A Gap Year, He Said

Over the course of five summers, our travel itinerary read like an oceanography lesson. Between 2012 and 2016, we sailed the European coastline in a rainbow arc from Morocco to Turkey, perusing peninsulas and zig-zagging between islands. With the luxury of time, we savoured the nuances of each country and logged over 4,500 nautical miles. We navigated an alphabet of seas and straits within the Mediterranean basin. There were bodies of water I didn’t know existed and still have difficulty spelling.

To me, it was all the ocean, but Kevin insisted on calling each aquatic puzzle piece by its proper name. The briny patch off mainland Spain is called the Balearic Sea. The waters between Spain and Morocco are known as the Alboran Sea. Gibraltar entertains a Strait while France is cocooned by a gulf. The Ligurian and Tyrrhenian seas straddle the Italian peninsula and Sicily, whereas the Adriatic is enfolded within a crushing group hug from Albania, Montenegro, Bosnia and Herzegovina, Croatia, Slovenia, and Italy. The Ionian and Aegean seas surround the myriad Greek islands whereas Turkey claims the Sea of Marmara and the Cilician Sea stretching between it and Cyprus. Magnificent. Exhausting. Thrilling. All of it.

But in October 2016, as we prepared to dry dock the 46-foot Beneteau Oceanis we called Monastrell for the winter, something unexpected happened.

We asked ourselves a question.

It wasn’t that we had tired of traveling, sailing, or perennial summers at sea. Instead, we felt the need to reevaluate. Or perhaps I did.

Over the span of two summers, we witnessed the worsening Syrian refugee crisis first hand. We spoke to locals on the frontlines of the human catastrophe daily. We fished empty orange life jackets out of the ocean on a regular basis. In the end I stopped counting the numbers, but never ceased to worry about the fate each former owner.

Should we remain in the Med?

Seeing the faces of refugees standing on docks and jetties daily brought home the reality of the disaster. Our hearts lurched at sightings of uprooted families forced from their homes. The wide-eyed children, frozen with fear took my compassion to another level. What if it were us? What if our family was forced to flee? What would we do? The hollow faces of displacement haunted my dreams.

In the summer of 2015 at the Turkish port of Kusadasi, we watched a group of newly rescued refugees disappear into military busses under the watchful eyes of the Jandarme with automated weapons strapped across their chests. To our friends and family in America and Australia, this was just news. But to us, the immediacy of the humanitarian crisis felt personal.

By October 2015, Greece’s ongoing economic meltdown had worsened. The country proved ill-equipped for the unforeseen influx of migrants. The day the first flimsy refugee vessel landed on the Greek shores of Leros in the Dodecanese archipelago, no one knew what to do. Without adequate resources, the mayor, least of all. It happened the afternoon we sat in the Harbor Master’s office. We had come to finalize our customs documents for departure.

“You cannot be here,” the mustached Harbor Master growled.

“This is the only port agency on the island. We are leaving Greece. You’re the only one who can sign our exit papers,” Kevin said.

“Not today,” he insisted, shooing us away.

Several khaki-uniformed men with guns ushered us out of the building so the port authority and local constabularies could convene their emergency meeting.

Within a year, upwards of 1,500 evacuees per day began to besiege the tiny island’s 8,000 residents.

In July 2016, during our three-day stay on Samos, all Greece’s banks had closed their doors. Even if ATMs could dispense money, withdrawals had been limited to just 60 Euros per day. Some were restricted to 20.

As fears of Greece’s economic collapse grew and access to cash became impossible on the many of the islands, we sailed to Turkish waters. Just two hours across the Aegean we made landfall in Kusadasi, the Turkish port near Ephesus. There, we found ATMs fat with cash.

By the summer of 2016, random bombings across Europe had become as commonplace as mass shootings in America. After Turkey’s failed coup in July, once crowded harbors along the turquoise Turkish Riviera lay virtually empty. Without yachts to fill them, marinas looked like gaping toothless mouths. Seaside towns from Marmaris to Fethiye, places we visited the previous year, now appeared deserted. We feared for the survival of local businesses.

When the Turkish rebellion of July 2016 took place, we were anchored off the coast of Antalya. By some accounts, President Erdogan secretly staged the upheaval to increase authoritarian control. A few weeks later, we stood in the town square staring in disbelief at a colossal red placard splayed between government buildings. Emblazoned above Erdogan’s larger than life portrait were the English words, “Democracy Won.” The tide had turned for the al barak—the vivid red flag with its iconic crescent moon and white star—the proud 20th century symbol of change and modernization, now stained by conservatism. Turkey wobbled on the brink of dictatorship.

How would Europe cope with the largest human migration across its collective soil since World War II? Adding to that, escalating tension in the European Union from the British exit and the crumbling economics of Greece, Italy, Spain, and Portugal.

All of this made us re-examine our cruising agenda.

Should we remain in the Med? Was it time to cross the Atlantic to the Caribbean? What if we took time out from the rigors of continuous travel? What would a year without the responsibility of boat ownership look like? What if —god forbid— we just stayed home?

We asked ourselves these questions over steaming plates of moussaka and Yemista—peppers and tomatoes stuffed with herb-scented rice—and more than a little wine. It was then the idea of a sabbatical from sailing first arose.

To test our thinking, Kevin put Monastrell on the market. A month later, our beloved Benetau Oceanis 46 belonged to someone else.

Options, we told ourselves.

A gap year, Kevin said.

But gaps beg to be filled.