Me Man, Me Make Fire
Why I Sometimes Take the Hard Way
It was the first freezing night of the season. -1 degrees. I woke in the dark with Woody tucked under the duvet, his own way of saying, “Mate, it’s bloody freezing in here.” I quite like the cold, truth be told. I can bear it better than heat. But still, it was biting as I slipped out of bed for a morning pee. As I stood there with the cold air biting my skin, I questioned some of my life choices. By the time I got back, Woody was up and looking at me expectantly. Time for breakfast.
I wrapped my dressing gown around me, slid into my slippers, and popped the kettle on. That’s when I stood at the thermostat, hand hovering. A twirl of the dial and the central heating would kick in, and it’d be warm in no time. But something stopped me. Maybe it was the promise of winter, or the way the dimly lit boat seemed to ask for something more intentional.
So I reached for the kindling instead.
We’d been in that awkward shoulder season. Fires had been more about atmosphere than actual warmth. But this was different. The day was going to stay cold. A fire wouldn’t just warm the air, it would warm the day. And there’s something I love about building a fire, the primitive pleasure of it. Watching it come to life. Even Woody gets involved, sitting behind me like a small flame-worshipping monk.
It’s hardly Herculean, I know. Me man. Me make fire. But still, it’s more effort than pressing a button.
First, I cleaned out the ash pan. Then I stacked kindling over an eco firelighter, balanced a small log on top, and struck a match. There’s a moment I love, right as the flame catches, and the orange glow takes hold. I opened the vents, sat back with Woody, and we watched. Cracks, pops, warmth. Ten minutes later, a bigger log. Vents closed. Job done.
That morning, I sat on the sofa with a cuppa and wrote a journal entry. Fire on, dog beside me, peace in the room. It felt earned.
Boat life is full of these choices. It’s more work. No denying it. But it makes life richer. Interesting. There’s a beauty in effort. Making your own warmth. Grinding your own coffee. Reading a book instead of zoning out to telly. Spending four hours cooking beef short ribs rather than sticking a ready meal into the oven. Servicing my own engine instead of paying someone else, now that felt good. Took time, but I’d do it again.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not on a crusade against convenience. Some things aren’t worth the extra time. The trick, I think, is knowing which ones are. Knowing which choices give something back. A deeper pleasure. A sense of agency. The quiet pride of doing something properly.
Because here’s the thing: for most of my adult life, I’ve avoided discomfort. I chased ease, escape, hedonism. It worked, until it didn’t. That kind of life gets dull. Shallow.
But choosing effort? Taking control? Committing to something fully, even something small, like lighting a fire well? That’s living. That’s where flow begins. The same flow I get from creative work, I find in daily tasks that demand presence. When you do them right, they pay you back. Not just in warmth or taste or utility, but in how you feel afterwards.
Wouldn’t you rather look back on your day and know you did it the right way?
Of course, some days I do just press the button. Some mornings, the fire doesn’t get lit. And that’s okay. It’s not about making rules. It’s about noticing which path brings you home to yourself.
Not everything has to be harder. But some things are better when they are.
And that morning, in the cold glow of the boat, the fire was better. Way better.