Different Perspective: The Day We Saw Our Home From the Sea

We took a motorboat for the day.

Just a few hours, nothing fancy. The kind of plan you make when you're not trying to go anywhere in particular, just away for a little while.

We left the dock and went fast. Faster than we’ve gone in a long time. The kind of speed that makes your hair whip back an

d your cheeks lift into a smile without you even realizing. The water sprayed up beside us, and the boys shouted over the wind, pointing at everything they recognized from this strange new angle.

We weren’t going far, just exploring the coastline of the place we’ve been living for the past few months. But from the sea, it looked like a completely different place.

The same trees, the same beaches, the same buildings we pass by every day. But now they were off in the distance, framed by water and sky.

And just like that, it felt quieter. Lighter.

We’ve been on land for over four months now. Adjusting to a different rhythm. Trying to settle, find our people, get the kids into routines. Planning our next trip. Prepping for our flight. Answering messages, making calls, juggling boat options and groceries and visa paperwork.

There’s always something. Always somewhere to be. Something to tick off the list.

Even in this quiet place, we’ve been racing.

But that morning, we stepped onto the boat, and something shifted. I could feel it almost immediately. The sound of the engine, the wind in our faces, the hum of water moving below us. I hadn’t realized how much I missed it until we were back on the water.

And then, I breathed.

Not the usual breath you take while standing in line at the post office or making dinner. A real one. The kind that starts deep in your belly and works its way out slowly. The kind that tells you you’ve been holding too much, for too long.

We explored the area around us, the one we’ve been calling home. From the sea, it looked calmer. The noise of land life stayed behind. The weight of work, the endless stream of thoughts, the growing list of things we need to do - they all got smaller. Still there, but not as loud.

And as I sat there, watching the coastline drift past, I understood something about myself that I’ve said for years but only now really felt.

I’ve always said I’m a mermaid.

Not because I want to swim all day, but because the sea gives me perspective.

It is where my mind slows down. Where I can hear myself again. Where everything unnecessary falls away. There is no room for clutter out there. No space for fear, or rushing, or pretending to be more put-together than I am. Out there, it is just wind, water, and the people I love.

And when you are floating in that space, looking back at land, you realize that maybe everything that felt so heavy just hours before, isn’t quite as big as it seemed.

We didn’t sail across an ocean that day. We didn’t leave the country, or drop anchor somewhere new.

We just saw our home from a different angle.

And I remembered what I needed.

I needed this.

I needed the sea.

I needed to breathe.

Nerja Waterfall