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 burned,” he said.
So we found a laundromat wedged between a locksmith and something possibly illegal involving lottery tickets. Plastic chairs, a faint buzz of fluorescent lights, machines groaning like they hated every minute of their job.
We sat. Watched clothes spin. Drank flat Coke from a vending machine and silently questioned our life choices.
Then a little old woman with a pink cardigan and a cigarette permanently attached to her lip shuffled in, dumped a sack of clothes that may or may not have moved on their own, and sat beside us.
“You’re not from here,” she said, in English so perfect it made me feel like a fraud.
“Nope,” I replied. “Irish. Boat’s in the marina.”
She nodded, didn’t smile. “You won’t leave tomorrow.”
I blinked. “Why not?”
She shrugged. “Lisbon likes to keep people.”
Then she folded her arms and stared at the dryer like it owed her money.
Ryan’s Take
I don’t believe in omens. I believe in weather forecasts, fuel levels, and making sure the through-hull fittings don’t leak. But I’ve been doing this long enough to know when something’s pulling at your gut. Lisbon wasn’t done with us.
We went back to La Sirena, dumped clean laundry everywhere like victorious pirates, and agreed on something without saying it—one more night. Just one.
I found a guy down the dock—Eduardo, older than most boats in the marina, oil under his nails, smoked like it was part of his circulatory system. He helped me find a replacement fuse for the bilge panel and told me which bars weren’t full of tourists.
“Go to Alfama,” he said, pointing with the cigarette. “The real stuff’s there.”
“What kind of stuff?”
He just smiled. “Go.”
Liam’s Take
We walked uphill until my legs stopped working. The streets in Alfama don’t go anywhere on purpose. They wind. They trap you. Then they spit you out into a square with a cat, a man playing an accordion, and a bar with no sign.
We went in.
Low ceiling. Wine-stained walls. Candles. A stage the size of a cutting board. Three people sat with instruments like they were waiting for a storm. No one spoke. Everyone drank slowly, like the air was listening.
Then she started singing.
Fado.
It doesn’t translate. It’s not a song. It’s a wound that decided to rhyme.
Ryan sat still, elbows on the table, staring at nothing.
I didn’t move either.
It lasted maybe fifteen minutes. Felt like years.
When she stopped, the silence was holy. Nobody clapped. You don’t clap grief.
We finished our drinks, didn’t talk until we got back to the boat.
Ryan’s Take
There’s a weird weight in the cabin now. Not a bad one. Just something that wasn’t there before. Like the sound of that voice followed us back.
We’re leaving tomorrow. Wind looks good. Engine’s ready. Fuel topped off. Batteries charged. Everything pointing south.
But something about tonight felt final. Lisbon gave us a gift and then closed the door behind us.
Liam crawled into his bunk and mumbled something I couldn’t make out. I didn’t ask him to repeat it.
Some things you just let hang in the air.
Ryan & Liam
The Ocean Bois
