Ship Happenz

Meet Our Third Crew Member: The Aries

Sun, 03 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

We do have an autopilot on board, but for longer distances we wanted something more reliable and less dependent on electricity.

That’s why we added an Aries windvane.

It doesn’t need power, doesn’t beep, and doesn’t complain.

Once set up right, it just keeps the course, hour after hour, using nothing but wind and water. A solid piece of gear that quickly became our quiet, trusted third crew member.

So… how does a windvane actually work?

It’s pretty clever and fully mechanical.

The windvane has a vertical blade that sticks up into the wind. Once you set it to the wind angle you want to hold, it acts like a wind compass: if the wind shifts, the blade tilts.

This motion is transferred down to a secondary rudder, the windvane rudder, mounted in the water below.
The windvane rudder then angles left or right, depending on the wind shift. When the windvane rudder tilts in the water, it pulls on a set of control lines. Those lines are connected to either side of your tiller, gently pushing it left or right. This turns your main rudder, correcting your course.

Onceback on course, the wind hits the blade evenly again, and the system returns to balance.

No wires. No screens. No power. Just wind, water, and a bit of physics.

And once it’s dialed in, it can steer the boat for hours, even days, without anyone touching the helm.

Our windvane journey

When we started looking into windvanes, we kept coming across glowing reviews of the Aries. Strong, simple, and reliable.
And to our surprise, we found out the company was based in the Netherlands.
Even better: we were in Enkhuizen at the time.
So we picked up the phone, had a good chat, and things moved quickly from there.

Lean (the owner) offered to stop by and talk us through the Aries in person, and to see if our boat would be a good fit.
Perfect! We had a great chat about how it all works, what to expect, and how the Aries handles in real conditions.
To our surprise, we learned that even 45-ton ships have used Aries windvanes successfully.
That was all we needed to hear, as we have a big lady ourselfes (14 ton). We were sold!

What followed was another visit from Lean to take measurements of our boat.
After that, the parts would be custom-built.

We were then invited to his workshop in Amsterdam-Noord to assemble the windvane together.
A great idea. That way, we’d understand how it all fits, and we’d know what to do if we ever need to maintain or replace parts along the way.

It was fun and super informative. We were learning so much!

After assembling everything together, we wrapped up the day with a cold beer and took our brand new windvane back to Enkhuizen.

Now came the tricky part: mounting the windvane on our boat.
Lean had explained everything clearly, step by step.
We asked our friend Ron to help; definitely more of a three-person job than a two-person one.

Drilling into the boat for the first time?
Yeah… that’s a little nerve-wracking.

But after a full day of measuring, drilling, and bolting things together, it was on!
And honestly? It looked awesome.

We went to bed feeling pretty pleased with ourselves.
But the next morning?

“Oh my god, something’s wrong! I think we messed it up!”

That’s when we realized the wind blade wasn’t actually sticking up above the boat. And the more we thought back to Lean’s instructions, the more obvious it became: it was mounted too low.

Now what?
Yep… time to take it all apart and start over.

Luckily, we felt way more comfortable with the whole process the second time around.
But… it did mean that instead of 8 holes, we now had 16 in the boat.

We ended up filling the 8 extra holes with bolts, and honestly, it actually looks kind of cool.
Who knows, maybe we’ll use them for something in the future.

Let’s just say… it gives the stern character.

Next step: fine-tuning.
This meant finding the perfect spot on the tiller: the sweet spot where the windvane can steer us in exactly the right direction, without over- or underreacting.

First challenge: attaching the bracket to the tiller.
Easier said than done, let me tell you.
But in the end, we managed.
Of course, we didn’t tighten it fully, not until we were sure we’d found the perfect position.

It took a few test sails on the IJsselmeer to find the sweet spot, but eventually, we nailed it.
Aries was ready to steer.

Next up: learning how to actually set Aries on course.

The first time? It worked straight away.
“Wow! That was easy,” we thought.

We’d heard from others that it can take weeks, even a month, to really get the hang of it.
After a few more attempts, we realized… we’d probably just had a bit of beginner’s luck.

But as we got to know our boat better, we started to understand Aries better too.
The two go hand in hand, and now we wouldn’t want to sail without it.

PS: We call him Harald.

From House to Hull: Adjusting to Life Aboard

Sun, 03 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Small Space, Big Adjustments

Going from 94 square meters to about 15 is… noticeable. Suddenly, every “maybe useful someday” item becomes a tough decision: take it, toss it, or stash it at your parents’ house (thanks again, mom and dad).

We each had our own challenges. For Mathilde, it was clothes and books. Downsizing her wardrobe and letting go of beloved paperbacks was no small task. For Ralph, it was gadgets and electronics: cables, tools, backup tools for the tools... and, with a heavy heart, his beloved racing simulator. There’s just no room for virtual Formula 1 on a sailboat.

We did keep a small stash of “absolutely can’t part with this” items, safely stored in Mathilde’s parents’ attic. Things like our trusty camping tent, photo albums, a box of memories, and yes… a few extra clothing pieces that just wouldn’t fit on board but were too sentimental to toss. Ralph’s bike is now living in their garage. Mathilde passed hers on to her brother.

And our beloved car? Once bought from a friend, it made a full circle and returned to its original owner.

It’s a strange but freeing process, realizing how much stuff you quietly collected over the years without really needing it. Aboard, everything has to serve a purpose.

PS: When the weather’s good, we’re lucky to have a little extra living room: the cockpit.

Mess Happens Fast

First things first: Mathilde likes things tidy. Clutter makes her restless, she just can’t relax when stuff is lying around. Ralph? Not so much. He genuinely doesn’t see the mess. In our old house, he had his own mancave, which he proudly kept in a state of “creative chaos.” It worked… until we moved onto a boat.

Now we share every corner. And anything left lying around becomes an eyesore. At least, to Mathilde. Ralph’s eyes seem conveniently blind.

“But it’s also about safety!” Mathilde argues. “When we’re sailing, things can fall. And if something goes wrong, we need to know exactly where everything is, so it all has to go back in the same place.” “Yeah, okay,” Ralph replies, “but we’re at anchor now. Do we really need to be that strict?” “If you just get used to it now, it won’t feel like a big deal later,” Mathilde adds, matter-of-factly.

Fast forward to the next morning. Ralph is digging through a drawer.

“Have you seen the screwdriver?”

“Yes,” Mathilde answers, without even looking up. “Tool bag. Right side pocket. Where it belongs.”

Silence.

“…Right.”

Living in a small space means both of us have had to adjust. For Mathilde, letting go of perfect order (sometimes). For Ralph, learning that “I’ll put it away later” doesn’t really fly on a boat. It’s not always smooth sailing, but we're finding our rhythm. It’s all about compromise, and maybe labeling a few more drawers.

Cooking in a Moving Kitchen

Is it different to cook on a boat?
Well, not really, as long as the boat’s not moving.
Aside from the tiny space, it feels almost normal.
But oh boy… once we’re underway? It’s a whole different ballgame.

When we’re underway, even making tea turns into an obstacle course.
The kettle slides, the cups tilt, and suddenly you're bracing with one leg, stirring with one hand, and hoping the spoon doesn’t take flight.

Ralph always says, “Just use the stove, it moves with the boat. Put your cup there, it’ll make life so much easier.”
Mathilde’s trying to remember that… more and more.

Most of the time, it’s Mathilde in the moving kitchen. And when Ralph decides to adjust course mid-cooking, you’ll often hear:
“Hey! Watch it. I’m cooking down here!”
Fair enough, trying to drain pasta while the boat heels is easier said than done. One wrong tilt and your dinner’s in the sink.

The fridge is truly something else. It’s basically a hole in the countertop where it's all about stacking things on top of each other. And of course, the one drink you really want is always at the very bottom.

Alone, Together

Living on a boat means you’re pretty much always in each other’s space.
Brushing your teeth, cooking, boat repairs, reading: it all happens within a few square meters.

We get asked a lot: “Doesn’t it drive you crazy, being in such a small space together all the time?”
Fair question. The truth? Sometimes, yes. Most of the time, no.

Ralph? He couldn’t care less. Being around each other 24/7 doesn't bother him at all.
Mathilde, on the other hand, sometimes just wants a moment to herself, like brushing her teeth in peace. But just as she’s enjoying the quiet…
BAM, Ralph barges into the bathroom, nearly hitting Mathilde in the face with the door :)

We don’t talk all day, that would be impossible (and honestly, exhausting).
But we definitely talk more than we used to before boat life.

We still do our own thing: watching a show, sorting admin, playing a game. Just always in the same space.
Where we used to not always see each other during the day, now we literally see everything the other is doing. All the time.

But there’s something pretty special about always being nearby, even when you’re doing your own thing.
A quick check-in, a quiet smile, or just knowing the other is there.

How We Sleep at Sea

We used to sleep in a king-sized bed, the kind where you could roll over twice and still not find each other.
Now? Let’s just say we’re very much within arm’s reach. It took Ralph a bit of adjusting, while Mathilde actually found it quite cozy from the start.

You hear a lot of sounds at night. Ralph likes to call it harbor music.
Mathilde? She could sleep through just about anything, no problem.
Ralph, on the other hand, sometimes lies awake listening to the creaking lines or a restless fender. At 2 AM, he’s often the one sneaking out in his boxers to adjust a rope or tighten a cleat, just to get some peace and quiet.
Naturally, Mathilde sleeps right through it.

One thing we both don’t love? Swell.
You end up rocking back and forth in bed.

I’ts happened that Ralph sat up in the middle of the night and said, “I’m moving.”
Mathilde thought, “Come on, let’s just ride it out until morning.”
But honestly? Once we dropped anchor in a quieter spot, it was nice to get a few hours of proper sleep.

And when were underway?

We take shifts and sleep on the couch,which suddenly becomes the most comfortable spot on the boat.

Doing Your Business at Sea

Boat life doesn’t leave much room for privacy, and that includes toilet time.

We have an electric flush, which is great.

There is just one thing: you hear everything. And since the toilet is located right next to the sleeping area, there’s really no escaping the soundtrack.

We do have the option to close an extra door for some separation, but let’s be honest, we often don’t.

Which means yes, you might catch a glimpse of your partner on the throne. Awkward at first. But hey, no secrets aboard, right?

And then there’s… the smell. Despite giving the toilet a full overhaul during our Boat Bootcamp in Lagos (see blog), it’s still not quite like home. Sometimes it’s fine. Other times? Let’s just say: you know someone’s been.

Furthermore, Mathilde knows to be on high alert when Ralph heads to the toilet. Why? Well, let’s just say there’s… history. Once, back in the early days, Ralph proudly announced he’d just set a personal record: “biggest one ever!” he said, smiling proudly.
The only problem? Our toilet isn’t exactly built for glory.
You guessed it: completely clogged. It’s a moment we both remember; Ralph with pride, Mathilde with mild trauma.

The Mango Man

Sat, 02 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

After a few solid hikes on the island of La Gomera, we figured we’d “take it easy” with a shorter hike today (July 14th).

The plan: San Sebastián to El Atajo.

About three and a half hours, not too long, since our legs were still feeling the climbs from the days before.

Just a light day out, we thought...

But somewhere along the way, we met The Mango Man.
And that made everything worth it.

But as it turns out, “light” is a relative term when you're walking uphill in 30 degrees, especially when the first part of the route is a long stretch of sun-baked asphalt. We were already sweating before we’d even left the town behind.

The road was quiet, a bit dusty, and felt warmer with every step.

Just as our thoughts started drifting toward cold drinks and places to sit… we met The Mango Man.

“Do you guys want some mangoes?!”
We heard a man shouting at us in Spanish from down below. We didn’t hesitate.
“¡Claro que sí!”
And just like that, we left the trail and headed downhill, straight toward The Mango Man.

We introduced ourselves, and he immediately led us to his finca, where he started packing mangoes with a big smile.
Lots of mangoes!
Clearly, this was no casual offer, we were leaving with serious fruit.

We tried, in our best Spanish, to explain that we still had a mountain to climb, so maybe just a few mangoes would do.
But he wasn’t having it.
The crate emptied, our bag filled.

“Are we supposed to pay for this?” we wondered.
“I don’t think so,” said Mathilde. “He really just wants to give them to us.”
“Well… we’ll see,” we said, grinning at each other, half amused, half unsure what we’d just gotten ourselves into.

With our bag filled to the top and plenty of thank-yous exchanged, the tour began.

The Mango Man was clearly proud and keen to show us around his plantation, so we followed him: from tree to tree, through heat, shade, and the occasional mist from a sprinkler.
The place was much bigger than we’d expected, and we found ourselves ducking under low branches, sidestepping fallen mangos, and weaving past a very relaxed chicken family napping under one of the trees.

“Do you know the difference between a mango and a manga?”
Well… no, we didn’t.

“Did you know there are over 40 types?” he said, handing us another one to taste.
“Here, try this — my avocados, Mexican style. They’re the best.”
“You like lychees? Here, have one.”

We absolutely loved it! His passion, the way he spoke about his plants, and the beautiful spot he called home.
We gently tried to continue our hike, but no: not so fast.

“Come back to the finca, I’ll show you that too!”
Okay...

Next thing we knew, he handed us cold beers.
“From Galicia,” he said proudly. “That’s where I’m from.”

“We haven’t eaten much and still have a mountain to climb,” we said, laughing.
But never mind, the bottles were already open.

The Mango Man grows everything organically, something his customers clearly appreciate.
In fact, he told us he’s already in talks with a potential new client from the Netherlands.

He doesn’t have any employees, just a few friends who occasionally lend a hand.
In return? A couple of mangoes, a cold beer, and something tasty on the barbecue.
Fair deal, if you ask us.

Now it was really time to move on, an hour and a half later.

“How much do we owe you?” we asked.
“Nothing, of course,” he said. “Mi familia.”

We found the whole encounter genuinely special: a reminder that people can still be kind, just for the sake of it. Not exactly part of our planned hike, but definitely the most memorable detour!

With a backpack full of mangoes and a smile on our faces, we finally continued our hike.
We ended up cutting the route a bit short, partly because the day already felt complete, and partly because carrying an extra 3 kilos of mangoes uphill turned out to be a bit heavier than expected.

We had mangoes for a week :)

3 Weeks in Boat Work Bootcamp

Thu, 31 Jul 2025 00:00:00 +0000

We spent three full weeks on the hard in the shipyard of Lagos:

Sun above, dust below, and boat projects everywhere.

Part of it was premeditated: we knew we had to renew the antifouling, and Dutch spring temperatures weren’t exactly paint-friendly.

But this wasn’t just a bottom job...

The Centerboard Saga

One of our main goals: investigate our noisy centerboard, or more accurately, our swinging keel.

It had been banging around under the boat like it was trying to escape. For Ralph (with his finely tuned hearing), every clunk was like a dagger to the soul. So yeah… this one was high on the list.

With the boat out of the water, we finally had the chance to get a proper look. We brought in the mechanics from Sopromar, and they were confident right away. We tried showing them the original construction drawings, but they’d already seen enough. “We know what to do.”

Well… not quite so fast.

First, the keel was completely stuck.
It took them a full day just to get it free.
Once it was out, they found the culprit: the bearing was totally worn out.
They fabricated a brand-new bearing on site, custom-made for our keel. But putting it all back together?
That turned out to be just as hard.
The new bearing was too tight, and the whole thing refused to go back in.
So: another round of adjustments, sanding and reshaping, followed by another full day of trial, error, and heavy lifting.

Finally, everything fit and was reassembled perfectly.

The result?
Not a single bonk since.
Peace and quiet beneath the floorboards. Ralph can sleep again.

Toilet Troubles (and Triumph)

A functional toilet is one of those things you don’t fully appreciate… until it stops working.

Ours had been temperamental for a while and with the boat out of the water, we decided it was time to face the beast.

We ended up taking the entire thing apart, with all the unspeakable horror that comes with 30 years of boat plumbing. We’re pretty sure we found traces of poop from 1996. It was black, tar-like, and absolutely not from this decade. Absolutely disgusting!

Ralph was the brave one: hours spent dismantling, cleaning (sometimes dry-heaving), and replacing several parts by hand. It was SO filthy!!

Mathilde couldn’t even watch, just the smell was enough to make her flee the scene.

But… the effort paid off. The throne is now functioning flawlessly. Pure luxury at sea.

Battery Business

We installed a brand-new bow thruster battery.

If you’ve read our earlier blog (What the Ship?!), you’ll know our old bow thruster battery had basically given up on life mid-voyage, leaving us momentarily adrift and adrenaline-fueled.

Compared to that drama, this replacement was a breeze. Well… almost.

The real challenge wasn’t the wiring, it was the logistics.

This beast of a battery weighs nearly 50 kilos, and the only way to get it onboard was via a 4-meter ladder from ground level to the deck. Getting it up there safely (without breaking backs, toes, or relationships) required some creativity, some swearing, and a whole lot of core strength. But once in place? Plug, secure, done.

Let’s hope this one sticks around a bit longer.

Shade Upgrade: Bimini & Bow Arch

One of the best decisions we made during the yard period: having a custom bow arch and bimini installed.

Until then, we were basically at the mercy of the sun, unless we put up our winter cockpit tent, which felt like being trapped inside a greenhouse sauna.

The tricky part? Our boat has a classic little stern, no existing arch, and no structure to build on.

Antonio the sailmaker, who came aboard, scratched his head once, and then immediately proposed a clever solution that would give us as much shade as possible without overwhelming the boat’s look.

First, a small custom arch was welded to the aft rail; nothing bulky, just something that fit the lines of our boat. Once that was done, Antonio came back to measure everything with precision. The result? A perfectly tailored bimini that gives us shade and serious joy.

Bring on the sun. We're ready!

A Shiny New Radar Reflector

We added a new radar reflector to the backstay. Not exactly the sexiest upgrade, but a very useful one.

Let’s face it: we’d rather be seen by big ships before they’re close enough to wave at.

Attaching it, however, wasn’t exactly plug-and-play. There’s no standard bracket for mounting a reflector to a backstay, so we had to get creative.

Ralph came up with a clever solution: using two stainless clamps and drilling a few well-placed holes in the reflector itself.

Mathilde took care of the drilling, following Ralph’s flawless instructions, and did an excellent job.

To finish the job, we borrowed the hoisting trolley from our friendly welder (the same guy who installed our bow arch). Thanks to that, Ralph was able to raise the reflector and mount it at just the right height; safely, securely, and without dangling upside-down from the shrouds.

The result? One beautifully placed, rock-solid radar reflector. Now let's hope it actually reflects something.

The Antifouling Beast

The biggest job of all, and one we tackled entirely ourselves.

When the boat was first lifted out of the water, she looked surprisingly clean. So we thought: nah, no need to pay the shipyard to pressure wash her. Boy, were we wrong... Once she dried, the real grime revealed itself.

Task 1: full hull cleaning and degreasing. Mathilde took that on solo (while Ralph was elbows-deep in the toilet… see: Toilet Troubles). And let us tell you: our hull is not small.

Task 2: sanding. Endless sanding... We went through so many sheets of sandpaper, our arms vibrated in our sleep. Along the way, we discovered plenty of rust patches. Ralph tackled those head-on with the angle grinder, which is a brutal, noisy, soul-testing job. There were moments we honestly felt closer to tears than triumph.

Once all the rust was exposed, we treated every spot with Ranex rust converter and gave ourselves 24 hours off to recover.

Then came two full coats of primer. Each coat earned us another mini break while it dried. Small mercies.

Then the final battle: the antifouling.

We suited up in our glamorous white coveralls and went for it, two brushes and one rolling tray at a time. Ralph even raised the waterline a little, so fingers crossed it all lines up when she floats again.

It wasn’t easy. Our boat has a seriously round belly, which made every corner awkward, every movement tiring.

Throughout the process, we regularly checked in with our good friend Remco in Enkhuizen to confirm we weren’t ruining everything.

Just when we thought we were done: surprise! We didn’t have enough antifouling for a second coat. After much internal debate (and external sweating), we bought a different brand that thankfully matched in colour and texture.

It was a beast. It was exhausting. But we did it!

A true test of teamwork. And we’re proud of every layer.

What the Ship?! (So Far)

Wed, 30 Jul 2025 00:00:00 +0000

In the past four months, we’ve already had our fair share of What the Ship?! moments; from wobbly screws and missing shackles to an uninvited diesel swimming pool in the engine room.

Aside from the smaller slip-ups; like bumping into a post while docking at our very first port (rookie mistake), forgetting to close the windows before hosing down the boat, losing two boat hooks purely through clumsiness, saying goodbye to a fender, or underestimating the tides early on and accidentally drying out once somewhere along the way, we’ve also had a few more serious What the Ship?! moments so far.

1. Sparks Before Guernsey

Right before our crossing from the Isle of Wight to Guernsey, the engine refused to start.

We’d already noticed a few hiccups in the days before, but now, right when we were ready to go, it was completely dead.

Time for a classic divide-and-conquer: Mathilde at the ignition, Ralph with his head in the engine bay. As the engine tried to start, a massive spark jumped out. “MOTOR OFF!!” Ralph shouted. What the ship was that?!

After some calm inspection, we found the culprit: the negative cable from the starter motor to the central ground point on the chassis had come loose;the bolt on the central ground had backed out. Tightening that one bolt fixed everything.

A wise lesson: check your bolts before they check you.

2. The Smell of Trouble in Brittany

Somewhere off the coast of Brittany, we caught a faint burning smell coming from the bow.

By sheer luck, Ralph had to use the toilet, which on our boat is located right next to the bow thruster battery. Turns out, the battery was overheating.

Engine off. Battery disconnected. Cooldown time. Our first moment adrift.

3. The Autopilot Meltdown

Our autopilot is pretty essential: we’ve got a tiller, and while we’re not lazy, staying “on” for hours (let alone days) is exhausting.

Just days before crossing the Bay of Biscay, the autopilot suddenly started beeping like mad. What the Ship is that?! We pictured ourselves hand-steering around the world.

Before we started dismantling the entire system, we thankfully discovered the culprit: a blown fuse.

Fixed in 10 seconds. Panic over.

4. The Great Shackle Escape

During our very first sunset on the Bay of Biscay crossing, Mathilde noticed something odd about the genoa. Turned out the shackle at the bottom wasn’t just loose: it was gone. Shit. Do we even have a matching spare?

Luckily, we have an absurd amount of tools onboard. After pulling out half the boat’s storage, we found a spare shackle!

In the excitement, we forgot to close the screws-and-nuts box properly. Thanks to the swell, we then spent a solid hour picking tiny hardware off the cabin floor.

Shackle secured. Off we went!

5. Tangled at Midnight

During the first night of our Bay of Biscay crossing, we came across several big ships.

One of them? Let’s just say we didn’t quite nail our collision avoidance. We had to tack away at the very last moment and the genoa didn’t like it one bit. Somehow, in the chaos, it got completely tangled.

Panic mode: Ralph was convinced the sail had ripped, but it was pitch black and we couldn’t be sure. We ended up doing at least 20 circles (first to starboard, then to port) to build enough momentum to shake it loose. Mathilde on the helm, Ralph up front, where he had a near man-overboard moment during the struggle. Eventually, the genoa came free, and we could continue.

The rest of the night? Let’s call it tense but educational.

6. Slippery Situations & Smoky Surprises

Because our engine isn’t exactly standard in the nautical world and as we’ve had a few oily surprises along the way, we booked a mechanic in Tenerife to take a proper look.

On our way to Santa Cruz (where we had a marina reservation), we suddenly smelled diesel after just one hour of motoring. Ralph dove into the engine bay… and found litres of diesel sloshing around.

Engine off. No wind. Totally adrift.

We started pumping out as much diesel as we could and wondered, now what? Ralph spotted the issue: a tiny screw in the fuel filter’s vent had popped off… and by some miracle, it was lying in the bilge. Screw back on.

But now: do we restart? Is that safe? “Diesel’s not flammable, right?” said Mathilde. “Should we send out a PAN PAN?” A quick phone call to our dear friend Ron in Enkhuizen saved the day; he calmed us down and talked us through the restart.

Just as we thought we were in the clear… smoke started rising from under the exhaust insulation.

Engine off. Anchor down.

Turns out, the insulation had seen better days. We monitored it closely, restarted, and with a bit of luck (and a sudden breeze), we managed to sail most of the way into the harbour.

Sweaty? Yes. Safe? Also yes. Another What the Ship?! moment in the books.

And to think… we’re only four months in.

If there’s one thing we’ve learned, it’s that sailing isn’t just sunsets and dolphins. It’s also diesel baths, disappearing boat hooks, and late-night genoa wrestling. But every mishap makes the journey more memorable (and gives us something to laugh about later).

Here’s to many more miles, many more lessons, and probably a few more What the Ship?! moments along the way.

Looking Back: One Week In, Zero Clue What We’re Doing

Wed, 30 Jul 2025 00:00:00 +0000

April 3rd: And We’re Off!

On April 3rd, it finally happened: we left Enkhuizen, officially kicking off our adventure. Our plan? Sail to IJmuiden; our first real stretch on open sea, and the first time navigating saltwater together.

We had a great trip through Amsterdam, full of excitement… and nerves. By the time we arrived in IJmuiden, the wind had really picked up.

Docking was tricky and yep, we hit a pole on the way in. Turns out, we weren’t the only ones. Always 'comforting' to see other boats struggling too ;)

Smooth Sailing to Scheveningen

Our next stop: Scheveningen (The Hague).
Mathilde used to live there for three years and was beyond excited to sail into her old hometown.
The sea was flat, the weather calm, everything felt easy going.

At the dock, her brother Harald was waiting for us, and not long after, Robin and his wife showed up for drinks.
It turned into a super cozy evening with wine, stories, and pizza aboard. Instant boat vibes.

The next day was a practical one; time for groceries, paperwork, and prepping for the next goodbye: Ralph’s friends were coming that evening for one last get-together before departure.
It was a tight squeeze, but somehow everyone fit on board and it turned into a great evening.

The next morning, bright and early, Harald knocked on deck.
“Can you drop me off in London? I want to visit my girlfriend.”
And just like that… our route shifted westward. First destination: Cadzand.

Guest log – Harald’s Take on Cadzand
We let Harald take the helm (of the keyboard) for this one.
Here’s how he experienced the trip to Cadzand:

We continued our journey via Ostend and Dunkirk.
We had watched the Dunkirk movie together beforehand, which made it extra fun. Suddenly, the remnants like the Mole were no longer just history, but something we could actually recognize from the water.

Then things got a little more exciting: we were about to cross the English Channel: destination: Dover!
Thankfully, the crossing went smooth, with semi-calm seas and surprisingly little “traffic” around.
We’d been warned we might encounter migrants attempting to cross from France to the UK, but we didn’t see any.

Just us, the water, and a straight shot to the White Cliffs.

The next morning, after a calm breakfast in Dover, we set sail for Ramsgate.

It was a relaxed leg of the trip and once again, Harald took the opportunity to turn his experience into a guest blog.
Here’s how he saw it:

From Ramsgate, we spent the night in Queenborough on a mooring.
A first for us, and a cool experience not being tied up in a marina.

The next day, we made our way up the Thames and into London.

We docked at South Dock Marina, which turned out to be a bit of an adventure in itself.
It’s not exactly the most common choice for visiting boats, most of the ships there are lived on full-time, and the berths are… tight.

But it was totally worth it, because Harald’s girlfriend lives just two blocks away.

Mission accomplished!

We absolutely loved having Harald on board! He was cheerful, helpful, and definitely crew-worthy.
He earned his stripes (and probably a few extra beers)!

Ahoy There! And Welcome Aboard

Tue, 29 Jul 2025 00:00:00 +0000

So... we did a thing.

We bought a boat. Her name is Hestia.

And now we’re sailing off into the salty unknown with a camera, a questionable sense of direction, and far too many tins of chickpeas.

We’re Ralph & Mathilde, two Dutchies who decided to swap the office for ocean waves about four months ago. Since then, we’ve already had our fair share of epic sunsets, wild storms, and a healthy dose of “What the Ship?!” moments that make this adventure unforgettable.

This blog?
It’s where we share our adventures: the magical moments, the unexpected lessons, and a few 'oh no' moments along the way.

From quiet anchorages to chaotic repairs, and dolphins to diesel leaks: it’s all part of the ride.

Even if you’ve never stepped foot on a boat: welcome aboard!

Fair winds,

Ralph & Mathilde