This is the captain. He has a lifetime of sailing experience.

We’ve been sailing on his boat, full-time, for a month. We have at least one more month to go, he says with a smile, pleased that he’s captured me.

For ten years, this has been his goal—to take me with him on long voyages. Until recently, I successfully fled in the opposite direction (most of the time).

I have no boating experience. I’ve also felt fear about large spans of water.

The thought of sailing had me envisioning myself in a tiny white tub, bobbing in the middle of the sea, with no way to escape.

But I did live aboard his boat for several years while it was moored in a marina. That allowed the captain to work long hours and spend time with his loved ones on the weekends.

We were tied to a dock. I felt safe.

(Except for the nightmares I occasionally had where the boat somehow untied and drifted out to sea in the dark of the night, with only me on it, asleep.)

He is blissfully happy while on his boat. He loved that I was on his sailboat with him. That made me feel even happier for him.

In fact, he always said that if I ever moved off his boat, he was afraid I would never move back aboard. I completely understand why he felt that way.

But I actually loved living on his boat. My only needs: a heater in the winter, cool air in the summer, a private shower, a front-loading washer/dryer, and a safe marina.

Yet that’s asking a lot of a 40-year-old sailboat or any marina. They have their limits. And now it’s nearly impossible to find a marina that allows one to live aboard.

Also, I’ve always been concerned with whether I could save the captain and myself should something happen to him. I want to save us.

When I share this concern with other females on boats, they actually laugh and say they could never save their partner—that their partner is on their own, should something go awry.

So I try to watch the captain like a hawk, doing my best to learn at the crack of dawn, while under the sun of the day, and especially when the clouds loom above.

I’m like this on small planes, too, since I don’t know how to fly. I stare at the captain’s controls as if I could somehow prevent disaster just by watching what he does. That is, until I feel fear.

This means only the captain knows how to sail, read nautical charts, determine the depth of water in various tides, anchor, pull anchor, or handle all those lines.

And those skills are just a fraction of what’s needed to safely handle an ocean-going sailboat, all of which would take years to learn. He has put in those years.

Whereas I need to find, stock, and prepare food; organize everything on the boat; wash laundry; schedule appointments; order items; pay bills—handle all the tasks that don’t frighten me.

Especially since he’s busy driving the boat.

I also need to do the things I truly love to do, which I seem to have precious time for.

Likewise, the captain has sailed across oceans, but there is still so much more sailing he wants to do. He doesn’t seem to have enough time for that, either.

So I’ve always encouraged him to sail around the world with his buddies, reassuring him I’ll happily meet up with him in the ports.

He stares in return, then explains why that’s impossible. One, none of his buddies can go. Two, many of the ports are not easily reachable without a boat. Three, he’s not leaving without me.

Still, I continue to research every option in an attempt to work around this.

I happily tell him I could text and talk with him when he has cell reception. I could video call when he has internet. I could take float planes to meet up with him.

I continue to enthusiastically encourage his buddies to join him—to take off for weeks, months, or years of sailing adventures. I am so okay with that.

Because they all truly dream of that freedom, too—it’s literally all they talk about—sailboats, sailing, and how fun it would be to sail around the world together.

I want them to have this fun that is so meaningful to them (even if it scares me).