Charting the Unknown by Kim Petersen Page B

carpeted convention center, we found different types of boats: powerboats, sailboats, and catamarans, in varying lengths. There wasn't a speck of dirt anywhere. There were no dents or scrapes from botched docking attempts; all the hulls were smooth and shiny. The numerous systems were in prime working order as displayed by the suit-and-tie salesman who handed me a sheet listing about $125,000 worth of extras. The engine rooms smelled strangely of lavender, and since there wasn't a drop of slime or oil to be seen, I could actually see chrome and stainless. The polished galley tables were set with fine bone china, crystal wine goblets, and decoratively folded napkins. The whole thing smacked of the Love Boat , and I expected Captain Stubing to walk out of a pilothouse at any moment and ask me to join him at the captain's table for dinner.
    For the kids, stepping on board a sixty-eight-foot power monohull was similar to shoving their way through fur coats in a wardrobe and finding themselves in a sort of Narnian parallel universe. They emitted small shrieks of pleasure upon finding life lived out in miniature: dishwasher, sink, bathroom, barbeque, washer and dryer, and tiny odd-shaped latching cupboards. The winding, circular stairways reminded them of secret passageways. These led to hideaway staterooms with low ceilings and enchanting portholes.
    When Lauren, Stefan and I found ourselves together at the bow, I worked my magic. “Imagine this boat in the water, bobbing up and down, taking us to a faraway, deserted island.”
    â€œWouldn't that be amazing?” Lauren whispered breathless.
    I felt kind of bad about this. Like Mike and I were manipulating our kid's impressions which, if I am honest, is so much a part of what it means to be a parent. I made their favorite dinner a few nights later: angel hair pasta with chicken, sundried tomatoes, and Alfredo sauce. It had been a busy day and it was the first night all week that we had been able to sit down together.
    Mike introduced the idea of living on a boat casually, as if it was no big deal. He said, something like, “Can you believe we got snow so early in the year, and how about those MapleLeafs, eh? They lost again last night… and oh hey by the way Hon, what would you think about living on a boat for a year?”
    Without hesitation, I said in my best June Cleaver voice, “Well that is just a terrific idea! I think it would be kind of fun, dear.”
    â€œYou know,” he continued, wiping his mouth with a napkin, “we could travel to some pretty interesting places. We could go to the Bahamas. There is great fishing there I hear. We could get our scuba diving certificates. Or maybe learn to spear fish. Swim and snorkel. What would you think of that?”
    â€œI think it is a fabulous idea,” I said, but I was a little nervous about that spear fishing.
    There was a bit of a lull.
    â€œAre you serious?” Stefan finally said looking back and forth between Mike and me. “Because you guys shouldn't joke around about something like that.”
    Lauren kept silently shoveling noodles into her mouth, but I knew the electrical synapses going off in her brain would be similar to a fireworks display on July fourth.
    â€œWe are serious,” I said quietly.
    Lauren opened her mouth to say something, but before she could, Stefan interrupted with, “So what you are telling me is that we could move onto a boat, for a whole year, and I could learn to snorkel and spear fish in the Bahamas, AND get out of school? You guys are the best, man, the best,” he said shaking his head back and forth.
    I countered with, “You won't get out of school. You would have to do school at home. Dad and I have looked into several good correspondence curriculums and found one we think would be great. This online correspondence high school would send you all of your supplies and you could take classes over the Internet. You could study at your