Somewhere off the Sardinian coast, in the quiet of the night

Tonight wasn’t what we had planned. We had dropped anchor at a spot that turned out to be far too exposed, and it quickly became clear that it would be a bumpy night. Everything was stowed away properly, as we anticipated the swell might give us trouble, but still, the cupboards rattled, the hull rolled, and none of us could get to sleep. Philou was feeling seasick. Edwin was grumpy all evening. And me? I was trying to “sit it out,” as I often do.

At first, I clung to the idea of waiting it through. We were safe, after all. The anchor was holding. But still, the discomfort grew heavier with each passing hour. My thoughts began to churn. Sailing into an unknown harbour in the dark didn’t sit right with me. We’d seen earlier this week how lines stretch deep underwater near the mooring buoys, and we experienced it ourselves this morning when we left. I simply couldn’t justify entering unfamiliar waters in the pitch-black night.

And so, a new plan emerged, sail through the night.

We need to head south anyway for the crossing to Sicily, so why not make use of the hours? With a bit of luck, we could even catch some wind later and sail part of the way. So we lifted anchor and set off into the darkness.

Now, I find myself alone at the helm, the world wrapped in moonlight and silence. Edwin and Philou are both asleep below deck, and I’m here in the stillness, awake, alert, yet strangely at peace. I often love the early mornings, and now I realise I feel something similar about these late hours. There’s space to breathe, to think, to simply be.

Earlier, I resisted the shift in plan, but once I let go of that resistance, I actually began to welcome it. There’s something magical about the night, something that invites reflection and quiet strength. Sailing demands a certain kind of flexibility. You can’t predict everything. In fact, you can rarely predict anything. Swell especially catches you off guard. This stretch of the Sardinian coast is exposed, and when there’s no wind to steady the boat, the rolling becomes relentless.

But how you respond, that’s what matters. Do you let the discomfort consume you? Do you spiral when sleep won’t come? Or can you shift your mindset, adapt, maybe even laugh about it a little? Do you trust yourself enough to make a different decision, to literally change direction?

These are the questions swirling around in my head tonight, carried gently on the rhythm of the waves. And I wanted to share them with you.

Goodnight, from the sea.

Written by: Mirjam