Rules of Thumb: The Quiet Rules That Keep Us Afloat

We all have rules of thumb.

Even if we’ve never named them out loud.

Even if we didn’t know we had them until everything around us started falling apart and something inside whispered, not this time, you’ve done this before, you know better now.

They’re not the kind of rules you write down when you're calm and everything is fine.

They come from the mess, from the chaos, from the regret of doing it wrong the first time and not wanting to feel that way again.

And when you live full-time on a sailboat with your partner and three kids, when the boat is your home and the sea is your road and there’s no place else to go when things get hard, these little rules, these tiny anchors of wisdom, become the only real structure you can count on.

They weren’t written in a notebook, they weren’t typed up in a calm moment over coffee, they were written in blood, in fatigue, in that sharp silence after something goes wrong and no one speaks, because everyone knows it could have been worse.

They were written in the feeling of a numb heel that hasn’t been the same since that one stupid mistake, in that one rushed moment that should have been slower, more careful, more thoughtful.

And they were written in the softest moments too, when everything worked, when everyone knew what to do, when the boat moved like it was breathing with us and we remembered why we chose this life.

After three years of living at sea, of parenting afloat, of making mistakes and fixing them and trying again, these are a few of the rules that have stayed with us.

Not because they’re perfect, but because they help.

🔺 Don’t give in to pressure. Because when everything feels urgent and your heart is racing and the voices are getting louder, the best thing you can do is stop, breathe, and buy yourself five more minutes. Nothing good comes from panic, and almost everything can wait just a little longer than you think.

🔺 Don’t yell. Even when you're scared. Especially when you're scared. Because the louder you get, the less anyone hears, and the more everything spins out. Quiet is hard, but it helps.

🔺 We’re a crew before anything else. And that means when something breaks or something’s off or we just need to figure it out fast, we put everything else, the argument, the tension, the ego, the feelings, on pause. We work together. We deal with the rest later. (Though honestly, we usually don’t even remember what the rest was.)

🔺 One captain. Always. Even if we both know what we’re doing. Even if we both planned it all. When things go sideways, one person makes the call and the other follows. No debating in the middle of the storm. That’s how you lose the boat, and each other.

🔺 Communicate like no one knows what you’re talking about. Because they might not. Say it twice. Say it clearly. And then check if they actually heard you. Not assumed. Not guessed. Heard.

🔺 The five-minute rule. When something changes suddenly, the wind, the vibe, the plan, wait. Just five minutes. Just breathe and watch and let it settle for a second. We’ve saved ourselves so many bad decisions just by waiting a little before reacting.

🔺 Ego has no place on the sea. Not when you’re anchoring. Not when someone cuts in too close. Not when you’re tired and hungry and feel like you’ve already given too much. The sea doesn’t care who’s right. The only thing that matters is getting everyone home safe.

🔺 Screens are fine. There, I said it. I’m not ashamed of it. Sometimes, when both of us are needed outside or when the kids are bouncing off the walls or when I just need one moment to finish the thing I started without being interrupted, screens are a gift. They’re not a failure. They’re not lazy parenting. They’re survival, sometimes. And sometimes, they’re peace.

🔺 Mistakes will happen. Always. You’ll plan, and things will still go wrong. But if you talk about it, if you learn something from it, if you come home in one piece, then it wasn’t for nothing.

These are the things that have kept us on this boat, not just afloat, but together, for three years and counting.

They’re not yours.

They don’t have to be.

But maybe one of them fits.

And if not, maybe they’ll help you recognize the ones that are already growing inside you, just waiting for you to notice them.

Because you probably have them already.

You’ve just never had to say them out loud.

Not yet.