Reflections from the middle of the storm

This week its a year since I set sail for the Atlantic and a year until I should reach the other side of the Pacific. These are the good, the challenging, and the ugly parts from the halfway point.

My engine is bust. Figuratively and metaphorically.

In the last few days, I’ve met many people who have told me that I’m living the dream. My replies fluctuate between “I know that I’m living someone’s dream” and “If you had your own boat you would not say that, you would say I’m sorry for you”.

I might be living someone’s dream. Or perhaps just what seems like a dream from an outside perspective. But from my point of view, this is all but a dream. It is a challenge, and a very demanding one.

For twelve months, I’ve written, filmed, photographed, and shared the journey. I have taken crew on board, I have invested in gear, I have navigated my ship through rough seas and vast distances, I have explored foreign cultures, I have faced fears, emptied all of my bank accounts, written grant applications, upheld university collaborations, and navigated the post-PhD transition while trying to build a storytelling project at sea.

Creating content non-stop is also a journey.

Don’t get me wrong—I’ve had some beautiful moments and adventures that I have willingly recorded or written about, perhaps giving the impression that my life is, in fact, a dream.

But here’s the part of the story that I have been reluctant to share so far:

Long distance sailing turns your life upside down. It requires you to step out of the safety of employment while taking on responsibility for a floating list of repairs with astronomical expenses. And for crew members whose well-being you’ve just made yourself responsible for.

If you take on a sailing adventure of these proportions, prepare to have holes in your shoes and in your wallet.

Even when shared, it can feel extremely lonely. Crew can support you, but as captain of your ship you are painstakingly aware that if the boat breaks down you are stuck until you’ve found the solution, while the crew can step off at the closest port and catch a flight home or somewhere else. Their end-date is set and definite, yours is always pushed a bit further into the future and conditional.

Creating a life that feels aligned is freaking hard. It requires self-discipline, sacrifice, and stamina. It also requires letting go of comforts and expectations. And sometimes it feels like a full-blown identity collapse. It feels like abandoning hopes and dreams for the future—including stability and safety.

Low-comfort living is part of the adventure.

And it puts your nervous system to the test.

When I left Barcelona, I knew I was signing up for an adventure. I expected a mix of challenges, beautiful sunsets, paradise beaches and cultural experiences. But I had no idea how emotionally intense this experience would be, how hard fear would hit me, and how much I’m being forced to grow to get to the other side.

This might come as a shock to you if you have tagged along on my journey. Most of the content I’ve shared has a succinctly upbeat and playful tone. And my little videos and newsletters are not lies, they are just curated snippets from a lifestyle that is also full of challenges.

Yes, it’s easier to pick up the camera when there are dolphins jumping out of the ocean in front of you, and harder when the waves and wind are threatening the structural integrity of your boat. Or when you’re trying to out-sail a lightning storm.

Finally able to smile again, once the storm has passed.

And yes, I’d rather share a video from a hammock on a paradise beach, than my feelings of frustration and vulnerability after yet another thousand-euro-piece of vital equipment has broken down on some remote island where spare parts are impossible to resource.

Long distance sailing is emotional bootcamp. Not a joyride—even when you’ve caught some fish, found a secluded anchorage, or discovered a piece of paradise on Earth.

As captain, the sailboat gives me equal amounts of headache and joy, and sometimes I even suspect that the headache outweighs the joy.

I’ve already accepted that this is not the path to financial abundance. That ship sailed with the accumulation of debt, boat repairs, permits, and sailing fees. Instead, I’ve leaned into the exploration of other meanings of abundance, and examined my own fears around lack of money.

Do I really need to be able to pay my bills or can I negotiate few late payments with the bank? Do I really need to go to the dentist, or can it wait? Do I really need a functioning fridge, or can I live on non-perishables for a few months until I get to a place where a new fridge does not equate a monthly budget of living expenses?

Sounds super fun and exciting, right?

I tell myself that I’m doing it for a greater cause. That I’m pursuing purpose rather than success.

Right now, it’s unclear to me whether that’s true or self-deception. Maybe I end up dropping the ball, selling the boat, and getting a corporate job for a company that produces disposable plastic gadgets. Nah bro.

But those are my fantasies when the sailing becomes a little bit too rough. Always so dramatic.

Another fantasy of mine is that someone will swoop in to “save” me: a dream partner with a wad of cash who quits his job to join me, fixes the boat’s engine and changes the electrical system onboard.

Yes please. Or maybe I’ll just hire a mechanic.

The crew can get tired as well, but their support has been essential to the journey.

But all jokes aside, hyper-independence is so last year. I already know I can make it on my own through a storm—there’s nothing left to prove. Doing things on your own is not the long-term solution to life dissatisfaction.

And don’t get me wrong. I have gotten heaps of support.

In fact, one of the biggest discoveries of this journey is that you can count on people to show up for you when you live in alignment. But you have to trust that the cavalry is coming even when you can’t see the signs. And that’s hard.

The deal I made with the universe before sailing from Spain was as follows: I would get everything I needed in order to be happy, I just had to ask. In exchange, I wouldn’t take more than I need. Apparently, the universe thinks that I can resource most of my happiness from within.

And sure—the universe is probably right.

But am I ready for that? And do I even want to? The happiness I was thinking of when I made the deal, was a bit more conventional than what I’m getting. I was thinking about a business running like a well-oiled machine, offering me a financial cushion that my university job has been unable to provide. I was also thinking about a partner who would be a better fit to my personality than the party boys I’ve dated in the past.

That was my mission: a life built around my personality, skills, and passions.

And sure, I’m building that, but sometimes it feels like I keep moving further from these goals instead of closer.

Here’s the truth: I am scared of failing. I am scared that I made the wrong decision. I often ask myself if I should have stayed in Europe. If the stress, the debt, and the constant uncertainty are worth it.

Simplicity and contemplation might be essential to happiness, but are usually appreciated in hindsight.

Sometimes, this journey feels like something I endure while trusting that the effort will be appreciated once I’m safely on the other shore.

Maybe today is not the day for the evaluation. Both my inboard and outboard engines are bust. So is my fridge. The boat has deteriorated after six months in a tropical rainforest. Several crew members have cancelled last minute. Departure is delayed. There’s still water in my propellant oil after two expensive repairs. My cash reserves are dwindling. I’m paralysed by fear.

But I’m starting to see that fear isn’t a sign I’ve gone off track—it’s the cost of growing into the person this journey is inviting me to become. I know that these emotions shall also pass. And that the worst case scenario is a bruised ego and a fresh start.

Indeed, sailing is the par excellence metaphor for life, and it is teaching me that maybe growth isn’t supposed to feel graceful at all. Maybe it’s meant to feel like this—messy, disorienting, and honest.

For the moment, I’ll just remind myself of what my psychic told me before I set out of port: this will be a test of faith. And maybe it is faith, not the Pacific, that has been the real destination all along.

Peace out, Capi Taco

Onwards with faith and determination—in sunshine and in storms.