The past few days have been intense, humbling and, in their own way, deeply grounding. We knew a storm was coming. Not just any storm, but one that later turned out to be significant enough to be named. Winds of over 50 knots were forecast, gusts pushing towards force 11. The kind of conditions that make you pause, double check everything, and then check again.

So we prepared.

We studied the charts, compared options, and made our way towards Leros, where we found a bay offering rare full protection from all directions. Shallow waters, plenty of space, and enough room to lay out a long stretch of anchor chain. Exactly what you want when you expect strong winds pressing relentlessly on the bow.

We secured the boat, stocked up for a week, and removed anything that could move. Sitting there, ready and prepared, we even allowed ourselves a moment of cautious optimism. Maybe it would not be as bad as predicted.

We were wrong.

A few hours later, reality hit hard. Our anchor did not hold.

It is something that can happen. Sometimes the seabed simply does not allow the anchor to dig in properly. But experiencing it under these conditions, with the wind building rapidly, was something entirely new for us.

There was no time to hesitate.

With the wind roaring and the pressure mounting, we lifted the anchor and tried again. Steering into 50 knots of wind, not fully knowing how the boat would respond, is not something you ease into. Communication was almost impossible. Even with walkie talkies, the wind swallowed our voices.

We dropped the anchor again.

And again, it did not hold.

Because we had so much chain out, we drifted slowly, which bought us time. But at the same time, the urgency was undeniable. The wind was still building. This was our window.

So we tried again.

Lifejacket on, lifeline clipped in, moving forward against the force of the wind. We shifted slightly, searching for better ground, a bit more shelter within the bay. Another attempt.

Still nothing.

And then, as we pulled the anchor up, we saw it. A fishing net tangled around it.

A small detail with enormous consequences. An anchor wrapped in a net will never hold. Worse, if that net finds its way into the propeller, you lose control entirely. And in those conditions, being pushed towards the rocks, that is not a scenario you want to imagine, let alone experience.

For a brief moment, everything narrowed down to pure action.

Engine in neutral. Let the wind push us clear. Then full reverse, freeing ourselves from the net and from a situation that could have escalated quickly.

Another attempt. This time, the anchor finally held.

Six attempts in total.

From that moment on, we stayed alert. Watching the anchor alarm constantly. Ready to act, even in the dark, if needed. But slowly, cautiously, a sense of stability returned. The boat held. We held.

And so we moved into the night.

Fifty knots of wind hitting the boat is not just something you hear, it is something you feel. In your body, in your chest, in the tension of every sound and movement. You know things can break. You know the margin is small.

We were incredibly grateful that nothing did.

That we stayed safe. That the boat stayed strong.

But what stayed with me most were the lessons beneath the surface.

You cannot always avoid these moments. You cannot control everything, no matter how much you prepare or how much you want to. Out there, you are a small part of something much bigger. And sometimes, you simply have to move with it instead of against it.

At the same time, it showed us the strength of our team.

We trust each other. Fully.

One of the agreements we have is simple. If one of us feels doubt, we act on it. No discussion, no delay. When I said early on that I thought we were dragging anchor, we moved immediately. That decision mattered.

Edwin, as skipper, takes the final call when needed. But everything we do is built on communication and trust. Out here, with just the three of us, there is no room for ego. Responsibility for the boat, and for our child, outweighs everything else.

And that changes you.

Having your child on board adds another layer. A deeper awareness. A vulnerability. She, meanwhile, sat through it all watching Netflix, then fell asleep peacefully on the couch. Completely unbothered. For her, there was no fear. Mum and dad have it under control.

And that trust… it is beautiful, but it is also a responsibility you feel in every decision.

What I also learned is how differently we process these moments.

Edwin acts when needed. Makes decisions, follows his instinct, and once the situation calms, he lets it go.

I do not.

My system stays on. Especially in situations like this. I feel everything. I hear everything. I am constantly scanning, checking, anticipating. Not just for myself, but for him, for our child, for the boat. It is intense. It is exhausting. It is, perhaps, both my strength and my challenge.

But understanding that difference between us has become one of our greatest tools.

Because when you see how the other works, you can support each other better. And that is exactly what this journey is teaching us, again and again.

After the storm, I felt it clearly. The need for rest. For stillness. And I know now that I can ask for that, and that it will be understood.

So yes, it was a storm that pushed us. That brought fear, and even a few tears. But it also reminded us of something stronger.

We can handle this.

Not because we control everything. But because we trust each other, we act when it matters, and we stay together through it all.

And maybe that is what matters most.