Green. So green.
After dry, dusty Curaçao, it’s almost a shock to the senses.
Tropical houseplants growing wild, mango trees, tall slender palms—and in between, cows grazing lazily.
Rice fields as far as the eye can see.
In the villages, bars blast bachata music while locals enjoy their Sunday beers.
Other families just chill on plastic chairs by the roadside.
Who would’ve thought we’d return here? And yet, somehow, it feels familiar. After all, we spent nearly two months here back in 2022.
This time, we’re back on a mission: Saving Maeva..
Good friends of ours ran into some serious trouble.
Captain Bart had a bad fall and broke both his arm and foot.
Life aboard became nearly impossible—let alone sailing to a safe destination with hurricane season fast approaching. You want your boat somewhere hurricane-safe. Like Curaçao. Definitely not the Dominican Republic
So we flew from Curaçao to the DR to help sail Maeva—together with Marian and Dushi the border collie—across the Caribbean Sea.
Bart himself flew ahead to Curaçao.
After a 2.5-hour drive from Santo Domingo, we dropped our backpacks onboard and shared a lovely dinner with Bart and Marian at the marina restaurant. A joyful and unexpected reunion—those spontaneous moments are what make this lifestyle so special. We wouldn’t trade them for anything.
A good night’s sleep (we are used to sleeping on boats, after all), and the next morning we make coffee and breakfast. We hoist the dinghy on deck, while Bart—at the very last moment—is freed from his cast in a rather archaic fashion. Under Captain Bart’s watchful eye, we finish the last jobs onboard: we check the life jackets, attach our PLBs (personal locator beacons), top up the diesel, and have chicken with rice at the best pica pollo spot in Samaná—a local street-side restaurant we remembered from our previous visit.
Marian and I stock up on fruits and veggies at a corner stall, and later swing by the local covered market for a few extras.
Ready!
Time to cool off and relax for a bit… in the marina’s infinity pool.
The next morning, we check out at the little customs office in the marina. Our patience is put to the test—we're ready at 8:30 AM, but end up waiting 45 minutes for customs and immigration to show up. Half an hour later, we’re finally officially cleared to leave the country.
10h30: Engine on, lines cast off. We wave goodbye to Bart and begin the crossing.
For now, the engine stays on—there’s not enough wind to sail, and it’s coming straight from the front anyway. Still, it feels wonderful to be back at sea. The deep blue water is calling, and soon a pod of dolphins comes to greet us. They play briefly at the bow… and disappear just as quickly.
We settle into the rhythm of life at sea and get to know the boat. Life onboard is calm and easy. Marian spoils us with her cooking: fresh salads, delicious pasta, chicken with coconut and rice...
I plot our course on the chartplotter and regularly check the weather through our Starlink connection. At fixed times, we send our position to Bart so he can track our progress. What a difference compared to 15 years ago, when my parents had to rely on shortwave radio with a modem, unstable connections, and short, text-only emails.
The weather is ideal for the infamous Mona passage —the strait between the Dominican Republic and Puerto Rico. It’s where the Atlantic Ocean and the Caribbean Sea meet, each with their own wave patterns and currents, colliding over a seabed full of shallows and ridges. A passage that demands respect.
I’ve been tracking the weather for a week and a half to choose this exact moment: light winds and calm seas. We enter the Mona Passage at night, under motor. Lying in bed, I can feel the motion of the boat change. The Atlantic swell clashes with the shallow bottom, and the result is chaotic. No rhythm—just unpredictable, jarring movement. I don’t even want to imagine what this would feel like with wind-driven waves added to the mix.
After 24 hours of motoring, we finally enter the Caribbean Sea. The wind picks up, and we hoist the sails. Only the sound of wind and waves remains—pure bliss!
With 60 degrees to the wind, a light swell, and a steady breeze, we’re sailing beautifully. I turn off the autopilot and savor the feeling of hand-steering a monohull again. The boat accelerates with every little gust—you can actually feel the speed pick up. Love this champagne sailing!
As a precaution, we tuck a reef into the mainsail before nightfall. After a delicious steak with pepper sauce, JM heads to bed. We divide the night watches into three-hour shifts. With three of us on board, that means only three hours on watch and six hours of sleep. Luxury!
Haven’t we offered enough sacrifices to Poseidon? Or maybe he thinks we’re having too much fun?
Because at the end of day three, the fun is officially over.
The wind picks up even more, and the waves start building.
With a beam reach, we’re now being hit sideways by increasingly taller waves that throw Maeva off balance again and again. The boat heels hard before righting herself each time.
Life on board changes drastically. Every move takes focus—one wrong step and you’re slammed into the stairs, the galley, or anything else in your way. Even going to the toilet becomes a serious challenge. It’s on the high side of the boat, so just having a pee turns into a full-on CrossFit workout.
Forget wall pilates—the latest trend is cockpit pilates.Sitting on the bench with our feet braced against the table, we lock ourselves in place while our upper bodies get an accidental ab workout with every wave. We’re seriously wondering how many sit-ups we’re doing per day without even realizing it. Even Dushi joins in—he balances like a pro, almost surfing the boat’s movement during his laps around the table.
The day drags on. The final night begins. Marian takes the first watch, and JM and I crawl into bed. But sleeping is out of the question. We lie crosswise in bed to minimize the rolling, but even then, there’s barely a comfortable position. Every time I start to doze off, a wave knocks the boat sideways and I’m jolted awake.
At 3 a.m., my shift begins.
We’re just off the coast of Bonaire. The final stretch.
After a few more miles, I change our course and head down toward the eastern tip of Curaçao.
Instantly, life on board becomes more pleasant—the waves are no longer hitting us sideways.
After my watch, I even manage to get in two hours of real rest.
And then, rrrrrrrrr! Dthe fishing line!
Dushi jumps up and is the first one at the rod.
As JM reels it in, we see a flash of brilliant yellow in the sun—there’s a pretty big Mahi Mahi on the line (we’ll later feed eight people with it).
JM brings it in and finishes filleting it just in time.
Maeva is still in good shape and ready to keep sailing, but we call it a day.
We furl the sails and head through the pass into familiar Spanish Water.
It feels like coming home.
Bart and Ton come out to meet us in the dinghy and help us pick up a mooring. We all share a coffee to celebrate a successful ending.
Mission accomplished. Marian, Dushi, and Maeva delivered safely.
Tired but happy!
