When Plans Change: Sailing North, Together

In March, we said goodbye to our boat.

After three years of living aboard as a family of five, we knew it was time to move on. As emotional as the goodbye was, it felt like the right step. We were sure she’d sell quickly. She’s ideal for a sailing family - fully equipped, comfortable, and filled with thoughtful extras that made her truly feel like home. We even hoped to support whoever bought her, sharing everything we’d learned. The kind of personal handover that doesn’t happen often when buying through a broker.

But things didn’t go as expected.I won’t get into pricing, taxes, politics, or the state of the market, but the short version is that we didn’t sell. The boat market in the U.S. didn’t align with what we knew from Europe. Features that added real value over there didn’t seem to matter as much here.

We had prepared for this possibility. If the boat didn’t sell by June, and with hurricane season approaching, we knew we’d need to move her north. Originally, the plan was simple: Sergey would fly to Florida, team up with a couple of friends, and make the passage quickly and efficiently.

But as time passed, something inside us shifted.It wasn’t just about the boat. We started missing the people we become when we live on the water. The slower rhythm, the closeness, the freedom.

So we changed the plan.Instead of staying in Europe or spending the entire summer in Israel, we decided to return to the boat as a family and sail her north ourselves. Not as a rushed delivery, but as a meaningful journey - a floating family road trip through towns we love, visiting old friends, and spending time together in the way only boat life allows.

It’s not a carefree vacation. Life on a sailboat, especially with kids, comes with plenty of pressure. We’re moving at a fast pace, there are endless things to fix, and the rhythm is intense. But we’re not complaining. Not even close.

Returning to the boat brought up all kinds of feelings. She’s deeply familiar. We know where everything is. Her smell, her quirks, it’s all still here. But it doesn’t quite feel like home anymore.

There’s no chaos of everyday life inside. No scattered toys, no laundry hanging, no random cups of coffee forgotten in the saloon. Just clean surfaces, order, and stillness.

Well, except for the cockroaches. We dealt with them on day one.

And we’ve changed too.

We’ve gotten used to land life - running water, unlimited electricity, a dishwasher, even having a car. We also got used to life without constant worries: no checking oil levels, no watching for storm clouds, no wondering if the batteries will last the night.

But now, as we sail again, the memories return.

The sea reminds us who we are.

The wind, the open anchorages, the freedom to stop wherever we feel like - it’s all here. And with it, that feeling of being part of something wild, powerful, and real. Nature doesn’t care about our plans. It simply is. And when you live this close to it, you feel everything more deeply - the beauty, the danger, the wonder.

And yes, the boat had plenty of issues after sitting still for five months. We’re fixing one thing after another, like we did when we first bought her. But maybe we’re also preparing her for someone else, someone who’ll fall in love with her the way we did. Maybe they’ll find us in Annapolis.

No, this isn’t the summer we had imagined. But it’s still part of our journey.

And we get to choose - do we focus on the hard stuff: the costs, the delays, the mechanical frustrations? Or do we choose to see the magic in what is?

The places.

The moments.

The freedom.

Us.

And if you’ve followed us this far, you probably know which one we chose.