As we descend through the dense, stationary clouds that perennially shroud Dublin, I am reminded of home’s familiar appeal. I manage to return about once annually, provided we can uncover a secure and reasonably priced locality to moor our itinerant vessel.
The sight of Howth Head greets me first, followed by the scorning morning commute on its dark, moist, treacherous roads which signal that it’s February. The wheels finally meet the tarmac, and excitement courses through me. This is a moment I’ve eagerly awaited for an extended period. The nomadic life of a sailor, with its inherent struggles of being currently stationed in Australia whilst traversing half the globe, might complicate visits back home, but they’re as integral to the journey as the voyage itself.
Once ashore, I swiftly fall back into the familiar cadence of my boyhood home, relishing in the relative luxury terrestrial existence offers— running water in abundance, warm showers, the comfort of a heated, stationary home that never oscillates or changes location.
Though each parting feels like a wound and yet, an innate compulsion draws me back to the ocean— it is where my roots lie.
Jet lag holds me in its tight grip through the initial few days, dampened only by the comforting lull of my family’s voices. I am acutely aware of time’s cruel brevity; I know that in a few weeks, I have to be airborne again. The forthcoming days promise rich experiences of lengthy walks, sumptuous meals, and cosy fireside chats, which I’m eager to fully immerse myself in.
Old vestiges of my past life flicker into sight as I tread the path I used to walk along the canal. My gaze probes every passerby, hungry for a familiar face. But, with the exception of those closest to me, almost everyone has moved onto different stages in life— families, properties, their own unique paths. Life’s alternatives flash in my mind, but the thought of leading a sedentary life scares me more than navigating the open seas.
From my childhood bedroom’s window, the view of the garden is blurred by the familiar Irish drizzle. Memories of sunnier climes I’ve recently sailed to— French Polynesia, Tonga, Fiji, Vanuatu, New Caledonia— flicker in my mind as I seek warmth. It dawns-upon me, more than ever during these yearly returns to Dublin, how my seafaring sojourn spanning over half a decade has irrevocably changed me.
Living aboard is a physically demanding task – operating winches, hauling heavy loads of fuel and food long distances, navigating our ship, remaining vigilant. Consequently, I have become healthier, more adaptable and willing to take risks. However, I still find comfort in maintaining routines as they provide a sense of stability amidst the unpredictable elements of travel. A frequent question I get is if I can return to a more ordinary lifestyle.
The intensity of onboard life is something I’ve become familiar with. We have managed to avoid tropical storms, ships, whales, and thunderstorms. Sailing in perilous and aggressive conditions consistently tests our physical and mental resilience. Each port has its own unique regulations and traditions to navigate.
To some, my lifestyle might seem draining and hellish, however, I find it inspiring, strengthening, and invigorating. It adds vibrant hues to my monotone life and presents me with ever-changing scenery.
The underwater world has captured my heart. The rewards of our careful planning, strenuous labour, and perseverance are the mesmerising, secluded places we get to explore.
Possibly, my life, sailing and residing on a ship full-time, offers as much liberty as one can experience on this planet. We propel ourselves around the globe using the wind and draw power from the sun for our systems. We navigate by the stars, forging our own path, and resolving our own predicaments.
Returning home is as crucial as inhaling oxygen; I yearn to be with those I cherish; I need to know they are safe. The distance from my family presents a significant challenge, but annual visits make this sacrifice tolerable. My concern for their well-being often becomes distracting, and I find myself incessantly trying to return. I see them looking at me, hopeful, and attentively listening whenever I am home. These visits are incredibly intense as we attempt to pack a year’s worth of catch-ups into mere weeks making the eventual goodbye exceptionally painful, casting doubt on my ability to ever leave again.
Farewells become heart-wrenching, notwithstanding, some inherent drive pulls me back towards the ocean – the dwelling and existence that we’ve nurtured on our vessel. It’s our true abode.
As an Irish individual settled in London, there was no obligation for me to stay. I was free to return to my hometown Sligo whenever I desired. Yet, it’s been nearly a quarter of a century since then.
Our return to the ship enables us to divert our focus from the heartache of parting by occupying ourselves with practical matters – we clean our living quarters and wash down the deck.
Taking the small boat, we head to land for stocking up supplies. We rekindle relationships with surrounding seafarers, sharing viewpoints and plans. We plan our journey to Indonesia, questioning whether to retravel eastwards through some south-western Pacific islands beforehand.
There’s no question that we face demanding voyages with unforeseen obstacles ahead, but the trip back home has refreshed our spirits.
We are brimming with emotions, our resolve rejuvenated. We are prepared to brave the ocean waves.
Kate Ashe-Leonard, an Irish native, relocated to London with her partner Jim in 2017. The following year, they commenced their global sailing adventure. Initially, the plan was to take a three-year work sabbatical, but five years on, this has evolved into their new lifestyle. They’ve been taking care of their expenses through the rental returns from their London property and by working from a remote location. Check out their Instagram: sv_polaris and blog: svpolaris.com.