Jude is a former academic and psychologist who swapped land life for a yacht and now sails the world with salt in her hair and a smile on her face. She's a mother, a grandmother, and a firm believer that age is just a number—especially when you’re chasing your dreams across the ocean.

When I moved onto a yacht in my late fifties to sail around the world, I made a conscious decision: I was going to stay fit enough to keep doing this for as long as I wanted—into my eighties and beyond, if I felt like it.

Because let’s be honest—if you want to live a life you love, you need a body that can keep up.

When you’re young, your body can usually do what you ask of it. Want to hike a mountain, learn to surf, or sail into the sunset? No problem. But as we age, we tend to accept a slow physical decline — we stop doing things, shrink our horizons, get a bit creaky, and eventually settle into a chair with a nice cup of tea and a pleasant view.

But… does it really have to be that way?

A Mindset Shift (and a Bit of Muscle)

I decided to challenge that "decline is inevitable" narrative. I wanted to beat the odds. So I created a new mindset—one where aging doesn’t automatically mean losing strength, flexibility, or capability. I started treating my health like an investment in future freedom.

Honestly? I think it’s working.

I’m 59, having the time of my life—sailing, swimming, paddleboarding, hiking, and exploring incredible destinations. And I want to keep doing it for decades. My goal is to be just as capable at 80 as I am now.

I’ve always been active, a regular gym-goer, and relatively strong. But now, two years into this sailing life, I’m more physically capable than I’ve ever been.

One thing about life at sea? It doesn’t let you ignore your body. On land, it’s easy to let things slide—drive instead of walk, take the escalator, skip the hike and pour a glass of wine. That creeping decline sneaks up on you like a frog in warm water. By the time you notice, you’re halfway boiled.

But on a boat? Not so subtle.

You either can haul the sail, jump into the dinghy, lift the anchor, or you can’t. There’s no hiding from what your body can and can’t do.

Sure, much of my life is lounging in a quiet bay or strolling along a beach. But then there are days I’m sailing in 50 knots of wind or scrambling up the deck to untangle a line. I need my body to be ready for those moments of peak performance.

When you live on a boat, there’s a clear tipping point if your physical ability slips, and the consequences are dramatic. If I can’t manage the boat, I lose this lifestyle. It’s that simple. And that's motivating.

Function Over Form

These days, I care less about what my body looks like and more about what it can do.

Can I jump out of the dinghy in one smooth move, or am I clinging on, hesitating, and needing a hand up? Time to work on leg strength.
Struggling to winch the mainsail? Time to increase my upper body strength.

To keep living this dream, I need to earn it. Sure, I could let my partner do the tricky bits, and install an electric winch. I could spend my time sipping wine in the cockpit, and taking it easy. But that means losing capability—and giving up this life—sooner. And I’m not ready for that. Not even close.

Staying Strong Isn’t Luck—It’s a Choice

Here’s what I’ve learned: staying fit and healthy is completely within my control. Honestly, I’m fitter than most women in their twenties—and there’s no reason I can’t keep it that way.

So how do I do it?

• I take responsibility. If I can’t drag the dinghy up the beach, I don’t blame the weight of the dinghy—I know I need to get stronger.

• I keep moving. I don’t “exercise” in the traditional sense—I just keep doing the things I want to be able to do as I age. Walk 3 km with groceries? Sure. Swim to shore to tie lines to the rocks? Absolutely.

• I eat whole foods and cook from scratch every day. Diet is key.

• I gave up alcohol. It wasn’t easy, but it’s hands-down the best health decision I’ve ever made.

• I respect rest, but even lying in bed on a rocking boat works your core. Being on a yacht is a full-body experience.

Old and Awesome

I want to be awesome when I’m old. And I don’t think that’s too much to ask. Aging doesn’t have to mean decline.

I’m building a body and a mindset that will take me the distance—across oceans and across decades. And while I’ve shaped this approach for life at sea, it applies just as well on land.

We’re talking about the difference between simply being alive and truly living.
Don’t stop living a great life. And if you haven’t started yet, it’s never too late.

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As a psychologist, I understood how this shift would likely affect me. I knew that a huge part of self-identity is wrapped up in the roles we play — our profession, our social circle, our place in the family. We wear these labels for so long that they become us. "I’m a mother." "I’m a psychologist." "I live in Melbourne." These aren’t just descriptions — they’re anchors. They give us meaning and belonging. I was really proud of what I had achieved in my life’s journey.

So, when I stepped away from all of that, I found myself feeling adrift in a different kind of sea. I was loving what we were doing — the adventure, the freedom, the beauty — but I started to have this nagging feeling that I wasn’t that great anymore. I wasn’t quite sure who I was anymore. I wasn’t getting emails from clients or colleagues asking for advice or showing appreciation for what I’d done. I wasn’t juggling tasks or being productive in the way I once was. I wasn’t respected. No one needed me. I wasn’t good at anything. All the things that I was proud of were tied to my old life, and as someone who doesn’t know how to sail or even drive a dinghy, I started to feel hopeless.

I suspect it’s a common feeling for people stepping away from their working lives, especially those heading into retirement. You’ve spent your whole adult life being "someone" — a teacher, a doctor, a manager — and then, one day, you’re not. All those things that supported your self-esteem – made you who you are lost. And while that might sound freeing, it can also feel like a loss.

I realised that the things that made me proud of myself were out of my control. I think we all carry around a kind of resume in our heads — a list of achievements and identifiers we use to measure our worth. Degrees, promotions, titles, properties, possessions. These things say, this is who I am, and this is why I matter.

But once I left it all behind, that resume started to feel pretty flimsy. Because here’s the truth — out here on the water, no one really cares what you did for a job. There’s a beautiful equality in cruising life. Your value isn’t determined by your CV. It’s measured by your kindness, your competence, your good humour, your willingness to help when someone’s anchor drags in the middle of the night. It’s humbling. And it can be disorienting.

Then I had a thought that shifted everything for me. I was thinking: when I die, what will be said about me?

Because in the end, no one stands at your funeral and lists your LinkedIn highlights. No one mentions your income bracket, the car you drove, or the suburb you lived in. They speak about the love you gave, the moments you shared, the way you made them feel. They talk about your generosity, your humour, your courage, your integrity. They tell stories of how you showed up when it mattered.

And that’s when it clicked: instead of clinging to my career resume, I decided to start building my eulogy resume. This is something that's completely in my control. In a world where the very bedrock of your life can be upturned out of your control, this feels like I am taking back control of the only part of me that really matters.

I want to be remembered for how I made people feel. For the laughter and honesty I brought into conversations. For the strangers I helped, and the friends I supported. For being real, warm, and human.

So now, I try to live in a way that adds to that eulogy resume, one day at a time. I try to leave every person I meet with something — a smile, a feeling of being seen, a small kindness. I try to show up fully, to be generous with my time and spirit, and to live with as much love and joy as I can.

It doesn’t dictate every move I make — I’m still just muddling through like everyone else — but this quiet idea has become a compass. When I feel uncertain or a little lost, it reminds me of who I am and what really matters. And it’s easy to be proud of myself again.

And the unexpected bonus? It’s made me a better person. Generous and more grounded in what truly counts.

Because the best version of me isn’t the one with the career accolades or the fancy address. It’s the one out here working to make the world a little better, showing up each day with a full heart and an open hand.

Richard loved sailing and spent hours watching sailing channels on YouTube, but he had never suggested we make it our lifestyle. It wasn’t until I shared a story about friends who had lived on a sailboat for years that I asked, “Can we do that?” His response? A thoughtful “Sure,” after a full half-second of consideration.

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At the time, we were both in high-stress jobs. I was the lead psychologist at a school in Melbourne, grappling with the pandemic’s toll on students and staff. Richard was managing IT systems for Victoria’s COVID response—stressful, relentless work. The dream of sailing away, living simply, and sharing adventures with Richard became a beacon of hope.

Twelve months later, we had sold everything: houses, cars, boats, and handbags—gone. We traded our established, structured lives for an uncertain but exciting future.

A Rough Start

Although I had no sailing experience, I trusted that I could make it work. I saw myself as smart, strong, fit, and positive. But I also knew the transition would be hard. As a psychologist, I understood that much of our self-concept comes from our achievements and how others see us. On the boat, my daily accomplishments amounted to very little and my skills meant nothing.

Suddenly, I was a novice—at everything. I didn’t know the first thing about sailing, and the skills I had spent decades mastering didn’t translate to this new life. The first summer was humbling. My daily "achievements" were making the bed and cooking meals—things I had mastered as a teenager.

I had lost my sense of pride in myself. There were moments of tears and frustration. I felt like I had fallen so far, from a capable professional to someone who couldn’t even tie a proper knot.

A Mindset Shift

As any psychologist would, I gave myself a good talking-to. I realised that my self-worth had been tied to achievements—career accomplishments, possessions and even the success of my children. But when we’re gone, none of that will matter.

Eulogies don’t list career highlights, degrees, or the size of someone’s house. They celebrate a person’s impact on others: the love they gave, the joy they spread, and the values they lived by.

So, I let go of my career-focused resume and started redefining success. I focused on what really matters: kindness, resilience, and the ability to adapt. Slowly, my perspective shifted. I started working on my ‘eulogy resume’ - to be the person I wanted to be remembered as.

New Achievements

Now, my achievements look very different. They’re about learning to sail, troubleshooting mechanical issues, and navigating unknown waters—literally and figuratively. They’re about building relationships with the incredible people we meet along the way and finding joy in the simple act of watching a sunset from the deck.

This journey has been about more than learning to sail; it’s been about learning to live. Trading the familiar for the unknown has taught me more about myself than I ever imagined.

And now? I’m proud of what I accomplish each day, whether it’s docking the boat, reading the weather, or just finding peace in the moment. Life aboard Helios isn’t always easy, but it’s always real—and that’s more than enough for me.

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