We Used to Be That Boat in the Bay

People often ask us what it’s like to be back on land.

And honestly, time feels different here.

Not heavier, just faster.

Too fast.

I keep wanting to do more, not because I’m doing less, but because the rhythm is different.

Everything feels tighter, like the hours are packed and the days slip by.

A friend told me recently the brain doesn’t remember time, it remembers moments.

And suddenly, everything made sense.

When each day is full of new experiences, little adventures or even just a change of scenery, the memory stretches.

But when days blur into routine, they disappear.

I’ve realized I love a life filled with moments worth remembering.

Moments that remind you you were there, that you saw something, did something, felt something.

That’s what sailing gave us.

Even the quietest days, anchored in some forgotten bay or walking through a small town, were full of things that stayed with us.

We didn’t follow a strict routine, but we were present. Fully there.

A few days ago, we left the skatepark with the kids and walked to the car parked right by the beach.

Out on the water, I saw a sailboat coming in, arriving for the night.

By the time we were packed and ready to leave, they were dropping anchor.

The next morning, on the way to school, I saw another boat, anchored farther down the bay.

And I felt that same pause in my chest.

And I smiled.

Because we used to be like that.

Just arriving, just staying.

Letting the seasons guide us, not the calendar.

Not ruled by time, just by light and weather and what felt right.

And for a moment, it felt perfect.

I don’t necessarily miss the boat.

I miss the idea of the boat.

The memory of the life we lived on it.

The rhythm we had, the freedom to choose what mattered most,

and the quiet confidence that doing less didn’t mean missing anything.

It meant we were exactly where we needed to be.

Memory plays tricks, of course.

It skips the clogged toilet hoses, the broken watermaker, the anchor that dragged, the storms.

No experience is ever perfect, but we remember it as if it was.

So I took a deep breath

and remind myself, it was beautiful, and it was hard.

And this life, right now, is different.

But we chose it too.

And it holds its own kind of beauty.

In the joy of our kids,

in the friends around us,

and in the sound of the waves, from the beach.

I hold both,

the life we lived,

and the one we’re building now.

Not because one is better,

but because both are true.