After spending almost three weeks at sea, detoxing from everything from alcohol to human contact, arriving at Port Louis Marina was a shock to the system. We’d been on the move nonstop for nineteen days and now, due to several issues with Heaven’s Door, we were unable to sail for a while. We needed a welder to repair her arch support and some assistance in repairing the broken port engine. Plus, some amendments to the new rigging. We couldn’t find anyone to help us get her seaworthy until after Christmas and New Year and many places on the island were closed. Nonetheless, we were ready to meet some new people – of which there were plenty within the marina – and to let our hair down after the long journey. 

Soon, despite having plenty of fun, I realised that marinas weren’t the place for me. After weeks of being surrounded by the elements and living a life of simplicity, it felt polluting and lacking in excitement. However, I knew we were there out of necessity. It also served as a useful opportunity for me to recognise why I want to sail and to realign with what I hoped to gain from the experience. 

Entering Port Louis 

In those first moments we arrived on land in Grenada, I could think of little else than having my first shower in weeks. We’d been able to swim a couple of times off the back of Heaven’s Door during the crossing, but other than that we were limited to sponge baths in the sink. I skipped to the showers as soon as we had secured the boat and lines to the dock. When the cold water washed over my skin, cleaning off the salt and the sun cream, I felt like a new person. 

Next, all I could think of was talking to someone new. I hadn’t been lonely at sea and the company had been great, but I was eager to connect with other people. I wanted to hear about their crossings to exchange stories of life at sea. It didn’t take long, and soon I was talking to other sailors. They all seemed to have had crossings more difficult than ours. I heard tales of near-mutiny and the breaking down of friendships. Of people having to be locked in their cabins, the fear of being in the middle of the ocean sending them into a state of panic close to losing their minds. I heard of accidental gybes, failed preventers and broken booms. I even came across two boats who’d had collisions with whales. Each time I heard these accounts, I kept thinking about how you never know what the ocean is going to throw at you. I also felt bad for the whales. 

The beauty of like-mindedness

By the time Christmas had passed, we were part of a small community of sailors who were based in Port Louis – many of them we now regard as friends. We would share food, stories and tours of our boats and many memorable hours were spent listening to the different journeys people had been on to bring them to the Caribbean. Most were from Europe or the United States, with many having crossed the Atlantic too. My favourite story was from a twenty-year-old German guy who’d left Berlin with a budget of 200 euros and managed to make his way thousands of miles to Grenada within a few months. He’d made his money through odd jobs including bar work and playing the piano, slept hungry in a tent a few times and covered the larger distances hitchhiking aboard boats. 

It was refreshing to be surrounded by so many people following their dreams and rising to the challenge. Many of the sailors we met had sold or downsized their houses to be able to buy their vessels and I couldn’t help but admire them for it. It also made what I was doing feel normal. When I shared my story there was none of the worry or scepticism that often came when I had told people back home I planned to boat hop around the world. Only some mild shock that the crew and I didn’t know each other, or how to sail, before we left the UK. I was reminded that when you surround yourself with people who have similar goals and intentions to you, suddenly they feel more possible. 

Realigning with my reasons for sailing 

Whilst I enjoyed many things about my time in Port Louis, I was also beginning to realise that being in marinas didn’t reflect what I valued in sailing. It felt more luxurious, more polluting and far away from the sense of connection I felt with nature when compared to oceanic crossings or being at anchor. Some of the things I love most about living on a boat – like jumping straight into the water – were no longer feasible, because of the poor water quality in port. We were static and the sails were furled away or safely stored in the lazy bag, instead of full of wind and driving us through the waves. Even in this short time, I was beginning to miss the sense of adventure and discovery that comes with being on the open seas and I remembered how I felt the same when we were in Marina Rubicon in Lanzarote. 

I was beginning to understand that for me to find traveling the world by sail fulfilling, I needed there to be a real sense of adventure and connection to the elements. I needed to feel challenged and exposed. I was pleased to make the realisation and knowing that Heaven’s Door was unable to sail any time soon, I turned my attention to how I could find this sense of adventure on the isle of Grenada. I decided to plan a hike in the forest and to seek out what I felt I was missing by being docked in Port Louis.

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