We're a Couple

“We’re basically a couple now.”

Charly said it so matter-of-factly that I laughed.

“Don’t worry,” he added. “Not that kind of couple.”

We’d been living on a sailboat for months, crossing the Pacific from New Zealand to Alaska. At first I dismissed the comparison. Then I started thinking about it.

Life offshore compresses time. In a few months we probably learned more about another person than we would in years of ordinary life. We saw each other at our best and at our worst — tired, scared, confident, stubborn, generous, impatient, seasick, dirty, smelly, and exhausted more often than not.

We could tell how the other slept by their face when they got up. We wondered what they’d eat for breakfast, because it might say something about the day. We found ourselves having conversations that sounded strangely domestic. Sitting in our underwear, we’d debate what to wear before going on deck.

We learned to compromise on food. Some inefficiency in provisioning was unavoidable at the start because everyone brought their own. Eventually, though, we found common ground. It wasn’t practical to cook a different meal for each crew member, and there wasn’t space to store everybody’s favorite cookies. We discovered foods everyone genuinely enjoyed. A big batch of stew, divided into portions and eaten over weeks, became a microculture of its own: we compared one portion to the next, noticed how the weather or the conditions shifted the experience, and congratulated ourselves that despite the variation it was still very comforting. Some staples became pillars of a collective identity.

Compromising on eating is one thing. Compromising on cooking is another — maybe more telling. How much time do we spend cooking? Who cooks? How is the menu decided? This is where you might realize you’re not the great cook you thought you were, and you need to step aside from the stove because you can’t meet the new standard. Or you discover a difference in values: one favors practicality whereas the other favors enjoyment.