The first thing we noticed wasn’t Cádiz itself, it was the boat.
She stopped leaning.
Not dramatically. Just enough that a mug stayed where you put it.
After the Strait, everything still felt switched on. The engine noise lingered in your head. The radio crackle. The sense that something very large and very uninterested in you might appear out of nowhere. Even tied up, the body doesn’t believe it straight away.
Ryan did the lines slower than usual. Same knots, same order, just less hurry. Cádiz marina felt calm in that Spanish way where nothing is actually calm but everyone agrees to pretend it is. A ferry passed. Someone was washing a deck with a hose like it was the most important task in the world.
We sat for a minute without speaking. That was new.
Ryan went straight into admin mode. Power on, power off, shore lead behaving badly, then behaving again when threatened. Water tanks checked twice. Fuel log scribbled in that half-angry handwriting he only uses after long passages. He muttered something about filters and made a note he would later pretend he didn’t make.
I went ashore with the documents, which is how I always end up in trouble.
Capitanía was exactly where it said it would be, which felt suspicious. The man behind the desk looked like he’d been waiting for us specifically. He flicked through the papers, stamped something with enthusiasm, then said a sentence long enough that I only caught three words and one shrug. I nodded. This usually works.
On the way back I got lost. Not properly lost, just Cádiz-lost. Narrow streets, corners that feel familiar until they don’t, the sense you’re walking in circles but the circles are prettier each time. I bought bread we didn’t need and olives we definitely did.
Back on board, the boat smelled like warm ropes and land. That’s always the moment it becomes a place again instead of a vehicle. Ryan was already deep into a conversation with another skipper about batteries. I listened for a bit, then tuned out. There’s only so much battery talk a person can absorb after a crossing.
That night, nothing happened.
No alarms. No passing ships close enough to count the windows. No wind shift that made you sit upright. Just the sound of voices drifting across the marina and a guitar somewhere that someone was learning badly.
We ate badly. Bread, olives, something from a tin. It tasted perfect.
Before sleeping, we did the three things we always do without ever admitting it’s a ritual.
Check the lines.
Check the anchor alarm is off.
Check each other hasn’t quietly broken.
Ryan stood in the cockpit longer than necessary, looking at the city lights like he was already planning the next leg. I stayed below, listening to the boat make small settling noises, like she was finally convinced we weren’t asking anything more of her today.
Tomorrow there would be lists. Chandlery. A part Ryan swears we need and I swear we don’t. Laundry. Weather apps. Decisions.
But that first night, Cádiz gave us something we hadn’t had since leaving the Atlantic properly.
A boat that wasn’t braced for impact.
And two people who could sleep without listening for engines.
