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The wind pipes through the shrouds. The waves perform an ecstatic dance, building up to massive trembling mountains; their tops being sliced off by the shear power of the storm, before the water masses crash down and dissolve into the hollow of the wave. The ship tilts from one side to the other like a metronome, in sync with the sea. Only 140 sea miles left to our destination: Edinburgh. My dad and I had this dream of sailing from Lemmer, our port of registry in Holland, to the capital of Scotland. We had planned the trip carefully and had excitedly anticipated the journey that would start in early September, the ideal season for sailing in this territory. Only a few hours ago, the ship had glided smoothly through the calm sea. Gentle waves had been soothing companions, comforting like a rocking chair. The only sounds had come from the water suppressed by the ship’s hulk and the breeze that played with the ropes. On the left-hand side, the sun had illuminated the white, bloated mainsail. On the opposite side, an oval of grassland punctuated by sheep had emerged; hundreds of tiny white dots behind the silvery shore line of Texel. We made a spontaneous decision of not stopping in Texel’s town of Oudeshild for a last proper meal (in the days to come we would live off canned ravioli, bread and snacks), but instead, motivated by the perfect sailing conditions, we had set the course straight to the British coast. Since the sun went down behind the endless landscape of water, the wind had picked up on force with every hour. Now, the night is as dark as ink, the sky no longer separable from the water. While the wind tries to push the ship off course and into its own direction, I need to lean into the steering motion with my whole bodyweight, because my arms are already too weak to fight against the gale, a wind that reaches up to 46 mph. Worn out and drenched with salty North Sea water that the storm blows in my face, I get replaced on the helm. The inner clock is set to a two-hour rhythm; two hours of steering, two hours of sleeping. Out of the sleeping bag, into the sleeping bag. Until it dawns, throughout most of the day and into the next night. On the third day on sea, the sun comes out, dries the white and blue ropes and warms the wooden planks on deck. The smells of water and fresh air mix with those of teakwood and cloth. Nothing reminds of the strenuous recent days. The sequel of the journey is pleasant, the sky of an azure colour mirrored by the water. A slight breeze pushes the boat forwards. In a meditative state, I look at the water and see a grey shadow right next to the rail. It’s slender and as quick as the ship. Then it doubles. Triples. And soon, a whole pod of dolphins breaks through the water, arched grey bodies shimmering in the bright daylight. With a loud splash they land back in the water, before they change their lineup and pop out again. In their unique choreography, they accompany the ship for a while, probably mistaking it for a fisherman’s boat, that usually leaves a trail of snacks behind. Eventually, they realise the mistake and take off, searching for a more profitable companionship. But not before we ingest this moment the we are blessed to witness. At 4.45 pm the next day, we reach Port Edgar, a harbour in the outskirts of Edinburgh. The wind picked up again in the morning; we literally race through the Firth of Forth, overtake other boats before finally, we pass the Forth Road Bridge that hides the little harbour. For this journey, we had considered it all: rough conditions as well as calms, the lack of sleep, that we could be a pain in each others necks and everything else in order to arrive at our destination. Very unexpectedly though, did we find the actual meaning of the whole trip not in reaching Scotland's capital, but in travelling alongside the moody character of nature.