As the rhythm of the sea gets left behind, farther a day at a time, and though my feet touch the ground, I am not here nor there.

I should be writing this blog about our last 2 weeks of sail, since our last port of call , Bornholm.
About the cold, the crazy winds we battled, the waves in-golfing the ship. The sleepless nights and the strength of our crew.
I could write of that moment we cast off the last mooring line and the uplifting feeling when the wind catch the sail and without looking up you know you’re flying again, with nothing to hold you until the next quay.
I can tell endless stories of the unconditional kindness of people we met, and how amazing it is to arrive from the storm and hear a stranger say -” i’m so happy you are here, we’ve been waiting , come in…”.
How we shared the night steering in the Kattagat, with frozen fingers and clicked in to the mizzen sheet, feeding each other chocolate and counting the minutes to tea time, to wake up time, to pillow time. Chase the darkness away with our voices.
How in the toilet which is the only place it wasn’t raining you would get a back flash and be, Well , wet.
How just when we made it 0.5 NM from IJmuiden and already breathed in relief, we had to stay another night at anchor and spend our last power raising cables from the bottom of the sea with the anchor (grinding skills improving….)
How we shared with each other our last dry clothes, our last emergency candy, rolling paper, tampons, our crazy dreams, our hopes, our fears, our bunks, our love.
I can tell you how good it feels to trust each other to sail us safe through a gale while we sleep in our fox’ol bunks to the loud sounds of pounding waves.
I Can tell about hoisting the jib and reefing the main in 7 Bft , pumping bilges in 25 degrees heel, the backstay in the shrouds, the bucket over board, the oil rigs jungle, the tiny birds, our new best friend Handy Billy, and garlic.

But all this, my friends, is another life time, just a few days away, and from the relative safety of this NDSM terrace, over looking the mooring Nordlys which carried me so far, “The rhythm of the Sea” becomes a cliche’.

Fill up my cup and i’ll tell you a story.


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