It often begins with fascination. 

People walk along the seafront, past harbours, through marinas, and pause on bridges to look out on the boats at sea. They might not even know they are looking, just that they like being in these spaces. Boats have a quiet presence to them. There is something about the way they sit in the water; silent, weathered, full of suggestion. 

When Erik and I were first dating, we would walk slower whenever we would come by a marina. Soon, this lingering turned into taking a longer route to find one. Later, we would make random unplanned stops in unknown marinas whenever we were out driving. 

Looking might seem idle at first. But over time, our gaze becomes more focused. What we are looking at might start to feel more like an invitation than a mere object. We begin to imagine.

Our looking turned into conversations. We discussed the features of the boats we saw, highlighting their strengths and weaknesses in different weather conditions and uses. The hull shape, rigging setup, the dimensions. 

At some point we started classifying boats – either as lovers, wives or others. The lovers were boats that quickly grabbed your attention, with their slim lines, shiny surfaces, and promise of excitement and speed. The wives were sturdier, wider, with a slightly worn appearance, promising comfort and safety no matter the weather. And then there were the others, the ones we either didn’t like, didn’t understand or simply didn’t notice.

The type of boat we eventually came to look for emerged from these countless conversations on the features and qualities of different boats. Before talking about what kind of boat we wanted, we already knew: a sturdy steel boat, with one mast and a good living space.

In July of 2021, an online ad for a seemingly perfect boat showed up on Finn, the Norwegian version of Craigslist. A few conversations later, we found ourselves on a plane to the north of Norway to look at the boat. The boat was great, and we put in a bid. We did not get the boat. Despite us being the only bidder, and offering to pay more than the asking price, the owner decided to sell to a friend. 

The loss of something you never had can hit with surprising weight. It might be a boat you never got to sail, an rejection email, just a house listing, a plan that never came to life. There is no drama. Just a pause where you realise that you are exactly where you were yesterday, but it no longer feels the same. It is not that something was taken away, but that something has started to take root. 

Not getting the boat was the moment our boat hunt got serious. But throughout fall and winter, very few boats were put for sale, but we read through all the ads. In an impatient moment, we drove nine hours to see the only boat that met our criteria, despite not liking the listing, and confirming the bad feeling even before we even stepped on board. We were ready, but the market wasn’t.

One day in the following spring, Erik called to let me know that he had found a boat. At that point, I was on an exchange semester abroad, and Erik went to see it alone. After seeing the boat, he firmly let me know that this boat was “marriage material”. 

Not long after, we put in a bit for the boat. We had a great connection with the owners, an older couple of professional artists. We were surprised, and sad, when the old man called to let us know that he would sell the boat to someone else. 

A few days passed. Then the old man called us up again. He had come to learn that the person he had intended to sell it to was planning on ripping out all of her interior, stripping her down completely, and rebuilding her from scratch. The owner was horrified, caring deeply about the vessel who had accompanied him for over 20 years.

Some weeks later, on a beautifully sunny and windy day, he handed us her keys. We had less than 100 dollars left to our name, but had never felt richer.

Not everyone looks at boats, but everybody looks at something. We all have things that fascinates us, makes us curious. And boats are here to remind us of the possibilities that could come our way if we just looked a little closer, or even dared to take the leap and sail out into unknown waters. 

Since we bought Albatross three years ago, we have been laser-focused on getting our boat ready for sailing around the world. By now, we have inspected every inch of her and taken inventory of her strengths and weaknesses. We have finished the major projects that would have prevented us from leaving Norway, including changing the rusty steel plates in the bow and getting a new engine. We have also moved onto the boat, downsized our belongings, and adjusted to the different kind of living that come with living in a smaller floating home.

Being laser-fucus demands that you cut out distractions and say no to a lot of things. We’ve drastically cut down on down time, swapping relaxing late nights for maintenance work and collapsing in bed by ten. I can count on one hand the days without a plan we’ve had as a couple, and even on those days, we still decided to work on our boat. We’ve cut down on screen time, social media, news, movies. Also, we’ve ended up spending a lot less time with friends and family. We see people for their birthdays and other special events. While we’ve had intentions to set a side time simply spend time with friends, it always seemed to fit better next week.

In many ways, we’ve had to do this to protect our time and energy, and anything that did not serve us had to go. It has not been pretty, but it has been necessary.  

I’ve changed. These two years of focused semi-self-isolation have rewired my work ethics, values, world view, and priorities. I am not the same person. I appreciate different things and dislike many of the things I used to love. I feel competent and confident in a new kind of way, but also awkward and misplaced in situations I used to enjoy. I did not realize how much I would change before leaving on our circumnavigation.

The ironic thing is that when I am now ready to come out of this goal-driven isolation, I am coming to realize that I have lost touch with a lot of people. That’s all on me.

But I still need people. I need a community to belong to and people to share experiences with. But since we are departing to go sailing around the world in less than a year, any community that is anchored in Norway seems short-lived.

This blog is my attempt at creating a different kind of community. A community of people who don’t have to see each other in person to stay connected. A community of people who want to live life on their own terms, work towards their goals and who cheer each other on for dreaming big.

It’s scary to say this out loud. I’ve postponed publishing this first post for a long time. I’m scared that it will be awkward or that I will fail. The ironic thing, though, is that every day for these last two years, I’ve jumped right into boat projects that I had no idea how to do. I guess I just have to start.

So here we go.