Ryan & Liam

Liam’s Take We hadn’t planned to stay. But by the time we’d flushed tanks, checked filters, and found the decent showers, it was too late to move. Ryan mentioned food. I said he could cook. We ended up walking. Lagos at night was louder than I expected. Rua 25 de Abril was full of buskers, […]

Liam’s Take Left Portimão early. Forecast was decent — light offshore wind building through the day. It held. One reef in, a bit of heel, quiet sailing. No dramas. Might’ve even enjoyed it if we hadn’t had Lagos in mind. Marina’s well-run. Everything works. You get the code to the showers without having to beg.

Liam’s Take We left early. First light, just enough wind to make it worthwhile. It was backing southeast by mid-morning, so I wanted to clear the river mouth and be moving before it dropped. Ryan looked rough. He always does when we leave anywhere before breakfast. I’d prepped the night before — fuel, lines, rig.

Ryan’s Take:It started with binoculars. Liam had them out before breakfast, claiming he’d spotted either a dolphin or a bin bag that “looked hopeful.” I was halfway through a soggy cracker when he froze, went quiet, and said, “We’ve got company.” There was a boat. Grey. Official-looking. Fast. With men who did not wave. They

Ryan’s Take:We weren’t supposed to be there. The plan was drinks with Ana and her cousin near the waterfront—normal, tourist‑adjacent, tiled‑wall stuff. But the tram broke down. And Liam decided it was urgent to photograph an alley cat that “looked philosophical.” We wandered uphill, got weirdly quiet, and ended up in front of a place

Liam’s Take It started with laundry. You know it’s time to stop sailing for a minute when your cleanest shirt smells like rope and regret. Ryan sniffed a towel that had seen salt, sweat, and a surprise coffee spill in Porto. He held it up like it might answer for itself. “This needs to be

Liam’s Take My legs didn’t work right. Not at first. It’s the curse of stepping off a boat after too many hours at sea—your body’s still on the water, even when the ground stays still. I stumbled through the marina like a drunk giraffe while Ryan walked ahead, smug and land-steady, as if his knees

Somewhere south of Porto, north of Lisbon, and emotionally closer to despair than either. That’s where we were. The GPS said we were making decent time. The mirror, if you could call the cracked thing in the head a mirror, said otherwise. I looked like I’d been raised by seagulls. Liam had this pirate-adjacent beard

Ryan’s Take  Porto disappeared behind us in layers of mist and tiled rooftops, the Douro spitting us out into the open Atlantic like it was done with us. The wind was right, strong from the north, pushing La Sirena south without complaint. We trimmed the sails, cut the engine, and let the boat settle into

Liam’s Take Ryan has always been a smooth talker, but nothing tops his performance in Galicia. We were mooring up next to a local fisherman, and Ryan—wanting to be helpful—tried to tell him he’d tie up his boat. What came out instead?  “Yo te amo.”  Yep, instead of saying amarre (mooring), he told the guy, “I love you.” The