Surprise in India, silence on board

Rajesh has arrived safely in India, and what an arrival it was. No one knew that he was coming, and that is exactly what he enjoys most: completely surprising his loved ones. For him, it is the ultimate thrill to suddenly appear in front of someone, as if a ghost had materialized out of thin air. First comes the shock, then the laughter, and finally those exuberant hugs. That moment when disbelief turns into pure joy is priceless. He also happened to arrive right in the middle of festival season. All over the country Hindu celebrations are taking place, people are off work, families come together, and the air is filled with colour, music, and excitement. Rajesh is travelling from place to place, glowing in every video call. His eyes sparkle, his laughter fills the screen. For us on board, that softens the emptiness a little, though it remains palpable. The deck feels quieter without his footsteps, and the evenings are more subdued as Jeroen and I play games with just the two of us.

Jeroen and I have not been idle in the meantime. The moment Rajesh’s cabin was empty, a list magically appeared with all those jobs that we could not properly reach before. Jeroen immediately dove into it. The bow thruster is receiving an electronic service, and the mysterious anchor-wash hose, which has long refused to do what it should, is being taken apart. As if that were not enough, we have also bought two new AGM batteries. Jeroen is now trying to connect devices that require short bursts of power, which our lithium batteries do not appreciate, to a separate AGM network. It is a clever plan, but it means days of puzzling with wires, diagrams, and fuses. Electronics are not his favourite playground. Give him an engine or a mechanical issue, and he will whistle through it. But once wires, beeps, and amps are involved, his brow furrows as if he were translating a foreign language. He is brilliant at it, but it simply takes more energy. So I leave him alone. A Jeroen who is staring intently at cables is best left undisturbed.

I curl up on the couch with my laptop and dive back into my book, a psychological novel about Saar and Pim. There I can pour out all my thoughts, emotions, and observations. Sometimes I glance outside, watching the water ripple softly against the hull, or I listen to the rattle of tools below deck. And of course, I make sure that food and drinks are ready. Because let us be honest: a man with a full belly and a cold drink within reach thinks better. A happy man is a happy wife, a truth that applies even more strongly at sea than on land, in my opinion. And so we navigate between longing and busyness, between silence and cheerful video calls. Rajesh dances from festival to festival; we move from task to task. Somewhere in between, in that balance of distance and closeness, I feel how strong the bond remains, no matter where we are.

We are anchored between Vuda Marina and Denarau, two places with their own charm. Vuda has a small chandlery and, just fifteen minutes away by bus or taxi, the city of Lautoka for technical supplies. Denarau, on the other hand, has shops and parts right in the marina, as well as a good supermarket for everyday needs. When Jeroen and I lifted the anchor in Vuda to sail towards Denarau, we exchanged a look. It was the first time since our departure that we were truly sailing alone. Jeroen and Rajesh had done this before when I spent four months working in the Netherlands, but for us together, it was new. We smiled, took a deep breath, and said at the same time: we can do this. Then we poured a splash of rum overboard, not only for Neptune as tradition dictates, but also for Rajesh. You can do this, and so can we.

In New Zealand, you can hardly bring anything ashore: no fresh produce, no dried fruit, sometimes not even flour. So I go through every cupboard, checking and sorting, reorganising every can and bag. We discovered that we do not need to buy anything else until we arrive in New Zealand, as there is plenty that needs to be used up first. At the same time, I dive into the pile of paperwork: forms, lists, declarations. It feels endless.

The wind shifts, and soon we are bouncing in Denarau, up and down. Waves pound the bow, and water sprays high. I am sitting in the cockpit when I suddenly see a sailboat drifting straight towards us. “Jeroen!” I call. There is no one on board the other boat. Within seconds, Jeroen jumps into the dinghy and climbs aboard the runaway vessel. There he finds only a button to raise the anchor, not to lower it. Meanwhile, the boat keeps drifting closer. Without hesitation, he grabs our spare anchor, calls for help from a neighbouring boat, and together they manage to drop it. Just in time, the drifting boat stops, right as its owners return. Their relief and gratitude are immense. This is what you hope for in the sailing community: that people also look out for your boat.

We barely have time to breathe when, five minutes later, I see another boat dangerously close. “Jeroen!” I shout again, my voice an octave higher. He rushes outside. This time the owner is on board, but his engine will not start. A powerless boat being pushed by the waves, and we are right in its path. Jeroen acts instantly: first he wants to secure our own boat. But then he calls from the bow, “That is impossible, I am still working on our anchor!” With one swift motion he starts the dinghy and manoeuvres between our boat and the drifting one while I drop fenders over the side and stay in the cockpit, ready to start our engine if things go wrong. The boat slides past at barely two metres’ distance. We keep an eye on the wind; it is shifting slightly. Once the other boat passes, its skipper lets out more chain, and the vessel slowly stops. Jeroen also warns a catamaran behind us, which promptly lets out extra chain to give everyone more room. Then calm returns. The boats lie safely spaced once again. We are still bouncing though, as if the sea wants to remind us that nothing here can ever be taken for granted.

Ten minutes later, Jeroen is back in his wiring diagrams, and I am back in my story about Saar and Pim and the secret that lingers between the waves. Writing brings me home to myself. What I experience on board, the silence, the endless water, the small storms inside my head, all find a place there. In Saar and Pim’s story, I can express everything I see and feel, without it having to be about me. Their world is fictional, but the emotions I pour into it are real. It is my way of understanding, processing, and turning what sometimes hurts into something beautiful.

After nearly a week of effort, the big project is done. I cannot help but look at Jeroen with pride. What started as one small job has, as always with him, grown into a complete technical transformation. As we pulled cables, installed new batteries, moved switches, and tested systems, one improvement naturally led to another. And now, after days of tools, schematics, and perseverance, everything works perfectly, each component neatly in its place. The engine room gleams, and so does Jeroen.

Only the engine and generator remain: an oil change, new filters, new impellers. The smell of grease hangs in the air, the familiar perfume of every upcoming passage. It means that we will keep shuttling between Vuda and Denarau for a bit longer: one day chasing spare parts, the next with our heads buried in the engine room. Jeroen has found a sort of calm in it, or at least pretends to.

Still, we both cannot wait to be anchored somewhere where we can simply jump into the water again. Once the work is done, it will be time to clean the hull, a tropical version of spring cleaning. Then we will send photos and videos to New Zealand’s biosecurity. They take it seriously: not a single barnacle may cross their border. Only when they officially declare our hull clean enough will we be allowed to head south.

In the evenings, when the sun sets and the water turns to copper, I think of Barbara and Ralph from Lille Venn, and of Karin from Mabul. They are back in Switzerland for now, working, seeing family, enjoying life on land. Yet when we exchange messages, their words carry the same longing: to return to the boat, to that gently rocking home on the water. That is when I feel how far we truly are. Not just from Rajesh, but from everything that once felt so normal: work, friends, family, the Netherlands. Sometimes I miss it, and I simply want to feel again what it was like, that effortless closeness of being near.

Finding the right balance is the hardest part of this life. Because deep down I know that we will probably never feel completely at home again, neither there, nor here.