Life gets bumpy when it shifts into the next gear. That’s what they say. And rarely has it felt so literal as it does here.
Just an hour earlier, we were practically standing still. Current from the front, from the side, probably even secretly from below somewhere—and in the end, we’re moving at 2.3 knots over ground. That’s not speed; that’s a philosophical stance. In moments like these, the Strait of Gibraltar doesn’t ask if you want to get through. It asks, “How much?” And then, almost without warning, everything changes. The entrance to the Mediterranean suddenly becomes the opposite: 7 knots, surfing along as if someone had flipped a switch. 3:28 a.m. A brief moment. A smooth transition. A new gear.
We’ve now covered about 1,892 nautical miles—a route that looks surprisingly harmless on the map, but in reality holds quite a lot of life. From the Baltic Sea through the Northeast Sea Canal, on through the English Channel, out into the Atlantic, and now here. A clear line around Europe, drawn with wind, water, and a certain amount of stubbornness.
The amazing thing about it: about 1,236 nautical miles under sail, and all without major storms, without those epic waves that people later recount with such drama. Almost a little too forgiving, the sea. Almost as if it had simply let us pass.
But it did demand a small sacrifice after all: a tear in the genoa. Nothing dramatic, more like a gentle reminder that out here, someone is always keeping score. It’s being properly sewn back together now in Gibraltar. It’s all part of the adventure. Like a scratch in the paint or salt settling into every crack.
And then there was Porto.
I had the decidedly clever idea of picking up our friend Jan right from the beach in two-meter swells. Why keep it simple when you can do it with elegant danger? So off we went in the dinghy—onshore wind, surf, timing based on instinct and hope. Landing worked out. More or less under control. Almost upside down, too—which added a certain entertainment value to the whole thing—and right as the moon completely covered the sun and the beach was full of onlookers. Great entertainment for every taste.
While trying to get away from the beach again, my phone probably gave out. I didn’t notice it until I was back on the Princess Sophie, anchored off Porto. And that was probably my lucky break. Because if I’d noticed it sooner, I’m pretty sure I would have dived after it—in exactly those conditions. And then this story might have taken a different turn. Or ended up with none at all.
So it comes down to a simple realization that suddenly becomes very clear at sea: You can’t hold on to everything. Not even the things you think you always have to have with you. But that’s exactly why the important things sometimes remain.
And now?
The Mediterranean. A new chapter that doesn’t announce itself—it just happens.
And somewhere out there, the next leg of the journey is already waiting.
