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 her rhythm.
Lisbon was ahead. 170 miles. Too short to be called a long passage, too long to underestimate. An awkward distance. One full night at sea, maybe more, depending on the wind.
We had everything we needed. Food. Enough water. Fuel as a backup. The forecast was… not perfect, but manageable. A steady northerly, a bit gusty.
The kind of setup that looks good on paper. The kind that makes you wonder what you missed.
Liam’s Take
Sailing is a liar sometimes. The first few hours were stupidly pleasant—sun warm on our backs, the boat holding a straight line, no stress. I had music playing. We took turns at the helm. I even made a sandwich without the bread launching across the cockpit.
Then the swell started shifting.
Not big at first, just messy. The kind that throws off the rhythm, makes you adjust your stance a little more often, makes you hold on without realizing it. The wind picked up. Gusts hitting harder. The boat leaning, pushing, testing.
Ryan was watching the horizon, his jaw set. Not worried, exactly. Just thinking.
“You wanna reef soon?” I asked.
“Not yet.”
Two hours later, we reefed.
Ryan’s Take
By nightfall, it was work. Wind steady in the mid-20s, gusting higher. Swell stacking up, throwing La Sirena forward, then stopping her dead. A rhythm that never settled. The kind of sea that makes you lock your knees just to stay upright.
We reefed the mainsail again, took in more headsail, made everything smaller, tighter, more controllable. It helped. But not much.
Then the autopilot quit.
Just stopped.
Liam was at the helm, hands relaxed on the wheel. The boat suddenly lurched, swinging harder to port.
“That wasn’t me.”
I checked the panel. Nothing. Dead. No error message. No warning. Just… gone.
So that was that.
We were hand-steering the rest of the way.
Liam’s Take
Look, I know how to steer a boat. I do. But there’s a difference between steering because you want to and steering because you have to.
We took shifts. One of us wrestling the wheel, the other trying to rest in the cockpit. Not sleeping. Just closing your eyes, pretending, while your body still feels the motion of the boat.
At one point, Ryan looked at me, face half-lit by the instrument panel.
“Next boat,” he muttered, “is getting a better autopilot.”
I nodded, teeth chattering. “And a better captain.”
He smirked. “Not likely.”
Ryan’s Take
By dawn, the wind had backed off just enough. The waves were still rolling, but the worst of it had passed.
Lisbon appeared out of the haze—golden buildings stacked up against the hills, the Tagus River stretching wide, waiting. Cargo ships slid past in the distance. The kind of slow, heavy traffic that tells you you’re entering a different world.
Three hours later, we passed under the Ponte 25 de Abril. That bridge, that moment—you don’t forget it. The way the river holds the city, the way the light hits the water.
Liam exhaled. “Tell me there’s a café at this marina.”
I eased the throttle back. “There’s a café everywhere.”
Liam’s Take
By the time we tied up, I wasn’t even pretending to be functional. My arms felt like I’d been wrestling a bear all night. My back was rebelling. My stomach was demanding food.
But Lisbon was here. And after that passage?
We’d earned every second of it.
Until next time,
Ryan & Liam
The Ocean Bois
