Looking at these photos, one might never guess that the first 24 hours of our two-month voyage took place in the summer. The sunshine wasn’t quite ready to appear that day.

But the captain wasn’t going to wait any longer—not even for his beloved sun to shine. He was ready to set sail, and that was that.

I love waiting for sunny blue skies to show before heading out anywhere (to take pretty photos). However, when it comes to sailing, pretty is not the priority. Safety is.

We had to beat the weather. That was the reality.

As we left the small bay and marina, both of which protected us while we prepared for this trip, I tried to simply witness the fear I was feeling.

I wondered if I would survive this trip. Would my body even return?

Thus, I wasn’t hoping I’d enjoy the voyage—I knew I didn’t want to go on the water. I was on this sailboat out of obligation (nobody else could go with the captain).

But I did attempt to make myself smile and laugh. I knew the science behind that effort might ease my fear.

The captain was somehow still grateful that I was there, chuckling, while reassuring me I’d survive—as long as I did as he said, so he could focus on safely sailing the boat.

Why did that not reassure me?

I had no boating skills. I had no sailing skills. I didn’t really like water activities.

When I was about five years old, taking my first formal swimming lessons, I thought the instructions were optional—at least the part where I was instructed to place my head underwater.

I almost always did as I was told as a child, but I saw absolutely no reason to place my head underwater. So I just bypassed that part, sure nobody would notice.

I could already swim. I could already float (endlessly, I was sure). I was just enduring those formal swimming lessons because all children should take serious swimming lessons.

I truly didn’t like the feel of water in my eyes, nose, ears, or mouth. I didn’t like the feel of wet hair on my face. I also didn’t like the chaos that was happening elsewhere in the swimming pool.

I like to keep an eye on such things. Not partake.

When on ferry boats, I also watch to ensure a car doesn’t fall off while loading, unloading, or in stormy crossings. It happened to a car I knew. My thoughts are based on reality.

So we set sail.

I sat in calm silence, mixing in a few smiles and laughs, while witnessing myself feel fear. The captain did his utmost to support me, to help me feel as safe as possible.

Towing a handmade wooden dinghy with wooden oars from a beloved mentor, we passed other boats, some with very pretty sails, and caught hints of a blue sky trying to show itself.

Within a couple of hours, to the captain’s (and my) surprise, I was exclaiming that I loved to sail and that we should now sail all the time. The captain began grinning from ear to ear.

I also felt genuinely guilty and began apologizing to the captain for spending the last ten years trying my best to avoid sailing whenever I could.

After a few more hours, navigating under a low bridge (we just fit), past islands, and through ferry boat traffic, we tied up to a buoy in a bay that’s typically calm.

Until waves from passing ships hit like rolling logs.

Tossed about from one side of the hull to the other, all through the dark of the night and into the early dawn, I think I retracted everything positive I’d just said hours earlier about sailing.

I began witnessing my fear again. The captain kept apologizing (which secretly made everything okay). The view of the mast through the hatch above our pillows brought a smile.

After tea for me, drip coffee for the captain, plus a little breakfast, we prepared to head out on our second day.

But first, I was asked to practice reading the fuel gauge, so I could relay the data to the captain before he fueled up. Needless to say, I’m still trying to learn how to read the fuel gauge.

Thank goodness the sky pried itself from the sea, so wildlife and more beautiful islands could reveal themselves.