The waiting

My bags are packed. They have been for a few days now. They sit there, like the hospital bag I once kept ready in our hallway before giving birth to my two children. But this time, the waiting has a different quality. It is not just about preparing for departure. It is about being feeling as if I am living in a suspended state. Like the way we used to wait in harbours, unable to set sail until a storm front passed or the tides turned in our favour.

Even though the bags are just objects, they radiate a quiet kind of tension. They remind me every time I walk past them that things could begin at any moment. "Just you wait," they seem to say. "Any time now. Have you forgotten anything?" I study them with X-ray eyes, scanning for what might be missing. This morning, halfway through breakfast, I remembered I had left out my gym pants and undershirts. I shoved them into a side pocket, but the oversight unsettled me. What else had I missed?

So, I circle back to my checklist. Again and again. Obsessing over my luggage has become my strategy for coping with the uncertainty.

According to my crewing manager, all is well. A Superintendent from the Lübeck office is doing an inspection on MV Roland Oldendorff, and I will travel with him to Rotterdam. He will handle the introductions to the port authorities and the captain. This should be reassuring. But the truth is, I am very restless because there are still many unknowns.

At the moment, departure is pencilled in as “sometime this week.” That might feel fine to seasoned seafarers, but for someone like me, who already began saying goodbyes a week ago, it is too vague. Friends have dropped by. Family have sent warm messages. People have wished me well. Now, with every delay, it feels like I need to go through it all again.

And I will admit it: I have never been good at goodbyes. Many consider me a master of the Irish goodbye: leave the room quietly without anyone noticing.

Not only do I find them painful, I avoid them. I slip away from parties without a word. I prefer train station platforms and departure gates to be solitary, quiet moments without ceremony or fuss. But I have been talking to my daughter, Sara, and she helped me name something I had not quite faced. My discomfort with goodbyes is not just about avoiding awkwardness. It is about fear. A fear that it might be a farewell and not a good-bye.

But here is something I am beginning to learn. There is such a thing as a good goodbye. One that is not about finality, but about connection. One that allows both parties to feel something. To share a bit of joy or warmth. A good goodbye might include a promise: let us go to that café when I get back. Or, tell me what you are planning over the next six weeks. Sara says that such moments are not to be skipped but savoured.

People are not trying to trap me in sentiment when they say goodbye. They are excited for me. They want to accompany me, in spirit, as far as they can into this adventure. That is not something to flee. That is something to be grateful for. And if I can sit with the feelings that rise, instead of shutting them down, maybe I will find that goodbyes are not something to dread. Maybe they are just another way of loving well.

All this is to say: I am learning. Even now. Even before I have stepped on board. This waiting is teaching me.

Which brings me back to the waiting. It is not the same thing as patience. I have always thought of myself as a patient person. I will listen to someone with my whole attention. I will work on a drawing, a piece of writing, a project, for as long as it takes. I do not rush the process. I trust the unfolding.

But waiting, real waiting, the kind that comes with uncertainty and no clear timeline, is something else entirely. Waiting for medical results. Waiting for the exact date of departure. Waiting for a green light that remains stubbornly red. That is the kind of waiting I struggle with.

Back when we were sailing more often, waiting in port for a storm to pass was the worst. The sense of being ready to go, of longing to cast off, and yet being bound by something utterly out of our control—weather, tide, wind—made me fidgety and restless. Often in a bad mood. And it is no different now.

But this too is part of the voyage, is it not? The quiet hours before departure. The restlessness. The ache. The unexpected tenderness of being seen and sent off by people who care.

Even now, before I have stepped on the ship, the journey has already begun. It is changing me. Teaching me something I did not know I needed to learn: how to wait without flinching, how to say goodbye without fleeing, how to stay open to the bittersweet edges of leaving.

In German, there is that wonderful word: auf Wiedersehen. Until we see each other again.

That is what I need to hear. That is what I am learning to say.