There's a tendency to regard land cruising and water cruising as two sides of the same coin, and in some ways that's a valid way of looking at it. We're all traveling around with no fixed address, sightseeing and visiting interesting places. "Fulltimers" share some of the same concerns whether they are in boats or motorhomes -- how to get mail, what to do about medical care, how to put up with your spouse 24/7. Quite a few people we've met have both a boat and an RV, spending part of the year in one and part in the other. But now that we have left Windom on jackstands in central Florida and moved into the Arf-Vee, the differences seem greater than the similarities.
I've already commented in an earlier log on how flimsy and low-quality the materials in the RV seem compared to the heavy wood, fiberglass, and stainless steel on a boat. It's hard to feel like I'm "home" when I'm surrounded by such junky stuff. And junky parts break down much more frequently than well-made, heavily-constructed (and expensive) boat parts. The chintzy water pump for the freshwater system is failing rapidly and noisily; we'll replace it with a marine pump from West Marine. It's more or less the same pump, after all. And if we ever go driving underwater, it won't rust!
We're living in a much smaller space, too. It's like a 30-foot boat, rather than the 40 feet we are used to. If we were really planning to live full-time for an indefinite period in an RV, we'd want something bigger; we chose this fairly small (24 ft) size because it is our in-town car as well as our home. We don't have a "dinghy" (other than bicycles); we wanted to get by with one rather than two vehicles. Presumably the larger and more expensive models have somewhat better construction, but as weight is always an issue (gas mileage, you know!) it's all woodgrain and vinyl instead of real solid stuff.
Speaking of gas mileage -- I'd rather not! Since we can't roll out the sails and cruise for free, we pay for every mile we cover. In the record heat we drove through in the southern US, we had the air conditioning running, and on a few particularly scorching days we have even run the generator and its air conditioner along with the dash air. The Chevy 454 engine gulps down fuel at an outrageous rate; our best mileage tank was a mere 8.2 mpg, and usually, I blush to say, it is somewhat worse.
Not only do we miss the sails, we miss our "third crewmember", Bob the autopilot. Sure, we've got cruise control, but that only frees us from keeping our feet on the pedals. We had gotten into the habit of settling down to read or do crossword puzzles as soon as we got out into open water; a quick check of the sails and the horizon every ten minutes sufficing to keep us out of trouble. Needless to say, that doesn't work too well on the interstate! And the truth is, driving is boring. Maybe we'll get books on tape, now that we have completed our first major RV project: insulating the driving area. When we first started driving the Arf-Vee, the engine and road noise drowned out everything but shouts. Worse yet, engine-warmed air constantly blasted into the little space by the drivers' feet, not such a tragedy in winter but untenable during this hot summer. So we bought thick black rubber insulation, and foamy silver insulation, and stacked them around the engine compartment and the floor, and covered the whole mess with new carpeting. What a difference!
Our first week on the road was hard to take. When we pulled in for the night, we were stuck in stupid RV parks because we wanted to plug in for air conditioning (it's way too hot otherwise, and the generator is so terribly noisy). So far we've paid between $19 (a state park, and the nicest place we have stayed) and $25. The cost of "camping" plus the extra cost of fuel would probably pay for a hotel room, I think in my most cynical hours. This "camping" thing has nothing to do with the camping we used to do. It seems to require pools and vending machines and minigolf and other distractions. Some campgrounds are only a thin step away from being trailer parks, with many of the "campsites" more or less permanently occupied by more or less permanent structures. Even the supposedly transient RV-ers spread out their awnings and chairs and tiki torches and flowerpots, carving out their little homey home-away-from-home.
I suppose these RV resort "campgrounds" are the roadway equivalent of marinas. We've never been much for marinas; most of the time aboard Windom we simply anchored out for free. On the other hand, it's a lot easier to get out and take a walk when there's solid ground next to the front door. And an RV "marina" is about half the price of a boat marina, at least in the US. "Anchoring out" in the Arf-Vee is hard to do here in the east, where public land is regulated and restricted and hard to find. In the west you can just pull off the road in any National Forest and camp for free, just like you can drop the hook in most coves along the coast. So far we've been able to anchor the Arf-Vee twice, on state wildlife preserve land in Pennsylvania and in a backroads construction site (on a weekend) in Massachusetts. Plus we've parked in several friends' driveways -- guess that's the equivalent of knowing someone with a private dock.
In between are moorings, which we saw all over the northeast coast and islands during the summer of 2000, but which we avoided as much as possible. Why pay when you get no services? You might as well anchor. In the RV world, the equivalent are the no-hookup campsites, like the Forest Service campground we spent four nights in in New Hampshire's White Mountains. (Unlike in western national forests, camping there is prohibited outside of campgrounds.) No power, no showers, pit toilets -- well, the whole point of having an RV is that we don't need any of that stuff, we've got it all ourselves. And although $14 a night is a little steep, we thought, we were in a really lovely place with access to lots of great trails for hiking and bicycling. It was fantastic being in the mountains, high and cool and refreshing.
Meandering up the coast is certainly faster at sixty mph rather than six. Although it was a little startling the first time I got up to go into the back for a drink while Britt was piloting us down the road, and looked out the window and saw the world whizzing by so incredibly quickly. I'm still not quite used to it. A distance of, say, 150 miles, seems like a huge distance to me -- why, that's an overnight! -- until I realize it's only three or so hours by road.
Moving so quickly, such long distances, among all the thick streams of local cars traveling to and from work and play, doesn't lead to the kind of cameraderie that cruisers enjoy. Motorhomes don't have names, and we don't talk on the radio to other travelers. We've been getting our social life in by visiting friends around the country. But we miss the opportunity to meet other people who are also traveling the same path. On the other hand, we're not really sure just what this path is! So we'll keep moseying along, land yachties out of water, and see where it leads.