These were the words of my grab-life-by-the-scruff-of-the-neck husband after finishing our first six months bobbing about in the sea.
Our decision to sell up, buy a boat and sail around the world had been slightly more challenging than anticipated.
We had begun the journey with much bravado on our 46-foot yacht “Boomerang” in the UK and ended our first stint weathered and wiser in Sardinia.
During that time, we’d clocked up a rescue from the coast guard thanks to a huge rope we collected around our propeller, two haul outs to get the sail drive fixed, a couple of leaks and countless days in marinas trying to get various gauges and gadgets repaired.
There had been near misses with unidentified vessels on night sails, close calls with erratic powerboat owners in Ibiza and way too much rowing in a fuel-hungry dinghy.
Needless to say, when faced with the choice of living aboard the boat in a marina for the winter or abandoning ship, we chose to hightail it back home to Australia.
Our official reason for that decision is that we didn’t want to derail our mission to live in eternal sunshine. The real reason is that we’re just not that hardcore yet.
Despite any trauma suffered during our initiation into sailing, it felt like we were abandoning a child as we climbed into the taxi and headed to the airport.
“Boomerang” had been our home for the past six months and the vessel of an incredible journey, both geographically and personally.
We had come to understand that a new boat, like anything, comes with teething problems. You are essentially taking a new home and tossing it all over the place.
Screws will come loose. Any weaknesses will very quickly be exposed.
Every time something broke and Jonathan declared, “We’re taking it back,” I would recite the mantra of our engineer Toby Hague — “The biggest mistake new boat owners make is selling up in the first nine months.”
Why? Because that’s how long it takes to get through the teething problems. Only then do you have a boat that’s ready to sail around the world.
And it’s not just the boat that needs to be broken in. As novice sailors with the sum total of 28 days experience before we set off on our maiden voyage, we, too, needed to adapt to life at sea.
Physically, our cores strengthened because of the constant effort to keep ourselves upright. We are now “boat nimble” and move about with confidence and dexterity rather than like drunken sailors.
We are now becoming “nautical savvy” in that we know the NATO alphabet, can do a calculation known as dead reckoning, read a radar and know what a halyard, bimini, snubber line, windlass and luff is.
Our rope skills are vastly improved, although Jonathan would argue that I still slip in the odd “Kellie knot” — an alleged work of macrame that even Houdini would battle to undo.
We, or at least I, sleep in fits because someone on board needs to be vigilant in checking that the anchor isn’t slipping and sending us crashing into other boats or cliffs. The depth of Jonathan’s ability to sleep is a new revelation for me.
You think you know someone until you spend six months together, 24/7 in a confined space, faced with all the risks that come with being in unfamiliar and ever-changing environments.
Our Neanderthal survival instincts have been peaked. Our true natures have emerged and with that, our strengths and weaknesses.
Jonathan is brilliant at the helm, particularly when it comes to maneuvering the boat in close quarters such as marinas. My husband is most confident when he’s in charge because he backs himself.
I’m better at dealing with matters beyond our control. I’m the troubleshooter, jumping into action while Jonathan is below deck in the fetal position furiously rubbing his lucky rabbit’s foot and incanting, “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home.”