5 Lessons From a Sailor’s Return to Land Life

My husband, Harry, and I spent 25 months cruising the Pacific Ocean. We returned to land at Bainbridge Island, Washington. Friends and family gathered on the dock to greet us. They rang cowbells, boomed a cannon and cheered when I expertly slalomed our 44-foot Mason, Oh Joy II, to the dock. It was an overwhelming experience, and that feeling didn’t fade for months.

Before we departed on our adventure, we’d watched videos, movies and in-person presentations about cruising. We’d read books, magazine articles and other stories. We’d talked incessantly about our cruising plans with each other and with other cruisers. The preparation phase was rich and well-supported.

But upon return, there was no guidance whatsoever. No videos with recommendations on how to transition back to land life. No sage advice about what to expect the first few months. Nothing at all. 

These are the things I wish someone had told me as I stepped off our boat onto land.

Accept the Grief

This is a confusing time. You’ve invested your heart into a lifestyle that challenged you and taught you a whole lot. Now you’re ending that lifestyle and starting a new one. Maybe you thought you were happy about this next chapter. Or maybe you knew you weren’t happy about it. Either way, accept that the end of your cruising lifestyle comes with grief. Even if you’re overjoyed to be off the boat, there will be grief.

Your partner might grieve differently than you do. What looks like productivity and industry might be an attempt to bury sadness. What looks like despondency might be physical exhaustion. Instead of making assumptions about what your partner is experiencing, try having a conversation about it.

The sooner you can accept that you’re grieving, the sooner you can start to make sense of your new life.

Stay Connected to the Sea

This helps with the grief. It also helps you process what was likely the biggest, most consuming experience of your life. The point here is to dig into memories of your journey. Take your time. Do a little work on this every week. 

Staying connected to your sea adventure might mean a visit to your boat. Go for a day sail, or just sit in the cockpit for a while. Feel the feelings. Be curious about them. There is no right or wrong way to feel.

You can create a video to share with friends and family. Or volunteer to share your story with your local yacht club, and create a presentation for that. Or compile your written logs and journals into a book that you can self-publish through any number of online services.

Another idea is to continue to communicate with friends who are still at sea. Send emails and texts. Comment on social media.

Expect ‘Normal’ to Be Elusive

Whether you spent years or decades living on the ocean, it will be a while before the daily rhythm of land life feels comfortable. You’re accustomed to a vigilance that’s just not required in land life. Your nervous system is tuned to a high pitch from navigating different countries and cultures, being self-sufficient with little support, and anticipating calamity. Settling down feels dangerous. “Normal” feels weird. You’ll get there. Give it some time.

If you’re returning to an interrupted career, my informal survey of other cruisers says it’ll take six months to a year before you’ll find a job or get back into your income groove. This will seem like forever, but really, it’s exactly as long as it should be. You weren’t ready for it earlier.

Appreciate the Ordinary

People who sail on oceans are extraordinary. You are extraordinary for having done that. It became part of your identity. That can be hard to let go. 

There’s a big difference between monitoring cyclones that might destroy your body and home, and returning a package at the local store. But there’s joy in the ease of ordinary life, too. There’s freedom in being normal. Find a way to appreciate that.

Ordinariness is an excellent space for rest. You’re probably not yet aware of the physical tax on your body from holding a state of attention for years. Ordinary life gives you permission to stop paying attention, knowing you’ll still be safe.

Don’t Throw It All Away

During my two years at sea, I wore the same four or five shirts, the same two pairs of shorts, and the same three or four sundresses. I wore the same sun hat every day. These items were perfect for our adventure, but they became stained, torn and misshapen, so much so that before our arrival home, I threw most of them away. 

This spring when the sun came out, the first thing I wanted to put on was my favorite sundress. Which I no longer owned. I was shocked by how sad this made me.

It’s not about the items. It’s about what the items represent, and how they can help you process grief. Give yourself a few months before you get rid of things.    

Remember: A Lot Changed

At first I was a little bummed to realize none of my friends really understood how much two years of living on the ocean had changed me. Then again, did I understand how much my friends had changed too? 

While I was gone, two friends moved across the country. One had a stroke. Another was diagnosed with an aggressive cancer, entered a clinical trial, and became cancer-free. Grandchildren were born. 

You don’t have a monopoly on major life experiences just because yours is so unusual. If you can widen your viewfinder, you’ll find comfort and camaraderie right where you are.

People still ask me occasionally, “How’s the transition to land going?” I haven’t had a good answer for the past year, but now I’m starting to feel like I can respond more consistently: “It’s going good! Still a little weird, but less so every day.” 

Joy Archer recently completed a Pacific Ocean circumnavigation with her husband aboard a Mason 44. She is writing a memoir of the odyssey. Enjoy more of her writing on her Substack, Oh Joy!

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