, stubbornly independent community so willing to look out for one another?

 

I come up with two reasons.

 

First, any boat in trouble could prove to be a hazard to other boats in the anchorage or marina. So part of it is self preservation. It is in the interest of everyone to keep a boat from dragging, burning, or sinking.

 

Second, we all had a common foe. The sea that we all loved so much was also a fearsome and harsh mistress. When things go badly aboard a boat, they go south in a hurry. The universal feeling, I believe, is that anything you do today for a fellow cruiser will be repaid someday when you need it most.

 

When I first entered that community, I foolishly tried to pay for each kindness extended to me and my wife. I quickly learned that `paying it forward’ was the accepted norm.

 

An offer of a cold beer, however, is rarely refused.

 

Pull into any liveaboard marina, or large anchorage, and you will likely find a `lending library’ near the laundry facilities. Shelves of books, CD’s, DVD’s, and spare parts. A sign will usually be seen that says “Take what you want . . .leave what you can”. A bulletin board would have hand scrawled notes of items wanted or available.

 

Every morning, in anchorages around the world, boaters get on the VHF or SSB and at an appointed hour, meet for a `roll call’. Anyone who needs something, can request help. Anyone who has something they don’t need, and would like to offer it to the community, simply broadcasts that fact. Boats on passages also check in, and their progress is monitored by other boaters. If someone is overdue, or misses a check-in, the alert is raised.

 

Bartering, instead of cash, was also the norm. But usually only for larger, more expensive items. Credit was usually arranged if you didn't have anything to trade at the time. Debts were routinely forgiven.

 

And in the evenings, we would gather on the bigger boats or dockside and toast the sunsets together. Trade lies, hoist a few, talk of our next jump, and vow to meet again someday. Pot luck suppers were held several times a week. When one of our own fell on hard times, we passed the hat.

 

We traded not only goods and services, but information, too. Local knowledge, the best anchorages, and recipes.

 

Sometimes you’d wander into a new marina or anchorage and only stay a day or two. Sometimes you stayed for months. It didn’t matter. You were a member of the club just by being there. And it didn’t matter if you had a 60 foot motor yacht or a 23 foot sailboat. Long haired hippies who worked under the table at the local watering hole were held in the same regard as rich corporate types. Sometimes higher.

 

There were no strangers aboard boats, just friends you hadn’t met yet. True, occasionally we’d run into someone who `didn’t get it’, but someone would take them aside, buy them a beer, and explain the `facts of life to them’. Most of the time, that was all it took.

 

There are lessons here, for every neighborhood, for every community. Life is uncertain. No man is an island. While today it might be your neighbor in trouble, tomorrow it could be you.

 

There are other communities where I’ve seen this mindset. Pilots, RV’rs who caravan, firefighters & Medics, and the military. It’s how things USED TO BE.

 

All seem bound together by a common need. They shared a common enemy. Maybe that’s what it will take for our communities at large. A common threat that binds us together. A paradigm shift away from personal isolationism and towards community involvement.

 

Perhaps someday, before it’s too late, people will understand, you CAN get by with a little help from your friends. That it can, and does work, if you let it.

 

Something to hope for, anyway.

 

Damn shame that it might take a pandemic to make it happen, tho.