Download The Cure for Anything Is Salt Water: How I Threw My Life by Mary South PDF

By Mary South

At 40, Mary South had a gorgeous domestic, reliable neighbors, and a profitable profession in publication publishing. yet she could not support feeling that she was once lacking anything intangible yet crucial. So she determined to search for it . . . at sea. Six months later she had give up her task, offered the home, and was once residing aboard a forty-foot, thirty-ton metal trawler she rechristened Bossanova. regardless of her overall loss of adventure, South set out on her maiden voyage—a fifteen-hundred-mile odyssey from Florida to Maine—with her one-man, two-dog workforce. yet what all started because the achievement of an idle want grew to become a crash path in navigating the advanced byways of the self.

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The Cure for Anything Is Salt Water: How I Threw My Life Overboard and Found Happiness at Sea

At 40, Mary South had a stunning domestic, sturdy buddies, and a profitable profession in ebook publishing. yet she could not support feeling that she used to be lacking whatever intangible yet crucial. So she determined to look for it . . . at sea. Six months later she had give up her task, bought the home, and used to be dwelling aboard a forty-foot, thirty-ton metal trawler she rechristened Bossanova.

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Extra resources for The Cure for Anything Is Salt Water: How I Threw My Life Overboard and Found Happiness at Sea

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Then we’d have to step in and convince the belligerent fellow not to clock John, and drag him from the bar while he shouted that it wasn’t his fault—it was just the way he talked. Whether we were in a bar, studying for an exam or complaining en masse about the lack of modern electronics in the lab, we increasingly acted as a family. Sure, we were a very weird, diverse and sometimes dysfunctional family, but the level of care we had for each other, despite our different backgrounds and lifestyles, was truly amazing.

A LOW, LOW POINT—NOT just in my year, but in my entire life—was my grandmother’s funeral in May. I took two days off from school, flew into New York City, and rode to upstate New York with my brother, who had a car and driver. He rolled business calls on his cell phone the whole way up—not because he wasn’t sad and anxious, too, but because everyone has different ways of disguising it. We all gathered on a hillside, in a tiny cemetery not far from The Farm. Amazingly, everyone was there, not that ours is a particularly large family.

She suggested I go directly to my local bank. I felt like a patient who has just been given a specialist’s phone number in sympathetic tones that implied “Poor thing. ” I suspected the diagnosis would be terminal. It was. Now I was worried. I was running out of options—I might have to let this deal go and start over. I knew, too, that the kind of boat I could buy for half the price of the Shady Lady was going to be much less than half the boat. With absolutely no confidence at all, I told the boat broker ~ 29 ~ M ARY S OUTH of my difficulties and asked if the owner would consider holding the loan for me, in return for 10 percent interest.

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