Dini Martinez shares some Passage Reflections on her sail from Panama to Guatemala

It is 5am. I take over my shift after a few blessed hours of sleep. The first things I notice upon being woken to the whisper of my name are sounds. Still sailing? Check. Autopilot working? Check. No water ingress or taps running? Check. The engine throttle in reverse to eliminate dragging from the folding prop? Check. Kids sleeping? It’s quiet – so that’s a check too. Any unusual sounds? None. Deep breath.

All is good. I get up. Wash my sleepy face and grab a glass of lemon water on the way up to the cockpit. I notice my sourdough has risen well over the past three hours that I was off. This overflowing dough will need tending to soon. In the cockpit I get my hubby’s rundown before he tucks himself into bed. No ships. Perfect wind keeping us around 5.5 knots for most of his watch. One of the kids complained about the heel, although it is totally manageable. Seaweed keeps getting stuck on the wind vane rudder, slowing us down by up to a knot. This needs checking hourly. I am on it. He’s off. I release the wind generator he forgot to untie.

Back in the cockpit, I grab that bowl of mentioned bread dough and knead it meditatively while watching the sky turn from black, to orange, to purple and soon bright yellow. I transfer the dough to the moulds and put it in the oven whilst making myself a big mug of some of the last Colombian cocoa with coconut milk from the San Blas. What a life.

Sipping my creamy hot chocolate on the rim of the cockpit with a gentle breeze stroking back my long hair, I watch grandfather sun’s spectacular appearance on the horizon. My boat slices through the tender gurgling  waves like a knife through soft butter. The 150% gennaker is all out and so is the main. It seems calm, yet we are running close to at almost six knots. Gosh, what a great boat she is. My second Moody, my fourth boat – and hopefully my last. After years of sweat, work and tears put into her, she’s proven to be a keeper.

At thirty years of age, yes, she shows the little aches and pains expected of an aging lady. Same as me who almost beats her by a decade. We are good together. A school of flying fish run past her bow towards the rising sun before their wave, too, gets sliced through like butter. The smell of the almost ready bread from the oven simmers up through the companion way.

After three hours of sleep, compared to the previous two nights with none, I feel fresh and renewed. What a perfect moment. Gratitude expands in me like that water bust we managed to escape near San Andres by a few hours. So lucky. Homegrown luck. Homemade luck. Like that sourdough – endless hours of tending, maintaining, lovingly caring, desperately mending and cultivating perseverance. Something that doesn’t seem to be taught so much anymore in mainstream education.

If nothing else, this is what I hope sticks with these kiddos that are slowly being woken by the smell of freshly baked bread and our floating home butter-cutting through tender waves. Most luck doesn’t simply appear. It’s the culmination of hard work and perseverance. It’s giving it another try even when you think all is lost. It’s channelling desperation and rage to get things done. It’s allowing the tears to liberate and fuel, rather than freeze and stop you.  It’s the fighting through the moments when you just wanna give up. After all, the saying is right: The universe looks after those, who look after themselves.

So, tend to your bread and butter, knead your dough, maintain your boat – and the priceless sunrise moments will bless you in due time. And if a piece of luck drops out of the sky like that albatross out of nowhere as I’m wrapping up these lines, then take it as a sweet and unexpected bonus.