I don’t like to complain. Honestly, I don’t. We’re living a life of freedom, richness, and choice, not one that always wins beauty prizes, but one we’ve consciously created. It’s a life of luxury in many ways. Not the material kind, but the luxury of time, space, and autonomy. Because of that, I always hesitate to complain. Compared to those stuck in the rat race, or worse, people facing hunger, war, or oppression, our challenges are nothing more than minor inconveniences. Luxury problems, really. And usually solvable ones at that.

We live mindfully, and our life is in balance, something I’ve written about before. But even in a life of freedom, you’re confronted with the shadow side. Because everything that’s beautiful and positive carries its opposite too. So… may I complain just a little today? Just for a moment?

Here it goes.

We’ve looked forward to Greece for a whole year. Not that the other destinations didn’t matter (they absolutely did!) but Greece was supposed to be a kind of pause. Familiar ground, a chance to enjoy, relax, holiday a little. Take our time. Let the wind truly lead us.

Well… things are turning out rather differently.

Since crossing from Italy, our batteries have been giving up on us. Or rather, they’re simply no longer doing what they should. This makes life onboard a whole lot more challenging. Internet (and therefore work) is no longer a given. We have to fire up the generator for even the smallest thing. Edwin already had a growing list of boat tasks, but this has now shot to the top and it’s a big one.

We always knew the batteries would eventually fail, and that switching to lithium would be the dream upgrade. But before we left, we didn’t have the time and budget-wise, we wanted to stretch the old ones as far as we could. Well, we’ve reached that limit. Now we must. The boat deserves it. And we’re honestly looking forward to the added comfort: less fuss around power, longer stretches without needing the generator.

But it also means we now face the mountain of a major installation job.

Thankfully, we’ve got some excellent advisors, we know what to order, and as of yesterday, we found a well-recommended technician through the local sailing community. Now it’s a matter of logistics. Once the gear arrives, which can already be a challenge in itself, we’ll need to find a place with shore power where the work can be done. Then: four days of living on a torn-apart boat. Manageable, sure, but not exactly appealing with a very active six-year-old onboard and 35°C heat above our heads. Not even mentioning the costs…

Not everything will be usable, and it’s going to be messy.

We’ll get through it, of course we will, and we’ll be glad when it’s done. But right now, it feels like a mountain to climb. Yesterday, Edwin tried to tackle a different issue (the grey water tank, of course), and that didn’t go as planned either. The boat was upside down again, and the energy of yet another setback made itself very known.

Phew. I feel exhausted and the big job hasn’t even started yet.

Those who know me, know I need calm to recharge. It’s one of the biggest lessons this journey has taught me: I need moments to myself, a peaceful environment, a moment to stand still. Right now, it feels like a chaotic avalanche coming down on me.

And it makes us both wonder: will the constant boat work eventually wear us down?

We still love life onboard. Being led by the wind is a gift. But being forced into maintenance, urgent tasks, disruptive upgrades, especially on this scale, is something else entirely.

Ah well. “Also this cloud will pass,” a wise Buddhist once said. And “trust the process” keeps echoing through my mind. It is al part of boat life…

Thank you for letting me moan. Let’s return now to the sunny side of life.

Written by: Mirjam