Our Morning Commute

A person's daily commute has a bigger impact on their overall happiness than more expected factors, like how much sleep you get at night, or how much money you make. The longer, the more congested your commute, the more unhappy you are overall.

The average Chicago-area commute to work is 33.2 minutes. Thousands of people each day climbing into their cars with coffee, headsets, I-Pods, books on tape, and, after a costly swing by the gas station, sitting in traffic, stop and go, stop and go, anticipating the long day ahead.

At 45 minutes, our morning commute from Mazurka is a bit longer than most Chicagoans.

On a cold, autumnal morning, the sky filled with brilliant sun, a line of cumulous clouds laces the eastern horizon of Lake Michigan. The southwest wind clanks like through aluminum cans as it turns the wind generators atop fifty sailboats. We emerge on deck wearing work clothes and soft shell jackets. At the stern, Mark climbs down to the swim deck and pulls the dinghy from its spot floating just six feet behind Mazurka. The dinghy is eight feet long, its tags from New York, given to us in exchange for Alaskan halibut.

It has sunk at least once, in a storm; Mark came out in the morning to find it missing, then hauled it up on a line, and later rowed with one oar, till he spotted the other oar floating a hundred yards toward the south end of the harbor, along with a cushion. This was the last time he left the oars in the dinghy overnight.

The first time I climbed into the dinghy, Mark warned me that if it sinks, it's going straight to the bottom. He's bought two inflatable life jackets to save us - thin, compressible, able to fit into a briefcase, and also able to inflate in that briefcase, which Mark learned when he accidentally pulled the cord at work.

The dinghy is a kind boat, a devoted boat, but untrustworthy, in the same way you can't blame your clumsy friend for missing the free throw. It's a wonder your friend can dribble down the court at all.

It is this boat - so small its name has been forgotten (though other dinghies earn such respect as "Bare Necessities" and "Half and Half") - into which Mark places his briefcase each morning before climbing in. I hand him the oars, he tosses me the rope, I give over my backpack. Oars in place, bags secured in the bow, I climb in and push off. I sit in the stern, facing Mark, legs together and between his knees. We sit so close I can smell his toothpaste and cologne.

The first leg of our commute is a half mile, straight shot through rows "Hotel" and "India." Mark rows, his back to shore, while I point him in a direction if he gets off course. Since the wind is from the southwest, the water is relatively calm; from the northeast and we'd be waiting on Mazurka for the tender. We glide past the Julianna, a beautiful blue sailboat from Indiana, the Sea Haven, the Top Gun. The air is infused with color more than sound - the intensifying pink on the buildings of glass, the lightening blue of water. No one is out on the lake this morning, but as we come closer to shore, there are runners, and dog walkers, and the constant hum of morning traffic on Lake Shore Drive.

At the shore, Mark steadies the boat while I climb the ladder, unload the bags and the outdoor carpet (always rolled in the stern of the dinghy), which I place on the cement side of the wall to haul the dinghy over. We lock up the oars inside, chain the boat to the metal loop, and flip the boat over. We are downtown in a world class city.

The first leg of our commute complete, we walk 15 minutes down the lakefront to the motorcycle, and another 15 minute drive to the office.

People give all kinds of reasons for living on a boat: adventure, independence, the lifelong romantic dream. But really, it's about making the ordinary extraordinary. You still wash dishes every night, but you're scrubbing away while looking out over the white ribbon of a moonlit lake. You still pay bills, but you pay them from atop the fly bridge. You still have to commute to work, but instead of expressways and road rage, there is the sloshing of lakewater, the soaring of birds and wind, and the satisfaction of having rowed yourself to shore.