A Day in the Life of a Liveaboard Writer

Home, sweet home

The tune to the Beatles song "Paperback Writer" keeps running through my head only I'm singing, "Liveaboard Writer, Liveaboard Writer" as I'm making coffee in the morning and checking my email. I hear the bells of the 7th Ave. drawbridge and through the hull, I hear the rumble of a big engine. I check out the companionway into what I consider my front yard. Like clockwork, it's the Peterson Fuel Barge making his way downriver.

Back to the computer and the scene I'm writing.

"She stood up and pulled herself up the companionway ladder until she could see through the dodger's windows to the sea ahead. Scanning the horizon as the boat crested a wave, she thought, no way a cruise ship could be that close and still not visible. Nothing. She climbed down the companion ladder and slid back into the navigator's seat.

Riley stared at the radar. The target was only about eight miles off now and closing at a speed close to fifteen knots. In this crazy sea. And they were definitely on a collision course"

Coffee is done. Time to sip a cup in the cockpit and watch the scenery.

Tug Hero very much like Seychelle's tug Gorda

Liveaboard writer. Back to the computer.

"She sat down on the cockpit seat on the low side of companionway and leaned her head back against the canvas dodger. Closing her eyes for just a minute felt so good. She was tired and the night was still so young. Riley realized she hadn't eaten a regular meal since that sumptuous feast on Niko's yacht just over twenty-four hours ago. Surviving off granola bars, trail mix and coffee was taking a toll. Her stomach was protesting with an acid burn. To make matters worse, this was her second night at sea, and she'd had only four hours sleep in the morning to make up for the lost hours. The body was like a machine that one had to keep well-maintained, and she knew she'd been treating hers badly. Too little sleep, too little decent food."

Speaking of food, I haven't had breakfast and it's nearly lunchtime. But there's the sound of another boat off my stern.

Sportsfish and crab boat

I see my friend the crab fisherman and I wave. The last commercial fisherman on Fort Lauderdale's New River. And so it continues, with me typing and checking the passing traffic every time I hear the bridge bells ring.

Fourth Avenue bridge

Until it's time to write dialogue and then I stand and walk around the cabin making the different voices of my characters, flailing my arms, acting out death scenes. And my audience appreciates every minute.