Plugging off to the BVIs is just putting a Band Aid on a much bigger wound, though. Soon you’re back, obsessing about your dead batteries in the shed and hairline cracks in the fiberglass. You start to doubt yourself. You start thinking that maybe you don’t even really like rum. You start to think that your family doesn’t like you as much when you’re not on your boat. You certainly like them a whole lot better when they’re on the boat. This becomes a contentious point of conversation.
If you have mild to moderate withdrawal symptoms, your doctor may prefer to treat you in an outpatient setting, where you’ll have the support of your family and friends (as long as you didn’t say your spouse was hotter on the boat). It’s a safe, effective way to rejoin the world. You’ll start participating in more “family time.” You might end up trying to ski. You’ll chop a lot of wood. You’ll make your way through a significant portion of the Bernard Cornwall canon (no one has ever read “Master and Commander” during the summer).
However, if your symptoms are more serious, and if you don’t have a reliable social network, you may require inpatient treatment. That is, if your friends are just as crazy as you are, your spouse may start banning you from hanging out with Jay. The kayak will go into storage in a secure location that only your spouse knows about. Your kids will ask you questions like, “Are you always going to be sad?”
If this is your life, there are certain things you can do to make it better. Stop associating with Jay. Hearing about how he’s out on the water in February, having the time of his life, will only work to dig you deeper into your withdrawal. Remember that he’s not having the time of his life. He’s stuck in a serious addiction, and he doesn’t even know it. It won’t work to tell him about it, though. It’s his own journey, and he has to figure it out in his own time.
And remember to recite your daily aphorisms. “No winter lasts forever,” “I’ll be sitting in the pilot house in no time,” “I am more than just my boat,” and “One day closer to April 16.”
And pick up your issue of PropTalk, where you’ll find dozens of pages written by like-minded addicts. Hi, my name’s Duffy, and I’m a boat-a-holic.
by Duffy Perkins
Monday, February 15, 2016 - 12:00
Readers outside the Chesapeake Bay area, please know that the temperature was in the 70s over Christmas. Seventy degrees, that is. Outside. No heat lamps necessary, a light jacket and a baseball cap mandatory.
Ten days later, it was 19 degrees. Nineteen miserable, hurtful degrees. I got the shakes. I was anxious. I couldn’t sleep. I had a terrible headache. Finally, I had to call the doctor.
Turns out I had something called Boating Withdrawal. My doctor explained that it’s a very common problem, especially in our area, that affects thousands of boaters who wake up one morning and realize they can’t go out on the water. They’re cut off; the party is over.
It gets bad, though. Between four and 12 days after you stop boating, some patients may experience visual, auditory, or tactile hallucinations; a condition called boating hallucinosis. While most patients are aware that the unusual sensations aren’t real, many truly believe they can feel the boat rocking beneath their chair; they can just taste the cold beer on their lips, and feel the warm sunshine on their faces.
These are the extreme cases. You think, “Maybe I can just take my kayak out one more time…” or “Jay says he just wants to check on the boat, not actually take it out.” You might start thinking that you need a charter vacation in the Caribbean “just to get through.”
Plugging off to the BVIs is just putting a Band Aid on a much bigger wound, though. Soon you’re back, obsessing about your dead batteries in the shed and hairline cracks in the fiberglass. You start to doubt yourself. You start thinking that maybe you don’t even really like rum. You start to think that your family doesn’t like you as much when you’re not on your boat. You certainly like them a whole lot better when they’re on the boat. This becomes a contentious point of conversation.
If you have mild to moderate withdrawal symptoms, your doctor may prefer to treat you in an outpatient setting, where you’ll have the support of your family and friends (as long as you didn’t say your spouse was hotter on the boat). It’s a safe, effective way to rejoin the world. You’ll start participating in more “family time.” You might end up trying to ski. You’ll chop a lot of wood. You’ll make your way through a significant portion of the Bernard Cornwall canon (no one has ever read “Master and Commander” during the summer).
However, if your symptoms are more serious, and if you don’t have a reliable social network, you may require inpatient treatment. That is, if your friends are just as crazy as you are, your spouse may start banning you from hanging out with Jay. The kayak will go into storage in a secure location that only your spouse knows about. Your kids will ask you questions like, “Are you always going to be sad?”
If this is your life, there are certain things you can do to make it better. Stop associating with Jay. Hearing about how he’s out on the water in February, having the time of his life, will only work to dig you deeper into your withdrawal. Remember that he’s not having the time of his life. He’s stuck in a serious addiction, and he doesn’t even know it. It won’t work to tell him about it, though. It’s his own journey, and he has to figure it out in his own time.
And remember to recite your daily aphorisms. “No winter lasts forever,” “I’ll be sitting in the pilot house in no time,” “I am more than just my boat,” and “One day closer to April 16.”
And pick up your issue of PropTalk, where you’ll find dozens of pages written by like-minded addicts. Hi, my name’s Duffy, and I’m a boat-a-holic.
by Duffy Perkins
Plugging off to the BVIs is just putting a Band Aid on a much bigger wound, though. Soon you’re back, obsessing about your dead batteries in the shed and hairline cracks in the fiberglass. You start to doubt yourself. You start thinking that maybe you don’t even really like rum. You start to think that your family doesn’t like you as much when you’re not on your boat. You certainly like them a whole lot better when they’re on the boat. This becomes a contentious point of conversation.
If you have mild to moderate withdrawal symptoms, your doctor may prefer to treat you in an outpatient setting, where you’ll have the support of your family and friends (as long as you didn’t say your spouse was hotter on the boat). It’s a safe, effective way to rejoin the world. You’ll start participating in more “family time.” You might end up trying to ski. You’ll chop a lot of wood. You’ll make your way through a significant portion of the Bernard Cornwall canon (no one has ever read “Master and Commander” during the summer).
However, if your symptoms are more serious, and if you don’t have a reliable social network, you may require inpatient treatment. That is, if your friends are just as crazy as you are, your spouse may start banning you from hanging out with Jay. The kayak will go into storage in a secure location that only your spouse knows about. Your kids will ask you questions like, “Are you always going to be sad?”
If this is your life, there are certain things you can do to make it better. Stop associating with Jay. Hearing about how he’s out on the water in February, having the time of his life, will only work to dig you deeper into your withdrawal. Remember that he’s not having the time of his life. He’s stuck in a serious addiction, and he doesn’t even know it. It won’t work to tell him about it, though. It’s his own journey, and he has to figure it out in his own time.
And remember to recite your daily aphorisms. “No winter lasts forever,” “I’ll be sitting in the pilot house in no time,” “I am more than just my boat,” and “One day closer to April 16.”
And pick up your issue of PropTalk, where you’ll find dozens of pages written by like-minded addicts. Hi, my name’s Duffy, and I’m a boat-a-holic.
by Duffy Perkins