By Ishmael

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“I grew up on a boat.” 

If you know me, you’ve no doubt heard me proudly state this fact at least once, and in a tone that’s probably never as casual or round-about as I think or hope it is. 

Still, chill or no chill, it’s true. 

It’s also, I think, slightly misleading. 

You see, I think that when someone drops the “I grew up on a boat” line, they conjure up images of skin baked tan and thick and leathery under a beating maritime sun; of fluent, effortless ropemanship, and of a certain type of self-reliant worldliness that can only be attained through nautical mileage. 

But while these romantic character traits can easily be applied to my father, I didn’t spend enough time sailing to earn them myself. 

I first sailed to Cyprus (and back) when I was five years old, in what had felt like an epic, magical journey on my father’s old British wooden yacht, the Chateau.

I remember that sea passage vividly to this day, but any further claim to real seamanship since then would be a gross exaggeration. 

Throughout my childhood, after my father sold the Chateau, I’ve sailed tiny sloops on the Yarkon River and tagged along on various short boating excursions with family and friends, but I’ve never had the sense of ownership or easy familiarity with the sea that I felt I ought to have had. In short, I felt that being a mariner was a birthright I had squandered. 

I had hoped to redeem and correct and earn my claim to it during my military service, where I tried to volunteer for the Naval academy and become an officer at sea, but that dream was quickly dashed on the rocky shoals of a landlocked service in the army (though still, I tried to console myself, as a combat officer) and with it, my hopes of rightfully earning my place as a mariner with a legitimate nautical pedigree. In short, I suffered from an acute form of marine imposter syndrome, which was compounded each time I related my history or my yearning for aquatic voyaging. 

In fact, despite my international background, having grown up on three different continents and travelling extensively through all of them, my journeying was mostly done with my family.

While my adult life has taken me to Europe and North America on several occasions, the self-reliant, worldly, globetrotting mariner I felt I ought to have been remained unincarnated, or at least, not realised to a degree I felt was sufficient. 

For years, I fantasised about sailing from my native shore on a journey into the unknown, getting there, wherever “there” may be, through my own resourcefulness, toil and effort, finally earning my place on the water. 

But my desire to voyage is more than just a compounded form of daddy issues.

These past few years have been a time of tremendous growth for me. I got out of a very long relationship, moved out on my own, successfully kickstarted a career, and got on a path of heightened self-knowledge and mindfulness. If all of this sounds a little New-Age, that’s probably because it is, but it’s also been meaningful and healing to a degree that I can’t overstate. With this new growth came a need to know myself without the distractions of my daily routine. I felt – and feel – the need to be out in the world (whatever that means) with experiences and movement unmediated and unhindered by things like…  rent. 

Recently, in this aforementioned kickstarted career, I reached a point where I felt like I can take a break, before I move on to the next big thing. 

This, in conjunction with my best friend leaving for the States for his PhD, the Jewish New Year, the end of summer and opening borders, made journeying a very real possibility. My dreams of sailing off and making my way…  somewhere, to prove to myself that I can become the person I hope to be, were suddenly within reach.
More than that – this seemed like the path of least resistance, as if this silent pressure to go out and be in the world and see what happens has finally reached a critical point where I could no longer fight it. 

I’m writing these words on the night between September 7th and 8th, 2021, hunched over my phone under the covers of  my parents’ guest bed. My Tel Aviv apartment is sublet indefinitely, my desk job is a former responsibility. I have a single rucksack packed downstairs, a pair of hiking boots tied to it and a tent and sleeping bag ratcheted onto it at various precarious angles.

Tomorrow morning, September 8th, I set sail from Haifa. I’ve hitched a ride with two married pensioners, M and S, on their 44ft yacht, which will temporarily be called the Poodle, and they’ll take me as far as Rhodes in exchange for help on their sailing trip. M is a seasoned, salty sea dog, happy to teach, and I’ve already learned a lot on the test sail we went on last week. After Rhodes – we’ll see! My current plan is to make my way to Italy, the Alps, France, the strait of Dover, England and finally Scotland, before heading back – hence the name of this blog; always heading West of Here, wherever Here may be. But that plan will probably change.

First, we need to get to Rhodes, and even though I grew up on a boat, and have romanticised sailing my entire life, I’m worried that I might not do well on a long sea passage – the first leg of our trip, from Haifa to Limassol, is a 25 hour sail, complete with night shifts, tricky winds and choppy waters. If I don’t find my sea legs, I might have to make my way back to Israel by plane, with my tail tucked deep between my legs. But if I do manage to make it all the way to Rhodes – well, that would be a solid first step on my way to wherever I’m headed. 

This blog is meant to be a place for me to share the thoughts, experiences and ideas I encounter and come up with on my travels, to help me make sense of them and to keep my friends and family updated. No matter how you’ve reached it, though, please feel free to drop me a line and share your perspective!

Wish me luck,

A