Out of sync

I’m a boat person now. It took me eighteen months, two continents, and a broken engine, but I got here.

Since I left Barcelona a year and a half ago, every decision that has extended this journey felt like a crossroads. Panama or Guatemala? Add another year to your trip. Guna Yala or the Pacific? Plus two.

When your itinerary is shaped by the seasons, a month-long delay almost automatically multiplies by ten, maybe more. If you expect things to run smoothly while sailing, you’re almost guaranteed to spiral into chronic despair.

But slowing down isn’t as easy as the lifestyle gurus claim.

Budgets must be remade. Work must be created or found. Longer—much longer—periods of what may feel like isolation, silently accepted. And the discomforts of living on a small, humid boat in the tropics (full disclosure: it is not always a dream) must be endured.

Going all in

In my case, the mental toll of constantly pushing through unforeseen challenges and winging it financially convinced me that if I want to enjoy the journey I’m on (I do), slowing down is a prerequisite.

If you embarked on this as a time-out from what you imagined was your real life—the life that you would build your identity and future around—turning what was supposed to be a seven-month adventure into an open-ended, multi-year pursuit can feel painful and riddled with the anxiety of “when will I get there.”

Yes, I know that going all in can be a mixed bag—it requires sacrificing an old identity—but being halfway in and halfway out is far worse. A hard pill to swallow in an age where there’s always somewhere else I should rather be, something else I should rather do.

You know this feeling. You’ve been halfway in and halfway out of something for years.

Releasing the fantasy of arrival

So this is what I’ve done: I took a pause. I put the boat on land, jumped on a plane, and went back home. I slept in a regular apartment. I rode the subway. I saw the dentist.

And I had my eureka moment.

The life I left behind, the life that’s waiting once this journey is over? It will still be there five years from now.

What changed? I realised that the timeline that I set from the comfort of my port of call made no sense anymore. I’m so deep into this adventure now that deciding to arrive in Australia within six months or six years seems like a pointless exercise. Cause a) there’s no more savings to hold on to, and b) once I’m there, then what? I have no clue.

And now, back on what I still lovingly refer to as “the fucking boat”, I’m ready for the deep dive into real boat life. The one that can only truly start when you’re not focusing on when it will end. The one that hones the rhythms of the process—of the time it takes to fix an engine, raise the money, do the paperwork, and wait for the winds to change.

First impression: for the first time in a long time, I’m able to sleep through the night.

Granted, last night I woke up worried about all the things that can go south as I prepare to welcome guests on board in a few weeks. But it was not the crippling anxiety that has accompanied me on past legs of this journey, as my cash balance has dwindled and arrival dates have been pushed further and further ahead.

It takes the time that it takes

Perhaps, the lesson is that a prerequisite for emotional wellbeing is honing the rhythms of whatever process you’re in right now. Accepting that “it takes the time that it takes”—the exact words that my psychic uttered almost two years ago, as I was planning this journey.

It took a while for them to really land.

But over the course of the last year, sailing has taught me a valuable lesson about tempo. Try to rush the process? Instant suffering. Guaranteed. Accepting the times set by your environment? Sometimes hard, yes, as expectations might need to be adjusted, but when you surrender to acceptance? Oh, the sweet relief of air in your lungs. Kinda like practicing free-diving.

German sociologist Hartmut Rosa has built his theory of happiness around the concept of resonance.

He argues that modernity operates through a structural compulsion to speed up the pace of technology, accumulation, yes, even of life itself. The problem isn’t just that speed makes us busy, as the lifestyle gurus will gladly tell. No, the problem is that it makes the world appear mute and unresponsive.

Living life at an accelerated tempo disconnects us from the rhythms of our surroundings. It makes it almost impossible to cultivate a living and responsive relationship to the world, where things actually reach you, and you reach back.

For Rosa, the secret to the good life is resonance—making time and space for a constant back and forth with our environment: with people, places, and the rhythms of life.

In other words, embracing the role you’re currently playing might just be the prerequisite for presence, and presence, as it seems, is the prerequisite for a life well lived.

Stepping into The Identity

For me, slowing down was only possible after I decided that right now, this journey is my life. There’s nowhere else I should be. There’s not a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow—the gold is in the colours painted across the sky. In the pursuit of a dream. In the experiences you accumulated along the way.

You know this. It’s commonsensical, I’m well aware. But we still need the reminder.

I got mine when I finally accepted that I’m a boat person now. And that even if I’m far from home, I do have a community. My fellow sailors. Free-spirited hippies and freaks who have gone through many of the same experiences I have.

Having Falkor on land in Panamarina, a small family-run establishment in the middle of the Panamanian rainforest, has offered a space to bond over broken engines, malfunctioning solar panels, delayed travel plans, financial hurdles, and impossible heat.

I’ve met a group of people who live life at a slow pace: the DIY American who’s been refitting his boat for the last two years, the YouTube couple who’s been sailing for five. In the afternoons, we’ve all come together around the fire to throw some food on the barbecue and play a round of bocce. We’ve shared stories of lightning strikes and broken rudders. And we’ve helped each other out with boats that act like whiny little brats.

It has made me realise that I’m not the odd one out, not fitting in—I fit, but in a different box than the one I belonged to before.

This journey has taught me that slowing down isn’t a lifestyle choice—it’s a surrender to rhythms beyond our control. And that the moment you stop fighting the tempo of whatever process you’re in, you stop experiencing it as a prison and start experiencing it as a life.

Where are you still halfway in? What timeline are you fighting that you set from a life and identity that no longer exists?

Where could your life dramatically improve, if only you went all in?

The first sunrays after the storm

After months of effort to ground this project and weeks of long work days in the boatyard, this weekend brought a moment of rest.

I was testing the dinghy and outboard engine on a trip through the mangroves when I decided to turn off the motor, jump in the water, and let myself float with the currents, while I listened to the sound of the ocean breaking on the reefs just out of sight.

For the first time in a long time, the weight of responsibilities was lifted off my shoulders, my mind went still, and the comments on my Instagram feed were forgotten.

And in that moment, I couldn’t help but wonder: Is this a time out, or am I finally checking in?

I like to think of a family—your birth family or chosen one—as a group of souls who have decided to help each other evolve. Sometimes through friction, sometimes through support. Sometimes, it seems like we return to our families only to regress to our 15-year-old selves; sometimes, we return to notice just how much we all have grown.

Luckily, perhaps, the latter was the case when I reunited with the fam for the first time in a year.

Landing in the cold, windswept coast of western Norway after finding myself walking barefoot through Central America showed me what my family has meant. And it made me question some of the assumptions I have carried about my homeland.

Norway is a society shaped by the egalitarian relations of rural communities.

Coming home to the cold shores where I learned to sail allowed me to reflect on how the open farmlands battered by the North Sea, the steep fjords and snow-covered mountains that rise behind them, and the introverted and well-mannered people who live here have shaped my family and me.

Norwegian Utopia

Growing up, I thought of Norway as the epitome of the modern world: a model society where people are equal, solidarity is institutionalised, and common folks have a real say in how their society is governed.

But during my short family visit last month, something had changed. Perhaps it was the time spent away from home that taught me to see what I'd taken for granted.

Travelling has made me reflect on how family, in societies where the state is there for you when things get hard, is often reduced to a project of self-realisation: something to get or have but not to rely on.

We moderns mostly agree that independence is something to strive for, but what happens when a society becomes so fixated on every man being an island that we forget how to show up for each other? What do we lose when family is reduced to its ceremonial function? To a set of background actors in our holiday pictures?

My modern family

In my family, we have often pushed each other to grow through friction. It has often felt challenging and lacked the feel-good component that you might wish for.

Usually, the friction is expressed in those small details charged with meaning.

You know exactly what I’m talking about: your brother scowled at you when you asked them to pass you a loaf at the table, or your dad made a comment about a recent global event that didn’t land well. And the truce is broken.

This time, it was about access to the car, but not really.

Really, it was about being seen—about having different needs acknowledged, about being allowed to take up space, about feeling supported. The car was just a placeholder for pent-up emotions, released in the form of a verbal duel of “you did this” and “you did that’s.” Sound familiar?

Once the dust had settled, we did something that we hadn’t done before. We had what I can best describe (in contemporary healing lingo) as an “integration circle.”

“Maybe our ‘thing’ as a family is that we never give up,” my mum commented.

Maybe my mum is right. There’s value in trying with intent, at the risk of getting stuck in old patterns that hurt. This journey back home, however, showed me that while we might still trip over the same stone, we have also grown.

In the past, we might all have fended for ourselves and expected the rest to do the same. Or perhaps, we have been so busy with our own struggles that we have failed to see the things that are going on in the lives of the rest of the lot.

But over the last year, our family has come together in a way that feels meaningful and new. We have supported each other in the face of adversity, and for the first time in a long time, we have felt like a team.

Old patterns are hard to shake off, but lo and behold, something has softened.

Collective individualism

During a moment of quiet reflection in the icy sea breeze near my brother’s home, I reasoned that some of the friction must come from the mixing of two worlds: of Latin American passion with Northern European pragmatism.

And I remembered something I learned as a student of anthropology: that Norwegian society is structured around something called collective individualism. With a strong state bureaucracy that fulfills many family functions, Norwegians rely less on each other for safety.

Bluntly put (and I might get some pushback here), if you’re broke and lonely in Norway, you don’t go to your family for support—you go to the doctor for antidepressants and social services for financial assistance.

This system, which Europeans refer to as the welfare state, is often seen as a utopic ideal that all modern societies should strive for. And don’t get me wrong, I do not envy the people who live in societies where a hospital stay is cause for bankruptcy.

But it has also made family optional. It has reduced family from necessity to preference and outsourced care to institutions.

It has made us lonelier.

Relying on each other

The biggest lesson from my trip back home was this: no amount of bureaucracy, welfare solutions, or policy interventions can replace the bonds with family members who, for better or worse, are here to help us grow.

We might not have figured it all out, my family and I. But for the first time in a long time, we're trying together. Maybe that's what solidarity actually looks like—not a policy, not a principle.

Just this: not giving up.

Over the past five years, I’ve sailed from Norway to Panama, exploring different coastlines and documenting how people live with and through their environments.

Of all the places I’ve travelled, Guna Yala stands apart.

Located on the northern shores of Panama, it is an autonomous region made up of hundreds of small coral islands, where the Guna continue to maintain a strong degree of political and cultural independence.

Across the archipelago, life follows rhythms that are closely tied to the sea, the land, and community life.

Knowledge is shared through practice. Decisions are made collectively. Value is often grounded in relationships rather than accumulation.

It’s not a place you simply pass through.

It’s a place that invites attention.

Sustainable cultural travel

In the coming months, I’m inviting a small group (max 3 people) to join me on a 9-day sailing journey through the region.

This is not a typical sailing trip. It’s a slower, more intentional way of moving—where the focus shifts from covering distance to engaging with the places we arrive in, the people we meet, and the experience of being there.

We will sail between islands, spend time in Guna communities with local guides, snorkel along reef systems, and explore parts of the rainforest.

This journey draws on my work as a documentary photographer and anthropologist, and is designed for those who are interested in questions of travel, ethics, and how we relate to different ways of living.

It may resonate particularly with photographers, filmmakers, and others working creatively, but it’s open to anyone who feels drawn to this kind of experience.

What to expect

We move slowly and keep things simple.

We aim to travel in a way that is attentive to both environmental and social impact, working with local guides and contributing to local economies along the way.

We will:

• fish and eat with local families

• learn freediving and explore reef systems

• travel between islands under sail

• spend time in communities with local guidance

• create space for conversation, reflection, and experience

Life on the boat is simple. It’s warm, salty, and close. We share space, meals, and rhythm.

In return, you step into a way of travelling that is difficult to access through conventional routes.

How you can join

This is an intentional expedition for those looking for depth, perspective, and a different way of moving through the world.

If this speaks to you, fill out the sign-up form where you can let me know what month you are available, and I’ll share more details.

Sign-up form

I’m not looking to fill spots—I’m looking for the right people.

I’ll be confirming the first group over the coming weeks.

I’m back in Europe after a year of sailing, biking, and travelling for a brief pause before journeying on with Falkor and crew.

Back in Barcelona, with the Barcelona gays, my old tribe, my dysfunctional family, my very human community.

When I decided to leave the big-city life two years ago, I was in a ditch—emotionally and spiritually. I had taken the party lifestyle to its extreme. At least to the point where the pain outweighed the short-term relief of escape.

Being back has made me reflect on how far I’ve come, where I’m still growing, and if I could have gotten the same results without blowing up my old life and sailing into the sunset.

Comfort is the enemy of growth, and not all stress is bad

First conclusion: my nervous system, which has been on alert 24/7 during the last months of sailing, can finally relax. Sleeping through the night without checking if the anchor is holding. Catching the subway without worrying about engine failure. Hiding in a café while it rains instead of riding out a storm at the helm.

All of this more than compensates for the chaos of the city.

Truth is, not even the most influential advocates of the simple life in the outdoors—like Henry Thoreau or Fridtjof Nansen—permanently abandoned the urban. For all their insistence on the healing power of pristine nature, they always returned to the city’s social fabric and comforts.

And so, it seems, do I.

But when I do, I notice something: that pushing past my comfort zone out at sea has changed my baseline. Once the storm is over, mundane problems feel a little less serious and a little more… mundane.

The Stoic thesis that friction builds resilience seems to hold. Our biggest leaps of growth take place outside the comfort zone.

And maybe I’m stating the obvious here. But we need a reminder that when grown-ups with Peter Pan syndrome throw themselves into reckless adventures, it might not be such a stupid idea.

The mean little voice inside our heads

Through this journey, I’ve often fallen prey to the trap of comparison and negative self-talk: while my peers are raising kids, building careers, and paying down mortgages, I’m pouring my energy, life savings, and time into an activity that some might say is just another kind of escapism.

A hedonistic pursuit of some romanticised idea of adventure. The irresponsible, privileged, narcissistic indulgence of a middle-aged guy who wants life to be “fun”.

That’s the fearful voice that wants to keep me small, speaking, by the way. The voice instilled in us by a society obsessed with material pursuits. The one that tells us that accumulation equals success equals social standing equals safety.

Even if I’m well aware that I’m not the failure this voice wants me to believe that I am, I just haven’t been able to shut it up—especially not out at sea.

Long-distance cruising has felt like a marathon of negative self-talk.

But returning to Europe has shaken me out of excessive identifications with materialist metrics of success. Why? Well, for once, cause being back in an old environment shows me all the areas where I have grown: I’m calmer when finances are tight, I don’t indulge in escapism like I used to, I’m OK with leaving the party early, and I’m OK with leaving the party alone. I’m OK with not having a fancy job to prop up my confidence. And I’m OK with not knowing what the future will hold.

Finally, I’m starting to viscerally feel that success in life might be more related to spiritual growth—to the way we show up for ourselves and others.

Is this what detoxing feels like?

Navigating challenges together

My body is catching up with what my mind already knew, and an important reason is that I’m no longer comparing myself to the fantasy version of other people’s lives.

You see, being far out at sea and imagining life back home is not so different from lying on the couch and imagining life at sea—our projections of others are usually rosy idealisations while we reserve the demanding realities of the human experience to our own immediate, minuscule universe.

But here’s the truth: right now, we’re all in the pressure cooker.

The fantasy of limitless abundance and individual freedom has created expectations that are impossible to fulfill, especially when we try to live them out in a system geared towards profit, not purpose. We’re all chasing some fantasy life that simply does not exist. Or, in the very few cases where it does, lacks the emotional tone we’ve been told that it has.

Right now, the world is full of new home-owners weighed down by debt, newly weds discovering that they married the wrong partner, and successful entrepreneurs on the verge of burnout. The perfect life does not exists.

Realising we’re not alone in our struggles can bring instant relief.

The power of community

And that brings me to the second reason why returning to Barcelona has felt like the right medicine at the perfect moment—because of the way the city has welcomed me home.

I’ve been hosted, fed, and cared for by friends who feel like family.

I’ve shared tender moments, received cuddles, and had deep conversations with people I love.

Coming home has shown me that the power of community trumps the weight of broken expectations. When we’re with our friends, when we feel seen, held, and supported, it is the biggest balm for the soul.

And it can soothe even the most dysregulated nervous system—as long as we can look past what life hasn’t given us, and notice what’s already there.

Perhaps happiness is not about choosing between adventure and belonging. Perhaps it lives somewhere in the tension between the two.

In any case, thank you Barca, for being a home <3

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In October, I finished my gig in Las Vegas and jumped on a plane to Mexico City. There, I suddenly realised that my journey would take me through Oaxaca, the region known for the country’s most vibrant and elaborate Day of the Dead celebrations.

There was only one problem: I didn’t have a place to stay, and hotels were sold out months ago.

So I did what I’ve gotten accustomed to doing on this trip. I decided to manifest someone to stay with.

I know that when you manifest, you’re only supposed to use the power of your mind. But I’m not quite there yet, and instead, I’ve designed my own manifestation technique. It’s simple: I write down what I want, taking a few steps in the right direction, and trust that the universe will meet me halfway.

So I sent a few texts to my Mexican friends to see if they knew anyone in Oaxaca, and immediately went out to have tacos.

And it worked: the guy standing next to me at the taco stand happened to have the same hand tattoo as I do, and after a short chat, he told me that he was going to Oaxaca for Day of the Dead and that I could stay with him and his friends. And people claim magic isn’t real…

First lesson: Death can be joyful and just fucking fun

I spent the first few days of the celebrations in Zipolite, a small nudist beach town on the Pacific coast. There, I was invited to stay at the family-run hotel Budamar, where Miraceti and her family hosted a pageant to honour Catrina, the lady of death. Not to be feared but rather to be befriended.

Unfortunately (but deservedly), I did not win.

But I did get my face painted in an impressive collaborative work of art, and I got to flaunt my look next to a few naked penises. Which felt like a win: for me, death will from now on always be associated with the dick of a cheerful German tourist with a flower painted on the crown of his head. And that beats a lot of other associations.

I should know. I’ve accompanied my partner to his death. My associations are both profound and difficult. But not joyfully absurd.

Second lesson: Grief feels lighter when it is shared

After Javier’s death, I’ve remembered him on the anniversary of his passing. And on his birthday.

It sometimes feels lonely. His family is usually far away, and I feel compelled to spend time in solitude to honour Javier’s memory. Talking about him feels like imposing my grief on others. And when you lose a partner in your thirties, you often feel like you’ve been condemned to grieve alone.

In Mexico, Dia de los Muertos showed me what I already knew but sometimes struggle to feel: that I’m not alone in experiencing grief and loss.

Remembering Javier alongside a sea of people who were also remembering their loved ones felt… comforting. It relieved the burden of having to mark the date in my calendar. Of having an obligation to step out of my everyday routine to honour my partner, since there’s already a day for that. It felt lighter.

Third lesson: Relationships don’t end with death

And yes, seeing how the Mexicans remember their dead stirred something in me.

Their relationship to the dead isn’t abstract. It isn’t just a thought. A fleeting memory. A faded picture.

No. The Mexicans spend weeks preparing. They carefully and intentionally create altars in their homes. They make small offerings to the people they have lost. They decorate and visit their tombs—they eat lunch and dinner at the graves. They play live music. They talk to the dead. They share stories. They meditate. They drink, sing, and laugh. They spend time with them.

Walking through the graveyards and seeing how these places came alive was a powerful reminder that relationships based on love are never-ending. Even when the other is gone, we keep them alive in the countless conversations we have with them in our minds.

The sign

Seeing so many people go to such lengths to pay tribute to their dead inspired me.

At the graveyard in the center of Oaxaca, I decided I would search for a grave that said Javier. Apparently, it is not a common name in Mexico, cause I could not, for the life of me, find any.

So I kinda gave up on the idea.

“It can say Romero as well,” I reasoned—Romero was Javier’s last name. And as soon as I had finished that thought, I saw it: a tomb that said Romero. “Wow!” I laughed to myself, “That was fast.” And then, tears, as I looked closer and realised that the grave I had found belonged, indeed, to Javier Romero.

There he was. Waiting for me. Comforting me. And impatiently demanding that I pay attention to our encounter: “If you’re gonna be worrying about practicalities, I’ll leave,” he said, as my mind drifted.

And that’s how I knew it was really him.

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Spirituality for consumption

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