It was a remarkable week.

After a four-day delay, spent elbow-deep in the engine, we finally set sail from Menorca on April 25th. A significant date for us: the birthdays of Henny, Edwin’s mother, and my father, Henk. Or should I say, remembrance days now that they are no longer with us? Either way, it felt like a beautiful, meaningful moment to begin this crossing.

We have been on our journey for over nine months now, but passages like these still feel exciting and yes, a little nerve-wracking. Apart from the Bay of Biscay, we don’t have much experience with night sailing on our own. In the past, we usually crewed with others, and now it’s just the three of us, and with our daughter onboard, it all feels extra intense.

Of course, we’ve gained a lot of experience sailing this boat over the past months and have truly learned to work together as a team. Still, this crossing wasn’t going to be a fast and easy race, we knew that from the start.

Missing our original weather window meant we had to search for a new one. And with flights booked from Sardinia to the Netherlands in May, visitors expecting to meet us there, and the wish to actually enjoy some time on the island, we felt a certain pressure. Leaving later would have meant either battling headwinds or waiting another week. Neither was ideal. So we decided: it was now or never.

The wind conditions were good, that wasn’t the issue, but the unstable weather patterns around these days caused the swell to be higher than we would have liked. Still, we were ready. We had mentally prepared, and when we made the final decision the evening before departure, we immediately knew the drill:

• Prep food
• Stock the ‘survival basket’ (water, easy snacks, fruit, games, books, lifelines, blankets, vomit bucket… the essentials!)
• Set up a bed in the salon
• Double-stow everything
• Remove the motor from Hendrickje (our dinghy)
• Secure everything on deck
• Lay out clothes
• Double-check the wind and the route… and so on.

On Friday morning, at 8:30 AM, we set off.
The first stretch was calm. I even managed to squeeze in two work calls, although I could feel it getting bumpier already.

Philou started the trip with bravado, she loved the idea of spending a night at sea and especially loved the thought of staying up as late as she wanted!
The beginning went well: she chatted away, we played games, listened to an audiobook, and quickly moved on to playing some music, always a great distraction. Good tunes keep the vibe positive, but meanwhile, all three of us had to keep our eyes on the horizon.

The swell wasn’t just high, around 2 to 2.5 meters (which actually can be ok), but also messy, coming from different directions. We were being tossed around quite a bit.
Luckily, the wind was in our favor, just as forecasted. A steady 15 knots on a beam reach, one of the best sailing angles, meant we were making good speed, often around 8 knots. That definitely lifted our spirits.

It’s remarkable to see how Philou copes with these conditions. From earlier passages, we know she’s resilient, she listens to her body and finds her own way to deal with discomfort. She tucked herself into the low side of the boat, blanket over her, staring at the horizon or closing her eyes, sitting it out without a word of complaint. She tried sipping water or nibbling something light, but it usually came right back up. Still, she would bounce back each time with a cheerful, “I’m okay again!” So brave. But this time, the “race” was long…

Fortunately, by evening, the waves calmed down a little, which allowed Edwin and me to move around more easily and prepare for the night shifts. Normally, Edwin is the one who can handle being inside the boat best, being less prone to seasickness, but even he wasn’t entirely spared this time. Luckily, it was short-lived, because the night was waiting for us.

We had agreed on a watch schedule: three hours on, three hours off. I took the first shift from 9 PM to midnight, then Edwin from midnight to 3 AM, and then me again from 3 to 6 AM and of course, he would take over again in the morning. It worked perfectly. The wind stayed steady, the speed remained good, it became a little damp and colder, but with the right clothes, the hours passed surprisingly quickly.

Night sailing is a truly unique experience.
You watch everything, you are acutely aware of your responsibility, alone at the helm. You monitor course, wind, sails, and especially the plotter. You track other boats using AIS, but you know you can’t see everything out there. There’s a blind spot in the dark. Your senses sharpen, especially your hearing. But it was a peaceful night, with just a few other boats nearby.

By dawn, the wind had dropped considerably, so we switched to motor-sailing, also a good opportunity to recharge our batteries. Philou barely moved during the night. Early in the evening, she had been so excited to stay up late and watch the stars.
Within five minutes, she was fast asleep, at sea, it’s the body that decides, not the mind! She spent the whole night in the cockpit, sleeping snugly under a blanket, which was perfect.

Sailing through the night is, quite simply, magical.
The sunset, the growing realisation that you are completely alone on the water, the stars slowly appearing one by one, the sky filling with tiny lights, the sound of the waves… It’s an awe-inspiring and humbling feeling. And when, during the “dog watch” (the early morning hours), you see the first light of sunrise, gradually coloring the world again, that feeling is pure euphoria.

We had done it — the three of us!
The night was behind us, and the day ahead was bright and colorful again.

The boat was calm and stable; we motored steadily onwards in the light to no winds, which, for Philou, was actually a blessing. Normally, she bounces back quickly once the motion eases. But this morning, she still felt poorly. Despite trying to eat, her stomach wasn’t ready yet. Meanwhile, Edwin and I began to recover, having a proper breakfast, tidying up, even taking a shower, and enjoying the sight of land slowly coming closer.

A deep feeling of pride washed over us. We had left Menorca thinking, “This will be just another crossing”, so common in the sailing world, but we realised again how precious and vulnerable these moments are.

For us, safety always comes first. But you can never eliminate all risks. It’s strange, at night, when you can’t see everything around you, the risks feel greater. You could hit something (we even saw a tree, yes, a whole 3-meter tree, floating near the coast!), yet at the same time, the chance of something happening is very small.

It’s all about trusting the good, just like in life. Yes, things can go wrong (this week certainly taught us that), but somehow, everything always works out, one way or another.

That trust is at the heart of this entire journey.
And this experience has literally and figuratively carried us further.

La bella Italia — here we are.
We can’t wait to get to know you better!

Written by: Mirjam