Sailing Into My Watercolor Story ……

There are some loves in life that seem as though they were stitched together long before we ever knew they belonged in the same story.

For me, those loves are watercolor and the sea.

Now, that might sound a little strange considering I grew up in the piney woods of East Texas, where the tallest things on the horizon were pine trees instead of sailboat masts, and where lakes were mostly for fishing, swimming, and searching for arrowheads after the water had gone down. Oceans belonged in books, movies, and National Geographic magazines. Sailboats were something elegant people in striped sweaters sailed somewhere far, far away.

And yet, somehow...I think the sea had been quietly calling my name all along.

Ironically, the very first time I ever picked up a watercolor brush, I was on a boat.

There couldn't have been a more fitting beginning.

My husband, Mike, is happiest when he has one hand on a sailboat wheel and the other pointing toward the horizon. He loves everything about boats. He has his captain's license, can tie knots that look like impossible magic tricks, and somehow always knows which way the wind wants to blow.

I...well...I'm happiest sitting in a shaded corner with a sketchbook balanced on my knees, a cup of water beside me, and little puddles of paint dancing across the page.

It's a wonderful arrangement.

He sails.

I paint.

Together, we chase beautiful places and sunsets.

Now, Mike is also a scuba diver.

I should probably confess that I am not.

Actually...I spectacularly failed scuba class.

There are many things I'm willing to try once. Breathing underwater apparently wasn't one of them. The equipment, the regulations, remembering which button did what—I realized rather quickly that perhaps God had not intended me to explore the ocean floor wearing what felt like a small appliance strapped to my back.

But every good story deserves a plot twist.

Instead, I discovered my beloved little "zoomie."

Officially, it's an underwater scooter. I call it pure happiness with handlebars.

It's battery-powered and gently pulls me through crystal-clear water while I float along wearing a snorkel mask. I can glide ten feet below the surface with almost no effort at all, weaving past coral gardens, watching schools of fish scatter like handfuls of glitter, waving at curious sea turtles, and hoping—always hoping—to spot a graceful sea turtle or maybe even a dolphin passing nearby.

Of course, my mask is magnified.

At this age, I appreciate any piece of equipment willing to improve God's already beautiful handiwork.

Sometimes I'll simply stop moving and float there quietly, watching the sunlight pour through the water like liquid stained glass.

It feels almost like visiting another world.

Those moments remind me how many childhood dreams quietly wait for us until we're finally old enough—or brave enough—to live them.

Perhaps that's why I think so often about Camp Longhorn.

When I was in middle school, my Uncle Phil gave me one of the greatest gifts of my childhood.

He sent me to Camp Longhorn for three weeks.

Three whole weeks.

To a girl who had barely spent a night away from home, it felt as though I had been asked to sail across the Atlantic.

I didn't know a single soul.

My birthday would happen while I was away.

I cried before I left.

I worried.

I wondered if I'd make friends.

I wondered if anyone would even notice it was my birthday.

I had absolutely no idea that those three weeks would quietly become one of the defining chapters of my life.

Camp Longhorn was magical.

Not because it was perfect—but because it introduced me to parts of myself I didn't know existed.

Every day was packed with adventure.

Archery.

The Snake Pit.

The Blob.

Dancing.

Trampoline.

Swimming.

Crafts.

And sailing.

Oh...the sailing.

There was something almost enchanted about climbing into that little Sunfish sailboat with a counselor and a few other girls as the evening light settled over the lake.

The wind would fill the sail.

The boat would lean ever so slightly.

The water would sparkle like someone had scattered diamonds across it.

Then the sun would begin slipping behind the hills.

Growing up in East Texas, sunsets weren't something we watched very often. Trees had a way of keeping the horizon to themselves. I'd never really experienced the sky turning pink and lavender and gold while floating peacefully across open water.

That little sailboat gave me my first taste of freedom.

Real freedom.

The kind that whispers instead of shouts.

The kind that tells a young girl the world is much larger than she ever imagined.

I didn't know it then, but a tiny spark had been lit inside my heart.

A love for the water.

A love for sailing.

A longing for wide-open horizons.

Life has a funny way of circling back around.

More than forty years later, I met Mike.

Of all the people in the world, God somehow paired this East Texas girl with a New England man who loved the sea as much as I loved stories.

One of our very first dates—two fifty-somethings taking a chance on love—was on his boat.

Talk about romantic.

The breeze.

The water.

The conversation.

The possibility that perhaps life still had wonderful surprises waiting after all those years.

Little did I know what adventures were still ahead.

Who could have imagined that I'd someday sail through the Caribbean on a beautiful catamaran?

Or drift along the coastlines of France?

Or watch Italy appear from the deck of a sailboat?

Or spend entire afternoons painting while anchored in turquoise water that didn't even look real?

Our very first catamaran adventure absolutely spoiled me.

We rented a fifty-five-foot catamaran and invited as many of our seven adult children—and their spouses—as could join us.

We even had a captain.

And a chef.

Can we all just agree that this was not exactly roughing it?

Every morning someone else made breakfast.

Someone else steered the boat.

Someone else planned dinner.

My biggest responsibility was deciding whether I should paint before lunch or after lunch.

I worked very hard at that decision.

Our next sailing trip couldn't have been more different.

We joined a wonderful couple from a small town near us who loved sailing just as much as Mike did.

We barely knew them when the trip began.

By the end of the week, it felt like we'd known them forever.

There was no private chef.

No luxurious service.

Just good people, salty air, shared meals, laughter echoing across the deck, and the simple rhythm of life at sea.

And honestly?

It was every bit as magical.

Maybe even more so.

Because I've learned that the very best adventures are rarely about luxury.

They're about the people beside you.

They're about conversations that last until midnight under a blanket of stars.

They're about dolphins appearing unexpectedly off the bow.

They're about laughing until your stomach hurts because someone burned dinner on a rocking boat.

They're about slowing down long enough to notice how beautiful the world really is.

While Mike watches the wind...

I watch the colors.

The shifting blues.

The sea glass greens.

The soft lavender shadows.

The warm peach skies.

Every harbor becomes another page in my sketchbook.

Every sailboat becomes another painting waiting to happen.

Every trip fills my heart a little fuller.

Recently, I came across one of Claire Fletcher's breathtaking sailboat paintings.

Her work has that magical quality that makes you immediately want to pick up a paintbrush before the feeling disappears.

I couldn't resist.

I painted my own version.

Actually...

I painted two.

Now I'm completely torn.

One feels softer.

One feels brighter.

One whispers.

The other sings.

I'd genuinely love to know which one speaks to you.

So tell me...

If these two little boats were waiting at the dock, which one would you climb aboard?

I can't wait to hear what you think.