The pull of gravity

When I first told friends, family, and colleagues about this voyage, their reactions followed a familiar pattern. First came the amazement, the delight, even envy at the chance to do such a trip. But a nanosecond later came the inevitable question: “Do you really think you can manage that at your age?” It always arrived like a reflex. I took it in good humour, but it placed a magnifying glass over me. Was I really fit enough? Could I take on the challenge?

The truth was, the question was fair. In recent years, I had carried my share of chronic health issues, and I knew I could not step on board without preparing differently. So, I decided to treat this voyage not only as an adventure but also as a kind of test. A test of stamina, balance, and whether my knees still remembered what they were built for.

In the year leading up to it, I made changes. I began going to the gym with Giuseppe twice a week, continued my two weekly yoga sessions with Alyn, and maintained my daily goal of 10,000 steps, which I had been doing for nearly 15 years. I adjusted my sleep habits, rethought what I ate, and tried to bring more balance into my days. Even after leaving full-time work, I somehow managed to fill every corner of my week with freelance projects, which I then pruned down to 25 to 30 hours. For this voyage, I wanted to arrive in a different frame of mind and body. Or at least one that was less creaky.

On board, walking became a ritual of its own. When the weather allowed, I went out on deck. The ship is long enough that ten thousand steps are less of a burden than they sound. It is like circling two football fields, except instead of goalposts, there were endless horizons and the occasional bemused deckhand giving me a wave. On days when the seas were unsettled and the deck too wet or dangerous, I paced my cabin. Less romantic, certainly, and more like a hamster in a cage, but it kept me moving.

The captain told me that walking at sea feels lighter because you do not carry the same pull of gravity. He explained that with thousands of meters of water beneath you, the sensation of weight is different from land. I'm not sure whether the science was sound, but I liked the idea. Perhaps that was why my steps felt so different. Each circuit on deck gave me a sense of suspension, as though some heaviness had lifted, and with it came a lightness in thought as well.

Walking gave me more than exercise. It gave me solitude. Away from the noise of the engine and the chatter of the mess, I could simply listen to the water against the hull. The sea has a way of quieting the noise inside my head. I found myself loosening old patterns of worry and letting a little space return. In those hours, I wasn’t thinking about deadlines or expectations. I was just walking, breathing, and watching the water slide past.

Now, as the voyage comes to an end, I find myself asking what I will remember of this time. It will not only be the memory of storms or sunrises, nor only the friendships formed on board. It will also be the sense of intentionality that shaped these last months. I was able to slow down, to live with more steadiness, to give myself the time to be well. That, I think, is the real treasure of this trip.

And yet, I know the pull of daily life waits for me at home. Lübeck will not offer the same expanse of deck or the same horizon. It will offer routines, obligations, and the familiar weight of everyday demands. The real test will not be whether I could manage a voyage at my age. I have done that. The test will be whether I can keep hold of this lighter way of being, whether I can resist slipping back into old habits, whether I can let the spaciousness of the sea stay with me, even when the land and its gravity pull hard.