Point counterpoint

My heart is full but breaking. We are at the point, the point that is at the end of the line. The full stop point. Life is about to change, with new and as yet undiscovered purposes, people and places. But this is the moment of recollection and reflection. We have spent almost five years on a journey of adventure, seeing much of the ancient world from the sea. But it has also been a journey into ourselves and into our relationship. We know better now, our capabilities; that we can achieve what we set our minds and hearts to. I also think that our relationship has deepened. We trust each other more, we are closer and more open, we rely on each other for support amidst all the change. We know that we can live intimately together in a very small space that is like a womb at sea, our cosy home.

The point: on the dock at Port Napoleon

Today, I'm pulling apart Spit, our tender. The cover that I agonisingly made for her two years ago has perished, falling apart in my hands. The memories of struggling on the dock at Lefkas to make a pattern for the cover flood over me, I'm transported back in time.

The wind-blasted Camargue

Every part of the boat that I touch sends reverberations and echoes through my mind. The memories tumble ashore like sea-blown wrack. Yesterday, we sailed from Marseille in 25 knot winds. We had a new friend on board who may become the purchaser of Pavlov. It was a bright sail, the sea glinted in the sun, the foam blew off my coffee in the gusty Mistral wind. My heart was leaping, exalted by the sail, knowing also that we were sailing to our end.

A real boat-yard

We arrived at Port Napoleon, and I was in a kind of shocked daze. We were here, this is the end point. The place was deserted, a kind of boatie ghost town, it was Saturday and no staff were present. A small panic in trying to find transport for Bogdan, who needed to return to Vienna the next morning, was solved by a call to the local taxi driver by a helpful inmate of the boat yard. We drank a beer together in the small local bar, frequented by old salts who called this place home. My shock deepened. We always experience a few days dislocation as we flip from summer travelling mode, to winter live-aboard mode.

Windy Port St. Louis

But this sense of dislocation was deeper. We know by now what our winter life will look like. Moments of exhausting boat work, interspersed with lots of new friends, new social moments and life as a part of a maritime boating community in a foreign land. This time, we have no expectations. We have no home to go to, but must forge one anew. We have family, but we do not know their expectations or limitations. Megan hopes for grand-mothership, a new kind of sailing, but how can we re-locate to one of the most expensive cities in the world. Pavlov lies here as a ticking time bomb; if she sells, life can continue in Australia, but if she does not, we will need to return and take her up the canals to a new end point in the UK. Lots of uncertainties and imponderable.

Port St. Louis keep and tower

So I empty my mind, breath in the salty, spicy mistral wind and look over the strangely beautiful marshes of the Carmargue. The kite surfers are like a cloud of colourful mosquitoes buzzing on the horizon, wild birds wheel and keen, and the wind howls a constant banshee shriek. This moment is good, and that's all that matters.

Seeking a new perspective