Posts Tagged With: journey

The Call of Small Adventures

Not every adventure needs to be an expedition around the world.

The most meaningful journeys can often happen just a few miles from home, in a local river or dam, a sheltered bay, or along a winding coastline. Packing your gear into a canoe, dinghy, kayak, or small sailboat and heading out for a night or two under the stars offers a way to taste freedom without the need of a large boat and a limitless budget.

Small Boat ~ Big Adventure

The beauty of micro-adventures lies in their scale. You don’t need months of planning or complicated logistics and you certainly don’t need to cross oceans. You simply need a small, reliable craft of some sort, a bit of gear, and the willingness to follow your compass and chart toward a campsite. Small boat camping exists in the space between exploration and simplicity. Ordinary becomes extraordinary the moment you untie a rope and move away from the dock. That first interaction with a creature from the deep will be imprinted in your memory forever.

Why Small Boat Camping?

1. Freedom Without Complexity

Large boats come with large expenses, bigger responsibilities and planning, and greater ongoing maintenance. Alongside this is the fact that if something significant goes wrong out on water your options for doing on the run repairs can be quite restricted.

On the other hand, a small boat offers spur of the moment adventures. You can launch quickly, navigate skinny, shallow waters, and slip into hidden coves where larger boats can’t follow. With less to manage, the focus shifts to the essence of adventure—exploring, camping, cooking outdoors, and immersing yourself in nature.

A Quiet, Secluded Beach close to Suburbia

A wonderful bonus is that nature will often come very close to you personally, we’re talking within an arms reach. Maybe a minnow or stingray, dolphins or sharks, or even a pelican or heron landing on the deck of your sea kayak, all of which has happened for me. I can also attest that having something breach the surface from below, or have an Osprey or Pelican drop a surprise dive bomb on a fish, right beside you will have your heart racing for while!

2. It’s Affordable and Accessible

Camping from a small boat dramatically lowers the barrier to entry. You don’t need deep pockets to experience a night floating at anchor beneath the stars or camping on a lonely shore gazing into the embers of your cool fire. An inflatable dinghy, a kayak, or even a modest secondhand sailing dinghy can open the door to adventure based experiences that are far richer than their price tag suggests.

3. The Blend of Two Worlds

Camping and boating are combined. By day, you’re navigating over waterways, dancing with the wind in your sails or feeling mesmerized by the rhythm of the paddle in your hands. By night, you’re pitching a tent on a beach all to yourself or sleeping at anchor aboard your boat being lulled sleep by the gentle rocking. It’s can be the intimate union of land and water adventures— half land based campsites, half sea voyage.

A Huge Adventure from Long Ago

The Magic of Scale

Thinking of great adventures, we often imagine climbing dazzling peaks, traversing through deserts, or crossing vast oceans. Yet there’s a certain magic in realizing you don’t need to scale Everest to feel wonder. Spend one night on a small island, watching the tide rise and fall as the stars above you move across the sky, it can feel just as epic.

Small boat camping thrives on scale not measured in distance covered, but in experiences collected. The sound of an owl hooting from the tree-line, or a curlew crying out nearby on the beach. Water lapping against the hull as you fall asleep. Cooking your evening meal on a campfire with nothing but the night for company, then enjoying your smoke infused morning coffee as the sun rises.

A micro-adventure is proof that you don’t need more; more miles, more gear, more expense. Simply to pay attention to what’s already available in your own backyard. You’re ‘somewhere nearby’ is someone else’s exotic location.

Preparing for a Micro-Adventure

Part of the joy of small boat camping is how little it takes to prepare. But preparation is key, and done well, it ensures safety and maximizes enjoyment.

Choosing Your Boat

Sea Kayaks, River Kayaks & Canoes: Lightweight and portable, perfect for lakes, rivers, and calm bays, and of course, coastal cruising.

Inflatables & Dinghies: Versatile, affordable, and easy to transport.

Small Sailing Dinghies: Harnessing the wind offers both sailing fun and a floating platform for camping.

Small, but perfect for Adventure

The boat you choose depends on your waterway and your comfort level. Some adventurers thrive on the effort put in to paddle a kayak or canoe, while others enjoy adjusting the mainsail and dancing with the wind.

Essential Gear Checklist

At its heart small boat camping doesn’t demand much, although a few essential items go a long way:

Dry bags for keeping gear safe.

A lightweight tent or tarp if camping ashore.

Sleeping bag and pad for warmth.

Portable stove and a compact cook kit.

Food and its containers

Headlamp, water filter/supply container, and basic first-aid kit.

Navigation essentials—map, compass, or GPS.

Planning the Route

Start small.

Aim for one and two night trips on local waters with undemanding waters. Identify various potential camp locations ahead of time, whether it’s a sandy beach, a designated campsite, or a quiet protected bay. Keep your initial distances manageable, read short, and plan to end each day with at least a few hours of daylight. Learning the process of loading and unloading your gear, where it lives, how often it gets used and in what order it is packed is a huge part of this new adventure based lifestyle.

Only Two Miles, but a World Away

To ensure the journey is enjoyable, and not exhausting, I’ve always recommended breaking your first days into two, three, or even four short segments with potential campsites at each segment. This provides the choice of pushing on if it feels good, or staying put and enjoying moment if you’re tired.

Stories from the Waterline

Small boat camping is less about theory and more about experience.

Picture this:

You push off from the dock late in the afternoon, the sun dipping toward the horizon. Your gear is neatly stowed, dry bags and equipment safely secured, and a small cooler at your feet. The paddle dips into the water with a satisfying rhythm, or the sail fills gently pushing you onward, and already you feel the grip of ordinary life loosening.

An hour later, you nose the bow into a quiet cove, or on to a lonely section of beach. You drop your anchor or pitch your tent, and by the time the sun fades from view you’re sitting cross-legged by your camp stove, steam rising from evening meal with a cold beer in hand. Fireflies dance through nearby branches. Over the water, a pelican glides by into the twilight, wing tips inches off the water.

Big boats Can’t Get Here

It may not be a grand expedition, but in that moment, you are experiencing the real world and feeling utterly alive.

The Joy of Solitude

Small boat camping steps you away from the noise of our modern world. Even if you’re just a few miles from town, the water acts as a natural boundary between you and the chaos of daily life.

In your solitude, you notice details that are often missed: the pattern of ripples in the current, the call and movements of the night creatures, the smell of salt or pine hanging the air. You realize that contentment doesn’t come from more possessions, it comes from fewer distractions.

Shared Adventures

Small boat camping need not be solitary. A group of friends, each in their own craft, each on their own journey, come together at the evenings campsite. Boats can be rafted together to become a platform for storytelling, laughter, and shared meals. The intimacy of small boats encourage closeness. You can be separated by cabins and decks, yet still gathered side by side, trading stories over simple meals and shared star light.

Lessons from the Water

Each trip, no matter how small, teaches something.

Cooking with limited gear demands resourcefulness, making do with what you packed. Waiting out weather or tides, and learning to adjust to conditions requires patience you have no choice in.

Dealing with the discomfort of mosquitoes and bugs, or a sudden rain squall, and realizing you can handle it all, develops resilience. The sheer privilege of floating on the water, of having a patch of earth to camp on, of having the freedom to do these things can be a profound lesson in gratitude.

These lessons will make their presence felt in life ashore as well. Small boat camping becomes more than mere recreation, it develops a mindful practice of living deliberately and simply.

The Environmental Connection

Spending time afloat reminds us that water is not just scenery, but a fragile, living environment and worth protecting. Camping from a boat you’re often in places less touched by human hands, places where your presence has an immediate impact and we must tread lightly.

If you bring it in with you, take it back out with you.

Try not to disturb the wildlife too much.

It Could Be Just Around The Corner

Respect the intertidal zones and fringing vegetation.

Small boats have a small footprint, but even small footprints matter, and enough of them can have a big impact. The more we respect our waterways, the longer they will endure for others to enjoy, and more importantly will allow the natural world to do its own thing.

Micro-Adventures as a Lifestyle

The increasing popularity of “van life” is showing that mobility and simplicity is being valued more and more, and small boat camping is its aquatic cousin. Both concepts reject the idea that you need great excess to feel alive. Both concepts thrive on minimalism, resourcefulness, and the joy of small spaces.

Micro-adventures by water allow you to turn weekends into stories, shorelines into personal discoveries, and a modest boat into a vessel for freedom. It’s not about where you go, it’s about how fully you experience it.

The Joy Is Waiting

You don’t need a big yacht capable of crossing oceans in luxury. You don’t even need months of preparation. Good situational awareness with an eye to the weather and basic navigation can carry you around the corner to an unexplored, by you, location. All you need is a small boat, a sense of curiosity, and the willingness to push off into the unknown—whether that unknown is just around that next bend in the river, across a quiet bay to a new island or a lonely piece of beach.

A Simple Journey Boat

The joy of small boat camping is not in the distance traveled but the immersion in the experience, the simplicity, and remembering that life’s greatest adventures can often come in the smallest of packages.

So, next time the weekend arrives and feel the water calling, grab your boat, pack some gear, and just go.

Your micro-adventure is waiting.

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U.S. ICW vs English Canals

The Thought That Drifted In With the Tide

Early mornings on the Gulf Intra Coastal Waterway, when there’s hardly any wind overnight the water lies perfectly flat, as if trying not to wake the day. The boat has no real movement until an early rise fisherman’s boat throws a wake or the wind pick up. I’ll sit with a mug of coffee cooling too quickly, watching the world shake off its night colors, hearing the water world come alive.

A Low Sun and Mirror Waters

Sitting, watching, letting my mind wander, a thought came to me:

How different the English canal system must feel — and yet how oddly similar these two worlds are.

Not because I’ve cruised those English waterways myself, but because I’ve studied them the way some people study far off places: obsessively, and with the vague suspicion that I could feel right at home wandering along their many miles of quiet dark waters.

This particular morning, the ICW and the English canals began a quiet dialogue in my mind.

What follows is the extended version of that internal conversation. My apologies if some assumptions are off the mark.

1. Scale — The U.S. Continent vs. The Clockwork English Network

The first thing anyone learns about the U.S. Coastal ICW is that it never seems to end. You can zoom out on the chart-plotter and see it tracing the coastline for what seems like forever. In fact, one end is marked at Brownsville, Texas, and it meanders all the way to Boston, Massachusetts, with only a couple of sections where you must travel open water. In its entirety it’s around 3000 miles (4800km) long.

This waterway is the kind of thing someone invents when they look at a continent and say, “Let’s carve a fat, aquatic ring road around it.”

A Very Long Journey

The English canals? The canals themselves are around 2700 (4300km) miles long and connect with many river systems totaling around 4700 (7500km) navigable miles.

Not Quite As Straight Forward

They were carved by people who looked at a country and said:

“Let’s make a tidy, very deliberate system of narrow liquid footpaths.”

The network seems so precise that you could navigate it with a pocket watch, a half-decent map, and the British willingness to not be in a rush. It’s a tangled web of narrow, tree lined, slow waters. Where stopping to brew up a cuppa seems mandatory.

One is scale you grapple with.

The other is scale you immerse in.

2. History — Ongoing vs. Curated

ICW history is still breathing heavily with industry.

Every day I see barges whose hulls look like they’ve survived more seasons than I have birthdays. Old fishing huts on stilts lean at angles only loyalty can maintain. Marinas evolve, channels shift, dredgers complain.

It’s a living timeline, active and unpredictable.

By contrast, English canal systems seems to be curated — almost museum-like in their preservation. They appear full of this reverent tone: locks engineered during the Industrial Revolution, towpaths once trodden by horses, tunnels dug by candlelight and long-suffering laborers who probably invented new swear words with every foot of progress.

Old World Charm

The ICW’s history seems to be growing.

The English canals’ history is being maintained.

Both hold weight.

Both tell stories.

Both shape the traveler.

3. Speed — Tide vs. Towpath Logic

The ICW is a place where speed is always present.

The work barges push along at 5 or 6 knots, the powered pleasure craft are doing up to 50/60 knots.

Not Comfortable

Many cruisers race from marina to marina, but there are plenty hanging off their anchor.

Speed is very common, and expected, but the wakes however, are an unbelievable pain in the arse.

But English canals?

Their speed limit is roughly that of a dog walker in good shoes. Many canal guides recommend traveling at “a gentle pace that does not outstrip a strolling human.” Dogs, apparently, serve as informal speedometers.

No Choice but Slow

The ICW teaches you to adapt.

The canals teach you to accept.

The distinction is subtle but important.

4. Landscape — Horizons vs. Held Spaces

On the ICW, you can spend days moving through spaces that are open enough to feel exposed like open sea, and others that are closed in and feel downright Jurassic.

A Lost World

England’s canals, in every photograph, account, and map I’ve studied, feel intentionally framed.

Willows.

Stone bridges.

Old

Towpaths with the kind of grass that looks like it smells wonderful after rain.

While the ICW seems to ask, “How far do you want to go today?”

The canal system asks, “How closely do you want to look?”

5. Navigation — Nature’s Mood vs. Human Blueprint

On the ICW, I have grounded on sand bars and been stranded on a beach from an absolutely horrific overnight storm. The depth sounder must be monitored constantly in tighter waterways as the sand bars are always moving, especially as I can, and do, often go beyond the channel markers.

In the English canal system, there doesn’t seem to be much guessing.

Not A Lot of Room

Depth is intentionally shallow.

Width is intentionally narrow.

Turns are deliberate, engineered by surveyors who apparently worked exclusively with one boat at a time mind.

American navigation is a conversation with nature.

English navigation is a conversation with geometry — and sometimes geometry wins.

6. Locks — Occasional Events vs. Daily Rituals

Entering some of the ICW narrow, bendy, sections require careful planning with regards to the huge barges, and trawler type cruisers.

You prepare.

You position.

You hope the others do the same.

They Take Corners Wide

Canal locks, according to every account I’ve read, are more a way of life. Hundreds of them. Some in long flights, rising up hills in waterborne staircases.

They Take Time

The ICW waterway says:

“You’re moving somewhere new.”

The English canal says:

“You’re moving in the same way everyone has for 250 years.”

There’s a beauty to both.

7. Culture — The Great Migration vs. The Floating Village

ICW culture is migratory.

You could meet a boat in North Carolina, see it again in Florida, and never cross paths again. It’s a waterway of temporary companions — a beautiful form of impermanence.

English canal culture appears much more tightly knit. The same boats. The same faces. The same towpaths.

A floating neighborhood rather than a moving caravan.

The ICW gives you wanderers.

The canals give you neighbors.

8. Nights — Cosmic vs. Enclosed Quiet

My ICW nights have been vast: stars reflected in quiet waters, wind whispering across the flatlands, the sense that the world has been stretched out like a piece of quiet cloth.

Quiet Evenings

Images of the English canals show an intimate calm: a stone bridge arching overhead, the glow of a cottage window on the towpath, the quiet crackle of a narrowboat wood heater.

A Different World

One quiet widens you.

The other folds around you.

Both could feel like home — even if I’ve yet to travel one.

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Midnight on the Water

A quiet midnight trip home turns into a reminder that the world still hums along perfectly well without our supervision.

Out there, alone on dark water, the line between comfort and unease gets beautifully thin.

Night Time Beach

The boat I was using that evening was a Wharram Tiki 21 propelled by an electric trolling motor. The motor’s not fast, and it’s certainly not impressive, but it’s reliable and — most importantly — quiet. The kind of quiet that feels intentional, as though we were trespassing on something delicate. I eased the throttle forward and the boat began to slide away from the dock without so much as a ripple, and I thought: this is what a cat must feels like wandering around at night.

Coming back from dinner with friends the other night, I ended up returning a little later than expected — close to midnight. I hadn’t planned on staying that long. Dinner had that pleasant, lazy rhythm that tends to stretch out when the stories are good, the food is better, and nobody’s checking their watch. We weren’t solving the world’s problems — as people tend to do after a couple of drinks — just talking about them. By the time I got back to our Tangaroa 35 catamaran ‘Curious’, the moon was well up and the water was pitch black.

A few minutes into the trip, I turned off the running lights. Not because I was trying to be rebellious, but because I wanted the dark to swallow me whole. The world immediately changed. The reflections disappeared, the shoreline melted away, and I was left floating in a kind of soft, liquid darkness.

Then, the sounds began.

Sneaky

The water started speaking in tiny languages — clicks, splashes, swirls. Every one of them sounded personal, like a conversation I wasn’t invited to but was close enough to overhear. A fish would strike at the surface with a quick smack, and another would follow with a smaller, less confident version. The whole scene was alive with commotion, both violent and peaceful at the same time.

It struck me that this sort of experience is becoming rare. Most people, even those who live near the water, never really hear it. The background hum of convenience equipment, boat engines are getting ridiculously huge and most waterfronts glow like carnival rides. But there I was, in the dark, traveling at the pace of a slow thought, listening to life happen around me.

The shoreline houses were dark and respectable, the kind that tuck themselves in early. A few porch lights burned like lazy fireflies, and every now and then a motion sensor would flick on — probably because some nocturnal creature had wandered into a suburban security zone. It’s a very “end-of-the-road” sort of neighborhood, the kind where people move to get away from things, and then realize there’s not much left to get away from.

The Dark World

In the glow of a few submerged dock lights, the water took on that eerie aquarium quality — lit from below, with shadows moving through layers of green. The small ones zipped through like nervous commuters, darting in and out of the light, while deeper down larger figures glided through with a kind of ancient patience. I caught sight of something that looked about two feet long, moving slow and deliberate, a shadow that didn’t care about being seen. There’s a hierarchy down there that we only ever glimpse, and I had the distinct impression that most of the sub aquatic residents were avoiding eye contact.

Out past the lights, the black water shimmered with sound. You couldn’t see the surface, but you could hear the stories it was telling — somebody feeding, somebody fleeing. Life and death happening right there beneath me, entirely unbothered by the human world’s sense of importance.

The trees along the shore played their own part in this dark theater. Their moon shadows stretched across the water, long and ghostly, swaying with the light breeze. Every so often, a branch would move in a way that felt intentional, and I’d catch myself staring too long, wondering what exactly was watching whom. Then a bird — usually a heron — would launch from its perch and glide low across the water. When it passed close, it would let out a loud squawk, and every time it startled me just enough to be grateful for my mortality.

There’s something about being alone in the dark that resets the ego. You stop being the protagonist of your own story and start feeling more like background noise. The water doesn’t care what kind of day you’ve had. The fish aren’t interested in your ambitions or concerns. Even the moon seems vaguely amused that you’re still awake.

And yet, it’s oddly comforting — this reminder that you’re small, temporary, and entirely replaceable. People pay good money for mindfulness retreats to learn that. All you really need is a quiet motor, a moonlit waterway, and the nerve to turn the lights off.

From The Reeds

At one point I cut the motor and just let the boat drift. There was no wind, no current worth mentioning — just the slow rotation of the world and the tiny movements of creatures below. The hull made faint creaking noises when I moved, and occasionally something bumped against it, a polite knock from below that said, “You’re in my way.” I thought of all the times I’d been too busy to notice how alive the night really is, and how most of us mistake silence for emptiness. It’s not empty at all. It’s just occupied by things that don’t need to announce themselves.

The smell of the water was stronger in the dark — that earthy mix of salt, mud, and something indefinably alive. Every sense gets sharper when you can’t rely on sight. The faint hum of insects, the whisper of reeds as creature pushes through, even the occasional splash of something heavy just out of view — all of it added up to a kind of music. Not the sort you hum along to, but the sort that fills you without asking permission.

It was around then that I started feeling the edge of that peculiar loneliness that’s equal parts comfort and unease. You know the one — when you’re the only human around for what feels like miles, and you can’t decide whether to feel lucky or mildly doomed. I was never in any real danger, but there’s an unmistakable awareness that comes when you realize nature could flick you off the map with less effort than you spend swatting a mosquito.

I began to think about how rare true darkness has become. Our modern world has been lit up so thoroughly that we’ve forgotten what it looks like without us. The stars overhead seemed almost relieved to have someone notice them. They were bright enough to cast a faint reflection on the water, little trembling echoes of light that looked like they were trying to climb back into the sky.

Somewhere in the distance, a mullet jumped, because that’s what mullet do — for reasons known only to themselves. A heron gave a single, exasperated squawk from the shoreline, probably protesting my presence. Every sound felt amplified and significant. It’s funny how, in daylight, we ignore half of what we hear, but at night, each sound feels like a clue to a mystery we’ll never solve.

Drifting there, I started thinking — as one does when given too much quiet — about how most of us spend our days surrounded by noise, filling every silence as if it were a gap in programming. Music, podcasts, the constant hum of engines and conversation. Out here, none of that applied. The night had its own rhythm, and it didn’t need accompaniment.

Night Anchorage

I remembered something a friend once said after his first night anchoring out alone: “You don’t sleep much the first few nights — not because you’re scared, but because you keep realizing how alive everything else is.” I understood that perfectly now. Out here, the water and the air trade secrets you can’t quite hear.

After a while, I turned the motor back on — just a whisper of thrust — and began to make my way home. The shoreline slipped by like a series of sketches: the faint outline of a dock, the dark silhouette of a mangrove, a forgotten buoy bobbing lazily. Every little thing looked more meaningful than it did in daylight, as if night were the original artist and daylight just the copyist.

As I drew closer to my boat, I passed through one of those underwater light zones again. The fish were still there, swirling in silent chaos. I slowed to a stop just to watch. It struck me how effortless their world seemed — dangerous, yes, but honest. Nobody was pretending to be something they weren’t. You eat or you’re eaten. You hide or you’re seen. It’s not a system built for comfort, but it’s fair in its own way.

A few minutes later, I reached my catamaran Curious. The deck boards creaked under my weight, the ropes strained a little, and the familiar smells of wood and ropes met me. The house lights in the distance looked warm, civilized, and slightly out of place — like they belonged to another world that hadn’t yet figured out how to enjoy the dark.

I climbed up on deck and just stood there for a while, listening while my kitty cat came up from the cabin, yawned and stretched beside me. The night went on exactly as it had before I arrived — unconcerned, unaltered. A breeze came through the trees, and somewhere out on the water, another fish jumped, probably startled by nothing at all.

It occurred to me that we spend most of our lives trying to make the world convenient, easier, safer — and in doing so, we lose touch with this small, wild truth: that being part of the world means being at its mercy now and then. It’s humbling in the best way.

Quiet Glow

As I finally dropped below, I looked back once more at the still water. The surface reflected a few stars, the faint glow from a distant porch light, and not much else. I thought of all the creatures going about their nightly business, utterly indifferent to my brief intrusion. And I felt something close to gratitude — not for the adventure, but for the reminder that the world doesn’t need me to keep turning.

I went to bed that night with the portholes open, listening to the faint slap of water against the hull, and thought: maybe that’s the secret to peace — not mastering the night, but learning to drift quietly through it.

Sometimes the best part of being alone on the water isn’t the peace — it’s the perspective. You see the quiet cruelty and quiet beauty living side by side, both part of the same system that keeps going whether we’re there to notice or not. It’s humbling, a little eerie, and exactly the sort of thing that makes life afloat feel so rich.

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