The First Night at Sea

There is something humbling about leaving land behind.

At 8 p.m., we slipped away from Panamá and pointed the bow toward the open Pacific. The city lights slowly faded behind us as darkness settled over the water. I was on first watch, standing at the helm while massive cargo ships and tankers surrounded us from every direction.

The captain trusted me to navigate us through it.

That sentence still feels strange to write.

Not long ago, I was someone who questioned every decision I made. Yet here I was, steering a sailboat into the largest ocean on earth, surrounded by ships bigger than buildings, relying on my own judgment.

The ocean has a funny way of forcing you to trust yourself.

I came off watch around 11 p.m. and crawled into my bunk, hoping for a few hours of sleep. At 3 a.m., I was jolted awake by Paul calling everyone on deck.

The wind had arrived.

And she arrived with force.

Thirty knots. Sustained.

The boat heeled over as we reefed the sails in the darkness. The wind screamed through the rigging while waves crashed against the hull. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared. I was.

The ocean doesn’t care about your comfort zone. She simply asks one question:

Can you adapt?

A few hours later, I found myself back on watch. The conditions hadn’t improved. If anything, they were more intense.

The wind remained above 30 knots and the seas seemed impossibly large. At one point we buried the bow into a wave so deep that it felt like the entire boat disappeared beneath the water. The ocean swallowed us for a moment before releasing us back to the surface.

I had never experienced anything like it.

The fear was still there, but so was a growing confidence—not because I wasn’t afraid, but because I was learning to keep moving despite it.

For four hours, I watched the waves rise and fall beneath us. I adjusted course. I stayed present. I did the job.

And then, in what has become a recurring joke in my sailing life, the conditions calmed almost immediately after my watch ended.

Of course they did.

James inherited the calm seas while I inherited the adventure.

As always.

After finally getting some sleep, I emerged to a much calmer ocean. The sea had softened. The boat moved comfortably. Everything felt peaceful again.

It’s funny how quickly the ocean can change.

One moment she’s testing you. The next she’s offering a reward.

Tonight, I’ll take the 11 p.m. watch beneath a sky full of stars. Part of me hopes the wind stays steady.

Part of me hopes it never reaches 30 knots again.

But if this first night taught me anything, it’s that I’m capable of more than I think.

The Pacific is vast. We’ve only just begun.

But for the first time in a long time, I feel exactly where I’m supposed to be.