Portugal

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

Ryan’s Take: Morning in Porto, and the city was stretching awake as we motored into the marina. The Douro barely rippled, the sky warming from steel grey to something softer. A few fishing boats bobbed near the quay, their crews already hauling in the morning’s catch. We, meanwhile, were barely functional. Liam slumped over the

Ryan’s Take Leaving the Rías Baixas felt like walking out of the pub before the session had even started properly. A bit wrong. Unfinished. The Galician coast had been good to us—well, mostly. The boat? Not so much. But time barrels on, doesn’t it? And so do we. Porto was next on the list. February