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 weren’t having an existential crisis.
“You alright back there?” he called over his shoulder.
I caught up eventually, leaning against a lamppost like it owed me something.
“I think my spine’s floating,” I said.
He grunted, which is Ryan-code for same.
Lisbon was already sweating. Morning sun low but hot, air thick, the kind that clings to your shirt before you’ve even started doing anything. We hadn’t eaten a proper meal in… what, 30 hours? 40? I’d lost count after the second bag of almonds and the fourth coffee that tasted like diesel.
We found a tiny bakery, three tables jammed into a corner of a side street with no name. Ordered things we couldn’t pronounce. Ryan got a sandwich that bled red oil down his hands. I got something wrapped in paper that turned out to be some kind of cod thing, fried and crunchy and perfect.
We didn’t talk. Just ate like we’d forgotten how.
Ryan’s Take
The boat was still there. I checked twice. You never know. Lisbon’s nice, but if someone wanted to steal a 35-foot Beneteau that smells like damp socks and victory, who’s to stop them?
La Sirena looked tired. So did we. But she’d made it. The passage was rough, but she’d handled it. She deserved a scrub. An inspection. Maybe a day off.
I started with the easy stuff. Bilge pump still working. Lines secure. Solar still charging. The anchor chain, for whatever reason, had tangled itself into something resembling a metal pretzel. Fixed that. Swore at it. Fixed it again.
Liam showed up mid-deck wash, holding two cans of coke and a look like he’d just discovered religion.
“Is it weird to cry over a cold drink?”
I took one. Cracked it open. Didn’t answer.
Liam’s Take
Lisbon isn’t a city you just walk through. It climbs. It sweats. It dares you to find the top, then laughs and gives you three more hills. We wandered uphill without a plan. That’s the best way. Get lost. Let the city decide where you’re going.
There’s colour everywhere. Tiles the size of dinner plates, painted with saints and storms. Laundry lines like bunting between buildings. A guy playing guitar under a tree, singing something sad in Portuguese while a dog slept at his feet.
We bought pasteis de nata and pretended it was lunch.
Ryan asked if we should check the engine oil later. I told him he had a problem and took a bite of custard tart.
Ryan’s Take
I did check the oil later. And the fuel filter. And the sea strainer. Because you don’t not check those things when you’ve got a few hundred miles ahead of you.
Meanwhile, Liam found a bar with rooftop views and wine that tasted like apricots and cigarette ash in a good way.
He messaged me a pin drop and said, “Bring your serious face, but not too serious.”
I showed up. He was already two glasses in and trying to pronounce vinho verde like a local.
“You’re late,” he said.
“I was checking filters.”
“God, you’re insufferable.”
“Don’t spill that. It costs more than our dinghy.”
Liam’s Take
The sun dropped slow behind the city. It lit the buildings like they were on fire, windows flashing gold, the river turning orange, boats floating like ghosts. It was one of those moments where nothing happens but everything feels right.
I didn’t say much. Neither did Ryan. We just sat there, quiet, sipping wine, letting the city settle around us.
Eventually, he stood up.
“Tomorrow?”
I nodded. “Tomorrow.”
He didn’t ask what that meant. He didn’t need to.
Ryan & Liam
The Ocean Bois
