How sailing taught me the art of joyful stoicism
Sailing from Mexico and Guatemala has been one of the most rewarding experiences of this journey, and a moment of profound alignment after months of pushing forward.
June recap: yet another month where every day has provided new “opportunities for growth” and hands down one of the most rewarding legs of this journey. Here are some of the insights and highlights from our journey through Mexico and Belize. I hope you enjoy the pictures and text—it cost me some serious sweat, and a tiny bit of blood and tears.
A month ago, on May 27, we left Cozumel, where we had been stuck for 10 days waiting for new solar panels and a new camera—after I fell into the ocean with all my gear and crashed into a cement pier, barely saving the hull from major damage. My stress levels were through the roof. Sailing down the coast of Mexico and Belize has been a challenge. The heat, humidity, and tricky anchorages have tested us. The mood on board Falkor has, at times, been gloomy. We’ve all been navigating the tension between reality and expectations. It has definitely NOT been the bliss of piña coladas on paradise beaches. Instead, it’s been choppy seas—underway and at anchor—poor sleep, sweaty armpits, moist mattresses, accidents and near-accidents.
For me, as captain, the challenge was first to shift the focus from all the discomforts to the “unique experience” we were having. Until I gave up resisting what was and just decided to flow with busted eardrums, empty freshwater tanks, and the complete absence of decent marinas to refill and refuel. A surprising thing happened once I stopped expecting things to be easy or meet my standards: I felt a peace and contentment I haven’t felt in a long time—if ever. Yet another experience helping me understand what spiritual teachers mean when they say to stop looking for the solution externally, and instead go within. Indeed, you can watch things unravel and still feel bliss. What a great lesson to experience and learn from.
So yes, it’s truly been a unique month. I can’t speak on behalf of the crew, but for me at least, it’ll be one of those memories I’ll look back on, laugh, and think, “Gosh (yes, I’ll use that word)! What an adventure that was!” I can already imagine getting together with Mario, Mati, and Santi to laugh about that horrific night cruise between Cozumel and Punta Allen when we were either passed out or vomiting. Or the time we had to wade through a sea of rotting sargassum and plastic waste to get to land. Or the naked nights on deck during torrential tropical thunderstorms, fixing steel wires to the rig and down in the water to divert lightning from our ginormous lightning rod in the middle of the flat sea.
I can also imagine us talking about all the people and pirates we met. Like Isabel in Punta Allen, who had worked as a kayak guide until COVID came along and interrupted tourism to a trickle. She never went back to guiding—she didn’t like the stress guides put on local wildlife. When her son got ill, she opened a small store to make money for his treatments. She sold chicken at first, then spices to season the foul, then this, then that. Now she leads mental health support groups and speaks about addictions in a way that resonated with my own experiences to such an extent that I was convinced the universe had sent me to her for guidance. This entire journey has felt like a series of lessons, and most of them have come from teachers like Isabel. Not “experts.” Not “intellectuals.” Just people who’ve been through it and gained a kind of wisdom we often miss in our fast-paced, modern lives.
I’m still not sure what lesson I was meant to learn from the pirate we met a week later on a tiny island near Belize City. I don’t know if he was living on the muddy shoal because he loved the simple, careless life (his words), or because he was hiding from the authorities, enemies, or one of the mothers of his 37 children. His hearty way of receiving us—table set, arms open, and eager to talk—was at least a reminder of the complexity of humans. His neighbors in Belize City feared him, he told me. Once, he’d nicked an eyeball out of a man’s skull with a hatchet. Granted, the man was a member of the local mob. Or so the pirate said.
Our next stop was more straightforward: we anchored off a small mangrove island where a real American sea-hippie had built a home and family-run four-table restaurant and bar in the canopy of his private island. Equipped with a dwindling cash reserve that barely sufficed to get him ferried out there, he’d been searching for his own paradise when he met a banker in a pub in Placencia who wanted to lend him ONE MILLION DOLLARS. He was among the banker’s first customers.
His island dream cost about a twentieth of that amount, and the investment paid itself off in four years, as passing cruisers wanted his wife to cook the fish he caught at the reef. “I don’t worry that I’ll ever be able to take care of my family,” he told me. “I have no debt, and I can always catch enough fish to feed us.” I can hardly imagine a more different approach to life than the one we’re raised with in Europe. And yes, I must admit—it was alluring.
In hindsight, our journey was a steady crescendo, and the highlights were definitely at the tail end. In beautiful Placencia, we stayed two nights at what I’ve decided is the best anchorage I’ve found in the Caribbean so far—offering excellent shelter from the swell in nearly all directions, lush jungle, beautiful beaches, and an unpretentious small-town Caribbean vibe with just the right amount of tourism: enough for chill beach bars, cute cafés, and the best Italian gelato I’ve tried—but not more.
No big buildings, no flashy resorts. Though I suspect it’s slowly becoming another victim of gentrification, like much of this coastline. Expats notwithstanding, we got a surprise private concert from the allegedly famous Reggae Ambassador, who put on a show lasting an hour and a half, mixing original songs with Bob Marley classics. A truer cultural treat would be hard to come by.
I could’ve stayed in Placencia for a month, if not for the busted fridge and the need for a few nights on land. After going viral on Instagram thanks to a migration experience that involved two hours of sailing a dinghy up a mangrove forest, a huge banana, and the usual paper mill, we set course for Guatemala and Rio Dulce—the jungle paradise where I’ll leave Falkor until hurricane season has passed.
We made it, you guys. The narrative arc is complete: from initial challenges to final success. I’ll carry this small, great adventure close to my heart.
Next, please!