“How long have you been living here?” A familiar Turkish shopkeeper asks one day as we swing by his shop.

I reply sheepishly with an answer that sounds implausible, “Five years,” even if the math doesn’t lie. 

Of course there are a number of caveats and qualifications accompanying this answer: We spent an entire summer backpacking through the Balkan countries, haphazardly following a spattering of psychedelic music festivals. There was a winter in Alaska when my entire family reunited under the house we grew up in for the first time in ten years, and an autumn in Oregon, all of us gathered once more for a sister’s wedding. There were other winters spent away, Clare and I separated, both in our respective home countries earning money for another year of collective travel. And who can forget the 18-months we spent locked-down in Australia during the first tumultuous year of covid-19.

Even though our 35-foot floating bottle has served as our primary residence in Kaş since late 2018, Clare and I were physically in Turkiye for about half that time. I belabor this point only to assuage my guilt at having such poor command of the Turkish language despite these years of residency. Then again, some friends have called Turkiye home for far longer and can still barely answer “How are you?” It was once unfathomable to me how various Mexican or Cuban coworkers I’ve had over many years of construction work could live in the US for a decade or more and barely speak English…but this is no longer a conundrum to me. 

Language skills aside, Turkiye is the longest home base Clare and I have ever shared, the first time we’ve had an address, and the only place we’ve rented an apartment together. So despite the fact that we’ve said goodbye to many places countless times before, this farewell feels extra spicy. 

We often lament that the most difficult aspect of the cruising lifestyle is the lack of enduring friendships. The missed warmth of familiarity. A sense of belonging. The stolid dependency of routine. The soothing comfort of innocuous habits unfolding effortlessly in a well-trod environment. To a greater or lesser extent we formed such familiarity with Turkish culture in general, and with our hometown of Kas in particular, so naturally we deeply treasure the memories and relationships we developed over the past five years. 

So then, why leave? If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it. Is the grass really any greener? There is no logical explanation for perpetual movement, but for those who answer the call it makes irrefutable sense. When you’ve spent as much time living out of a backpack, truck-bed, or cabin-bunk as we have, it feels heretical to dismiss the pull of the great unknown. Rounding the next bend, chasing the horizon, seeing it for yourself, seeking the novel—these are the mantras, misplaced or not, that fuel our fires.

Not all who wander are are lost, yet this can be difficult to remember when surrounded by a culture that encourages settling down, finding your place, and leaving a legacy. Sometimes Clare and I look at one another in bewilderment, or argue in frustration, or wallow in apathy—Why are we doing this? Why keep going? Why not settle?  

During a recent hike along a neglected Turkish gravel road, we come to a bend in the promontory that gives us an unimpeded view of the Datca Gulf, it’s scalloped bays, towering ranges, and sprawling forests glowing in the midday sun, backlit by a cobalt sky. The sea, a textured canvas stretched to the horizon is pulsing like a cosmic heartbeat. The sun, it’s teeth not yet sharpened by summer’s fury, feels like melted butter on our skin, permitting a soft lingering indulgence. The shrills of birdsong, the chatter of mingling tree branches, and the click of feeding insects in grass awash with wildflowers chorus throughout an airspace pregnant with the rich fecundity of last night’s rain. We bask in the great hum of life uncoiling from its seed, stretching its curious tentacles in all directions, if for no other reason then because it can.

“I live for vistas…for views like these.” Clare says softly, not wanting to disturb the serenity. You and I both babe, you and I both. That’s why we found each other, and that’s why we continue to bob on a tiny floating bottle, that’s why we pull anchor, leave our cozy bay, and spread our sails for a horizon that’s always just there but never quite arrives. That’s why we force ourselves to say goodbye, and to keep moving, even if we don’t have a destination…after all, isn’t it about the journey?

With a paradoxically heavy and buoyant heart then, we say goodbye to Kaş, to our beloved cats, to our makeshift odd jobs, to our fabulous friends, and to all of Turkiye. Fare thee well, until we meet again.