This week in Laporte, my life took a turn for the nautical, as I snagged an invite to crash a marina in Nassau. Embracing my inner Govinda Kai of non-attachment (the ‘lunaticmonk’), I packed by bag to squat on a sailboat that neither I own nor am owned by—a swanky vessel moored in the exotic Bahamas for a fortnight. Or other period of time.

The boat is decked out with more bells and whistles than my 2020 Jeep Cherokee Limited, which, let’s be honest, isn’t saying much. This floating palace boasts four staterooms, four heads, and had a fifth room that’s now a garage for oceanic boat needs. It’s kitted out with a dishwasher, laundry machine, water maker, ice maker, and the pièce de résistance: a cocktail station. In this marina, however, it’s basically a 60-foot rubber ducky.

Flanked by the sea-faring behemoths Maximum Ride and Fortis, this vessel is the underdog—the scrappy, not-so-clean kid of the dock. And considering my lack of ‘yachting’ finesse (wherein I’m more likely to down the champagne and attempt a British accent poorly), this boat is just my speed. Lest we forget, my seafaring adventures could easily turn into a series of awkward apologies. So, yo-ho-ho and a bottle of… whatever’s cheapest, I guess.

Adapting to marina life was… an experience. Nassau’s marina is stunning, its boats lavish, its staff on point. But venture into downtown Nassau, and you’re greeted with a cacophony reminiscent of its pirate heyday: relentless honking, a parade of daiquiri-dazed tourists, driving that flirts with vehicular manslaughter, and sidewalks that scoff at the very notion of accessibility.

Nassau is a contradiction, wearing sunglasses. It’s a facade (Atlantis isn’t real, folks, and Caesar definitely doesn’t live there), a hub for cruise ships the size of countries, and a gateway to serenity. It’s a storybook with pages missing, and for two weeks, I was a character.

The weather? Picture-perfect. My activities? Well, if you consider dockside people-watcher to be an occupation, then I was very busy. The marina life is like living in a low budget streaming com where not everyone’s plotline involves untying ropes and sailing into sunsets. And yes, I’m that person who watches. Not in a creepy way, mind you, but in a ‘I’m-bored-and-forgot-to-look-away’ kind of way. My only regret is not investing in a pair of those fancy opera glasses to make my snooping look more dignified.

My days were filled with the high-seas equivalent of Netflix and chill: riding out the tail-end of winter on a boat a stone’s throw from a Jimmy Buffet Margaritaville, because apparently, I’m living in a Jimmy Buffett song now.

I discovered that cruise ship docking is an art form—a slow, smoky, strangely mesmerizing ballet performed by giants. I learned that the tide waits for no one, rum cake is a slice of heaven, and the locals have the patience of saints when it comes to my Minnesotan accent. By the time I left, I had fully embraced island time, complete with wearing sweatshirts in the daytime and the slow stroll.

So, will I return to Nassau’s contradictory shores? In the immortal words of the marina dwellers, ‘Aye, aye, captain.’ Until then, it’s back to the landlocked life for me.