Ken moved aboard just before Labor Day weekend of 2005 and quickly turned the forward cabin into his personal space. It featured single berths along the port and starboard sides, with a hanging locker under the starboard bunk. Ken took the port berth and turned the starboard one into a storage area for electronic gear and DVDs in tubs and binders. A television appeared at the foot of his bunk, and new video–game consoles showed up. Books covered most flat surfaces. Had we ever gotten into a real storm, it would have looked like the science–fiction section of a bookstore had been through a blender.

FRANK MUMMERTAt the one-year anniversary of buying their boat, the author and his wife rechristened it Rockhopper.

Of course, Ken being a teenage boy, other, less–healthy things also made their way into the forward cabin, and periodic forays by his mother uncovered food–encrusted plates, fast–food bags and piles of laundry that were evolving into a life of their own. We tried to explain the concepts of clean shipboard living, but we were rewarded with the typical infuriating scenario: the teenager responding that things would change, despite it being obvious the requests hadn't penetrated his shell.

BOY BECOMES MAN

In his last year at the old school, Ken had taken an extended course in firefighting and emergency medical services, which resulted in him qualifying as a county firefighter/EMT. This experience changed his career goals from a nebulous want to "work with animals" to a directed desire to join the military as a medic or firefighter.

Meetings with various recruiters soon had him focused on the Army, despite parental urgings to consider the Navy. Memories of seasickness colored his decision, in my opinion. We tried to explain that the "big boats" don't have this problem, but he wasn't willing to take the chance.

As Ken worked his way through the recruiting system, his fame continued to precede him. His recruiters, in meeting with us on the boat to discuss his options, were fascinated by his lifestyle. One sergeant went so far as to express the opinion that Ken was the first person he knew who actually would gain space when he entered the service. Ken enlisted in the Army, with his mother's approval, in the late fall of his senior year, and he started meeting with the recruiters on a regular basis to prepare him for his transition to military life.

Now the two "old people" who lived with him weren't the only ones evaluating his grades and his attitude – people he actually respected did, too. The changes were obvious and pleasant. Clothes tended to put themselves away, plates found their way to the galley sink before they became science experiments, and dinner discussions began to center on world events rather than video games. We considered keeping him – just about the time we began to realize that we would be losing him.

FRANK MUMMERTKen in his military fatigues, ready for the next step in life.

Although we lived onboard for his entire senior year, Ken actually got underway with us only three times. The first was a surprise trip to Busch Gardens Williamsburg, the amusement park in southeastern Virginia. It's just off the north shore of the James River and next to a marina. Without telling him the destination, we shanghaied Ken one weekend in late October and forced him to go have fun with us for a day sail. As the day lengthened into late afternoon, he kept glancing nervously at the chartplotter and worrying that we might make him stay with us at anchor. Memories of Florida nights and mosquito flocks were rising when Suzanne pointed out the tops of the roller coasters in the fading sunlight. Somehow, for a kid who got seasick with little prompting, the idea of being flipped upside down and dropped six flights at high speed was a treat. And as we crawled into our berths sometime around midnight, he observed that there might possibly be some benefit to being able to move your home.

The second time was the James River Parade of Lights for Christmas. We'd decorated the boat with enough lights to put a serious drain on the 3,500–watt generator we'd bought for the occasion, and we'd invited several friends to ride along. Ken also had a friend aboard, and the two served as deckhands, handling lines and reporting on floating objects. Unfortunately, a problem with the hydraulic transmission delayed our departure with the parade, so we got underway after the rest of the boats were already a mile down river. We had to run at full power to catch up.

Ken and his buddy acted as the bow lookouts, standing in the freezing breeze and staring into the darkness; they decided that one would remain on the bow while the other ran back to the helm to report on possible problems. Ken watched that night, tears streaming down his face from the wind as he shouted and pointed. When we finally caught up with the parade, he stumbled back into the cockpit, frozen. He quickly gulped down two mugs of steaming hot chocolate and looked over at me. "Well, that was fun," he said. I started to snap at him for his attitude when I realized he meant it. Standing on the bow in the cold, making sure nothing bad happened to us, had been an opportunity to do something good for the family. I relaxed and realized I would miss his help in the future.

The last time we took the boat out, we did it just for the exercise. Ken helped with lines and fenders, but he spent most of his time sitting in the cockpit or on the bow with his mother, talking quietly. As I watched him from the helm, I knew that this was the end of this part of our life. The next time we went out with Ken, he'd be a passenger, along for the ride but no longer a permanent crewmember. It was normal: Kids grow up, move away and start their own lives, their own families.

Normal stinks. Sailors shouldn't have to be normal. Ken is in the Army now. He's been to Iraq and seen things that he doesn't tell his mother about. He and I have talked about some of them, but I suspect that there are things he hasn't told me. He takes care of other people's kids now and watches out in the night for them. He has visited a few times, but we haven't taken the big boat out for him. We own a little boat now and are waiting for his next trip home to see if he'll go out in it with us. We're trying to convince him that we are much better at sailing small boats now and he probably won't have to worry nearly as much about falling off, rolling over or getting marooned.

We haven't discussed seasickness yet.