Life After Long-Term Sailing: How We’re Handling the Unknown

There’s something I never get used to – watching our kids order food in English.

It might sound small. Even silly.But for me? It’s one of the greatest joys.

I’m so proud of them – not just because they speak another language, but because of how they speak it. The ease, the confidence, the willingness to get it wrong and try again. To ask questions when they don’t understand. To explain what they want, even without the perfect word. Even when their accent is far from perfect.

I’m proud of what they order, too.

Yes, it might seem superficial, but to me it shows curiosity. Openness. Growth.Their taste buds haven’t changed dramatically, but they’re trying. They’re tasting. They’re exploring. And they’re learning to say “I like this” - and just as importantly, “I don’t.”

It’s been three years at sea. A month and a half on land.

And sometimes it all feels like a dream.

Right now, we’re in a season of deep transition.

Nothing feels settled. Everything feels temporary. Uncertainty is everywhere.

I miss the boat.

Not just the vessel, but the life it held.Our rhythm. Our space. The family sea-showers, the warmth, the togetherness that came so naturally.

And I’ll admit, I’m struggling to picture what our life will look like in three months, once we settle.

I worry:

Did we choose the right place?

Will the language be too hard?

Will our kids find friends?

How will they cope with being alone in a classroom after years of always being together?

And how do we become… “normal”?

But then, I see them. Sitting in a restaurant. Ordering in English.

And I remember: our journey didn’t stay behind.

It’s not something we left in the Caribbean or on the deck of our floating home.

It lives inside us.

Woven into each of us - in the way they speak, in their confidence, their patience, their kindness with each other.

In the way they help and support and speak their minds.

In the way they make friends, even without a shared language.

In our family bond - the one that always catches us when we fall.

And in the middle of all the worry, the fear, the not-knowing - I pause.

And I breathe.

Because in moments like this, I know:

We’ll be okay.

Really, truly okay.