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The sock lets us raise the spinnaker without it catching any wind until we’re ready, and when it’s time to take it down, we can collapse the sail cleanly and safely, even in a fresh breeze. No wrestling with acres of cloth on the foredeck.

The bag itself plays a big role too: it’s not just storage, but part of the whole system. It keeps the sail organised, stops twists, and makes both launch and recovery far quicker and calmer — exactly what we need when managing big downwind sails with a small crew.

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Life at anchor can turn in an instant. That afternoon in Villefranche-sur-Mer, teamwork, calm heads, and one unlikely power tool kept us — and our boat — from catastrophe.

A Warning in Paradise

Living on the seas teaches you to respect the forces of nature; to stay alert and ready to respond to save your boat and your life at any time. One day in August in the idyllic bay of Villefranche-sur-Mer on the French Riviera, Richard and I stepped up as the perfect team to fight for our boat and our safety

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We were enjoying breakfast in the cockpit on a delightful August morning when our Aussie friends passed and waved goodbye, telling us a storm may be coming in the afternoon and they were seeking a safer harbour. We couldn’t see it forecast, but we planned to investigate further.

That day we were going to make the one-train-stop trip to Nice to pick up a parcel that was waiting for us. It was our replacement anchor windlass motor, which had been faltering. It wasn’t far away and we would be back to the boat by early afternoon anyway.

On our dinghy ride to land, we met some friends, Helge and Marlene, in their dinghy. They also mentioned a possible storm. Storms are very difficult to predict and forecasts can be unreliable, but we are generally cautious and will take precautions anyway. Helge said that only one of the weather models was predicting it, Arome, which may have seemed unlikely — but Arome was the only model that predicted the catastrophic storms off Corsica in August 2022. That made us take it seriously.

We decided to change plans — ditch the train trip to Nice to get the windlass motor and instead have a quick walk around the delightful town, grab a coffee, and head back to prepare Helios for a storm. The storm was expected at 1700, should it even come at all.

Preparing for the Storm

We live at anchor all summer, held by our 20kg Spade anchor, which we call Don after Richard’s late dad. Don has kept us safe for three summers now, so we have faith that Don will look after us.

Richard dived to check and saw that the chain disappeared amongst Posidonia (seagrass) but couldn’t see Don, so figured it must be well buried. He did note the seabed was gravelly but didn’t think too much about it (mistake number one). He let out another 10 metres of chain for a total of 40 metres in seven metres of water depth.

We hoisted the dinghy onto the deck and secured it, deflated the kayak and stowed it below, removed the boom tent, and took all the cushions inside. We felt well prepared should a storm come and relaxed with a lovely late lunch.

Late in the afternoon, clouds started to gather and, as predicted, just before 1700 the wind picked up to about 20 knots and turned us 180 degrees from where we were set.

We watched blow-up pink flamingos go flying, dinghies attached to their boats lift out of the water like kites, and boom tents collapse. I have to admit we were a little smug as these boaters had brushed Helge off when he warned them of the coming storm.

Then boats started to drag. Superyachts blasted their loud horns at boats drifting towards them. Some sailing boats lifted anchor and battled the winds to reposition or just get out of the bay. We sat tight.

When the Anchor Fails

Then we realised we were dragging. Just slowly at first, so we weren’t sure, but when it was clear we had moved Richard sent me up to the bow to lift anchor while he drove forward into the wind.

By this stage, the gusts were hitting the predicted 45 knots, our bow was constantly getting blown off and it was difficult to reduce the load on the windlass by much.

The windlass motor struggled to lift the chain, hindered by the extra force of the wind. Even with Richard motoring forward it struggled. Remember we were picking up a new motor for the windlass? That’s because ours was starting to fail.

As we battled the conditions and the failing windlass motor for 20 minutes, we were slowly being forced back towards the rocks on the eastern side of the bay. The failing windlass motor tripped the breaker twice, then completely failed. At this point we still had 17 metres of chain out.

Fortunately, we had been blown into some deeper water, so our anchor was now just touching the bottom and Richard could drive forward and take us to the windward side of the bay.

We had an anxious moment as we passed across the bow of a very large superyacht, hoping our anchor would clear their chain. Thankfully we got past.

The Moment of Truth

With nothing coming from the windlass motor, I figured we’d need to do a manual lift, so I asked Richard to do it. I have never done it, and in those difficult conditions, with lots of noise, wind and movement, I didn’t feel confident (I need to practise manual lifts).

We slowly manoeuvred Helios into a position in the bay where we were happy to try a manual lift. It’s surprisingly difficult to manoeuvre with 17 metres of chain and an anchor hanging off the bow. We were fighting the wind, which was pushing us back towards the eastern side of the bay.

At this point, we could have got out of the bay and dealt with the problem in clear water, but that would have meant fighting the problem in ever-increasing seas while being blown offshore. We chose to remain in the somewhat sheltered bay.

Richard attempted to engage the ratchet, which stops the chain from dropping, but it was stuck firmly in place. Most likely, salt crystals had locked it up (mistake number two – regularly check and service).

After a whack with a hammer and screwdriver, Richard was able to move the ratchet to its engaged position. He then undid the clutch, but the ratchet slipped, which led to the chain cascading down until it came to a crash – probably at the bottom of the sea.

We were in 50 metres of water at that point, and 58 metres of chain was out. We were still drifting towards the cliff face on the eastern shore, even though we were driving into the wind with full power, and with all of that chain out, our ability to control the boat was negligible. The cliff face was a couple of hundred metres away, putting us less than five minutes from foundering on the rocks.

Richard came back to the helm and said the words I’d hoped he’d never say: “Get the angle grinder.”

It’s always stored with a full battery and easily accessible just for situations like this. I ducked inside to retrieve it, handing over as we swapped the helm again. Within one minute he’d cut through the chain, dumping the chain and our reliable Don on the seabed.

We had immediate control of the boat and headed out to sea to wait for the storm to pass. Fortunately, Helge helped us get onto a mooring ball later that night so we were safe for the night until we could get a marina berth and sort out replacements.

Lessons from the Bay

I’m pretty proud of us. We took a vague warning seriously and were well prepared. We remained calm and focused and made quick decisions to keep us safe. We keep emergency tools accessible and ready for use. Our communication was on point with clear information without emotion or panic. We can make hard decisions.

There are also some things we could have done better. We probably should have re-anchored to be sure we were in sand. We should check and practise anchoring manually – both of us. Richard does regular maintenance on the windlass, but not the ratchet mechanism. This needs to be added to the schedule, and of course, the regular practice of manual operation will help.

If we had re-anchored before the storm in a seabed we were sure of, then maybe this would not have happened. But our thoughts were that if we had a problem, then we would lift anchor and deal with it.

The subsequent failure of the windlass motor and then the windlass ratchet compounded the impact of the decision. As is typical, when big problems happen, it is normally the compounding of several smaller ones.

Know your anchor. We completely trusted our Spade anchor, but like all anchors, there will be sea bottoms where they perform better. A gravel/pebble bottom is probably the weakest area for the Spade, and when it is surrounded by seagrass, then the chances of resetting after a flip out are reduced. Sand is where it performs best, so we should have looked for this.

If you are not sure your ratchet is working well, don’t trust it and find solutions to lift your anchor another way. Rather than attempt a manual lift with the windlass, we could have tied a line to the chain and brought it back to a winch at the stern. With a 12-metre boat, it would only have taken two runs to winch up the 17 metres. If we’d done this rather than attempted to use the windlass for the manual lift, we would not have dropped 50 metres of chain.

Reflections at Anchor

Sailing reminds us that preparation and practice are vital, but so too are calm heads and teamwork when things go wrong. That day in Villefranche-sur-Mer could have ended very differently, but with an angle grinder, quick thinking, and trust in each other, Helios came out OK. The sea will always test us, and there’s not much room for error because the consequences can be huge.

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Then we switched to boat life.

Our goal was to live the best life we could—seize the moment, love each other passionately, and stay strong and healthy enough to do it for many years to come. The first parts fell into place beautifully. We moved onto our boat in the Mediterranean and loved every moment of this dream life—sunrise swims before breakfast, exhilarating day sails, dinners in the cockpit at sunset, and being gently rocked to sleep in the swell.

The one part that didn’t just fall into place was cooking delicious, healthy meals.

A boat galley is more like a camp kitchen: a two-burner gas cooktop, a tiny fridge, and a saucepan cupboard barely big enough to hold my old Le Creuset casserole dish. I had two choices: try to continue cooking as I had on land and feel like I was on a summer camping trip, or overhaul our entire approach to food. I chose the latter. Either way would take effort, so I decided to start fresh and completely rethink what “sustenance” would look like on the water.

The Challenges of Boat Cooking

One of the biggest limitations is refrigeration. With limited fridge and freezer space, you’re restricted in the quantity and type of food you can keep. I used to shop every couple of days for fresh produce, meat, bread, and dairy. Which brings me to challenge number two: grocery shopping.

I don’t want to spend my European summers traipsing through town in the heat, lugging groceries back to the boat via the dinghy. That kind of shopping takes up a good part of the day, time we’d rather spend sailing, swimming, or simply relaxing. Something had to change.

Health as the Top Priority

Whatever changes we made, our health had to come first. We want to live this sailing dream for as long as possible, well into old age. I drew on my research background and dug into the science of longevity. While we’d already adopted many healthy lifestyle habits, one theme kept coming up: a whole food, plant-based diet significantly reduces the risk of illness and increases longevity.

So, we made a drastic change. We cut out all animal products and processed foods as much as possible. We buy local produce wherever we are and eat like the locals. That sometimes means experimenting with unfamiliar ingredients, which just adds to the fun of exploring new cultures. We’ve stocked our spice cupboard with every flavour I know, and we’re constantly inspired by what we eat in local restaurants. I even chat with shopkeepers—often using a translation app—to learn how to use ingredients that are new to me.

We use up our fresh produce while it’s still good, then gradually draw from our well-stocked larder of tinned and dried foods. Even a week after our last shop, we’re still enjoying tasty, nutritious meals. It’s all about using ingredients in order of shelf life. This way, we only shop every 7–10 days. It’s also great practice for crossing oceans, where we may go weeks without fresh supplies.

The Unexpected Joys of Plant-Based Cooking

The biggest surprise? Our meals taste better than ever. Maybe I was a bit lazy before—after all, a good steak was enough to make a meal. I’m an Aussie and loved a tender rib eye on the barbie. Now, I think about flavour combinations, texture, and gut health. Our goal is to eat 30 different plant-based foods each week.

And we do it all with just two pots (because I only have two burners—and it’s usually too hot to use the oven anyway). It’s a fun challenge.

Another bonus of plant-based eating? It doesn’t rely much on refrigeration. No more rushing home with cold meats or dairy. We can stop at a café mid-shop, bags tucked under the table, and watch the world go by. Tomatoes and carrots don’t mind waiting.

This way of eating suits boat life perfectly. It uses minimal fridge space, and dried foods like legumes last for years. We’ve reduced our shopping frequency and gained more time to do what we love.

A Conscious Choice

Yes, we’ve given up a few old favourites. But as a psychologist, I know that how we frame things matters. We choose to see this as an opportunity. Every meal we eat now supports our health.

Making this shift wasn’t effortless—it meant letting go of old habits and rethinking our approach to food. But boat life demanded change anyway, and we decided to make it a positive one. One that supports our health, the environment, and animal welfare.

Our meals are now better than ever. My cooking game has gone up a notch (while our belt buckles have gone down several!). My biggest worry? Not splashing the curry on my bikini.

This way of eating works beautifully on a boat—but it’s just as beneficial on land. Better health, more energy, lower costs, and a lighter environmental footprint.

The surprise? Our boat-cooked meals are so good that we’d rather eat in than go out.

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We often get asked about the significance of our greenstone necklaces or pounamu. In New Zealand Māori tradition, symbols are carved from the beautiful local jade and carry spiritual significance. There is only a handful of traditional designs and it is customary to give a pounamu which carries a specific meaning to a loved one.

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When Richard proposed in 2020 he presented a beautiful traditional diamond ring on bended knee. Of course, I said yes and wore the ring constantly as we set about changing our lives to sail the world. A wedding just before we left home was a must, but we were stuck with what to do about rings. Rings and boats are not a good combination as there’s lots of catching hazards that can result in a pretty yucky injury.

On a visit to New Zealand where Richard spent much of his life, we were in the lovely town of Rotorua and Richard was keen to look at the greenstone artwork in some of the shops there. Seeing his excitement at the beautiful pieces, I stopped in the middle of the footpath and said; “why don’t we buy one for each other as our wedding symbol?”. Richard had a little tear and just hugged me – too emotional to say anything but; “yes”. Richard had bought pounamu for all of his family but no one had ever bought him one. We turned around and picked out our designs.

For Richard I chose the toki design which is steeped in Māori tradition and meaning and is a representation of the adze (like an axe). Wielded by fearsome Māori warriors, the adze is also a powerful woodcutting tool. It symbolises strength, courage, wisdom and ability. It chose it for my trust in Richard to guide the journey of our lives together.

Richard chose to give me the Pikourua design. This twist connects the spirit of loved ones and symbolises always being with one another regardless of where our journey takes us in a loop that’s never-ending. He chose it to remind me that his love is enduring.

They are lovely symbols of our relationship, look great and are perfect for boat life when often we don’t wear very much more.

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We could also justify the trip financially. Long-term travel insurance becomes more expensive the longer you stay out of your home country, and returning saved us around $AUD1100. Plus, we could source some essential water-maker parts for $AUD500 less in Australia than in Europe, along with many smaller hard-to-find items. The southern hemisphere summer was just arriving, so it seemed like the perfect time to make the long journey back to Australia and New Zealand.

Seeing everyone was wonderful. Rekindling relationships, showing family that we’re thriving, and witnessing how well our adult children are doing without us—it was all deeply heartwarming. There’s always a bit of guilt lingering at the back of my mind about not being there for my kids more often. Seeing them strong, independent, and flourishing brought me peace. Richard doesn’t seem to carry the same guilt I do, but I know he felt a similar relief seeing his kids thriving. Maybe it’s just a mum thing.

After fulfilling our grandparent and parent duties and saying many tearful goodbyes, we started the journey back. Our route took us from Melbourne to Singapore, a nine-hour flight, then onward to Istanbul, Türkiye, another 11 hours. We planned a layover there for three days to explore the city during its quiet and chilly autumn.

Istanbul was incredible. Wandering through the Grand Bazaar, sipping Turkish coffee and hot chocolate, and marveling at ancient sites. The mosques, with their rich history and intricate architecture, were a highlight—especially the Hagia Sophia. Originally built as a Christian cathedral in AD 537, it was the largest cathedral in the world for nearly 1,000 years and remains a symbol of enduring history and culture.

From Istanbul, it was a short three-hour flight to Tunis, followed by a bus transfer to Monastir, where Helios awaited us. We arrived at the marina in the dark, greeted by 60-knot winds. Despite the dramatic weather, our marina neighbours met us with warmth, hugs, and homemade soup.

Helios was perfect—smelling fresh and new, waiting patiently for our return. As we stepped aboard, it felt like coming home.

This journey reminded us that while our adventures take us far and wide, home is a feeling you carry with you—whether it's with family, friends, or a trusty boat in a safe harbor.