Point of no return, or turning back

I have been wrestling with my emotions for the last days. On the surface, nothing has changed. We are still sailing. Life on board is fun and comforting. The time at sea, as well as at port, is constantly shifting. So, it is hard to figure out what this “wrongness” is inside of me.

At the start of any journey, there is a certain point of no return, and after you have reached it, you are committed to moving forward. For some people, it happens the moment they have bought the plane tickets. For others, when packing their bags. There are even some (e.g. me) who only feel this the moment they have boarded the train. In this endeavour, it came when I was told I would be going aboard MV Roland Oldendorff at Rotterdam. Until that point, it was hard to believe I was really going to be able to go.

It was not entirely sure where the vessel was bound, but my crewing manager said it was most likely to polar waters. My husband and I went directly out and bought a ridiculous amount of foul-weather gear for me to take along. Standing at the cash register, paying for those clothes was a point of no return.

I felt a strange mix of nerves and exhilaration, as if the woollen socks and storm jackets were not just clothing but a ticket into another world. Walking out of the shop with those bags in hand, I knew there was no stepping back into ordinary life. The journey had already begun.

Since that moment, there have been plenty of doubts. Would the captain and crew find my presence intrusive? Would health issues flare up again? Would I suffer from seasickness? Would I be frightened in a storm? Would I be bored in flat seas? These questions hovered over the early days like persistent gulls. Thankfully, none of this happened.

Instead, every day has been a blend of new conversations, places, and experiences, structured by watches on the bridge and set mealtimes, and sprinkled with spontaneous laughter or the occasional burst of irritation. Always changing. Always moving forward. That is, until we arrived at the most northern port of our journey.

This morning it hit me why I’ve been feeling such reticence the last few days. Once again, I had come to a point of no return. We were turning back. Any movement forward is now a slow farewell to this life on the ship I have so briefly embraced. Standing at the rail, watching the cranes and mountains fade behind us, I realised that going south again meant moving not only toward home but also away from this floating world that has begun to feel like home. That realisation is harder for me to commit to wholeheartedly.

Turning back is inevitable, at sea or in life. Ships do not simply push forward forever. They reach a destination, discharge or load, and then retrace their course. Perhaps it is the same for us. We set out boldly, cross thresholds, and then, sooner or later, find ourselves on a return leg, carrying something changed inside us. The trick, I tell myself, is not to mourn the turn but to treat it as another phase of the voyage.

Knowing this makes each conversation, each meal, and even each hour staring out at sea all the more precious. There is a rhythm of discovery and rediscovery, marked by shifts toward and shifts back. The joy of a watch on the bridge is different when I know it is one of my last. Even the routine of breakfast feels more deliberate, as if I am storing it up for the days when I will no longer hear the hum of engines beneath my feet.

I needed this journey to write about how my father and his love for sailing shaped my life. Writing down the stories of the past could only have happened because I was on a ship. Now my family and friends, who once knew so little, finally know more. The past, anchored in the present, may be the most wholesome way to free myself from those bittersweet memories of time gone by.

At this moment, I am writing from the captain’s chair on the bridge. Some of my favourite people are quietly busy getting the vessel safely past the last of the icebergs. The sun is out. The seas are calm. We are heading home. Time to go out on deck for a walk, letting my thoughts run free, gathering the last fragments of this journey before they, too, turn back into memory.