Arrival in safe harbour

Progress makes you happy

Research shows that people feel happiest when they feel that they are making progress on a meaningful task. And it's also about goals, because they give structure to life and act psychologically like points of orientation in the fog of everyday life; they focus attention, energy and time. This also includes arriving. And of course we know that on the water too.

But first we set off into the new day. What will it bring us? And will we arrive safely? "Drive carefully", we hear again and again on land. But of course this also applies to water sports. For example: "Always keep a hand's breadth of water under your keel!" Or: "Break a mast and sheet!" And that applies to our boat anyway. We want to bring it safely into harbour.

When the day gets tired

Sometimes, after a rather calm, sunny day at sea, I have the feeling that this very day is slowly getting tired. And so am I. I notice how my movements slow down, the sun and the fresh air have lulled me into a cocoon. For me, gliding along with a languid serenity always means letting my mind wander. All sorts of things run through my head. Names of people we need to call or visit come to mind. I also think about those who are no longer with us. And I think about how well I'm doing on the whole. And then everything inside me falls into place in a very pleasant way. A bit like Tetris.

The golden light of the evening

On a day like this, we will soon hoist the sails as the evening gently descends over the water. A beautiful atmosphere is created as the light changes - it becomes softer and more golden, just as if someone had laid a fine veil over our little world here on the water.

The sun is low and skims the surface of the sea in long, shimmering orbits. A wonderful day of sailing draws to a close. Happiness is not only within our grasp, it is there, it is spreading through us with full force. Wonderful!

Of course, we all know that a day like this can also turn out differently. Rain, maybe cold and a lot of wind determine it, and while you're freezing, water is running down your neck and you might have to cross forever, you hope to have made it soon. Just a few more miles. We'll manage that.

And then, somewhere between wind, waves and sky, that special feeling that only sailors really know begins. Perhaps after hours of concentration, the harbour appears milky on the horizon.

The harbour on the horizon

At first it's just a hunch - a dark stripe, a few masts jutting into the sky like thin lines. Then it slowly becomes clearer: the entrance, the pier, perhaps a lighthouse that conveys a pleasant, nearby sense of security.

In these moments, something changes in me that all sailors reading this will recognise. Perhaps at this moment you still have your hands on the wheel, the boat is travelling at a leisurely pace. You still have to concentrate; the sails are still up, the boat is moving to the rhythm of the water - but your body begins to breathe a sigh of relief, to let go.

If you were tense and fully focussed, this now slowly, almost imperceptibly, loosens like a knot that gradually opens up. Your thoughts become calmer. You can feel that we're almost there.

The sounds of the harbour

And then, while we are still sailing, the everyday sounds of the harbour are added very gently and from afar. These sounds, which had disappeared out at sea, can now be heard more and more clearly: seagulls circling and screeching. Children laughing. People shouting to each other. The smell of chips and hot dogs can be detected. The harbour is getting closer, and we know that we'll be sitting there in a moment, happy to have arrived.

A harbour is not just a place. It is a promise. Everything will be fine. You are there. Because even if the journey is the destination - it's nice to arrive at some point.

Then the boat is steered into the wind, the sails begin to kill, a familiar sound of fabric and air. For a brief moment, the boat seems to hesitate, as if it doesn't want to let go of the day quite yet. Then we start the engine, the mainsail falls, piece by piece, gliding through our hands until it finally lies heavy on the boom. The wind loses its power over the boat.

We slowly approach the harbour entrance. The waves become smaller and smaller in the cover, the rhythm calmer. The movement that has been a matter of course all day changes. It has something of a leisurely final spurt.

Under the protection of the harbour

The masts of the other boats stand close together, a small forest of aluminium and wood, and the evening light shines between them. It is that special light that only harbours know: warm, peaceful, almost protective. No, not almost.

And with every metre we get closer, this feeling of security grows. It is not the security of walls or doors. It is a deeper, quieter certainty: you are allowed to arrive here. You can be tired here. This is where the vastness of the day ends.

And there is the joy of a free berth. The jetty draws closer. How nice when someone is ready to take the lines and moor the boat. A little tug, a brief creaking of the lines - and then the boat is safely moored. Then we switch off the engine and are happy. This moment of arrival is actually inconspicuous and yet full of meaning.

The wind is still blowing across the harbour, but now it is a companion and no longer a temporary enemy if it means too well. The boat only moves slightly, a gentle rocking, marvellous.

A quiet happiness

We right the ship and realise how a pleasant feeling of happiness flows through us intermittently. Our hands detach from our work, our shoulders slump a little. We are allowed to let go. And suddenly, not quickly but slowly, we realise how happy we are to have arrived. This is not the loud, exuberant happiness that demands attention and is desperate to communicate itself.

It is a quiet happiness, deep and full of warmth. It is a happiness that arises when endeavour and goal come together. When the journey is behind you and you have reached a safe place. Those of you reading this know what I mean.

We may sit in the cockpit for a moment. The lines are tight, the sails neatly folded. The sky is slowly getting darker, the evening is here. The first lights in the harbour come on, small reflections in the water that multiply with every movement of the boat.

We review the day over a mooring beer or a gin and tonic, talk about what went well and not so well, praise each other and think about how we can do things better. And where to go the next day.

The gust in the afternoon that pushed the boat onto its side. The rhythmic beating of the waves on the bow. The endless horizon, which means freedom and challenge at the same time. All of this now seems a little further away, almost like a story that we have just experienced.

The magic of the moment

And perhaps that is precisely where the magic of this moment lies. Because out on the open water, you are small. The sea is big, the wind sometimes unpredictable, the sky boundless. Every action demands attention, every change of course requires a decision in advance. Will it be the right one? It is a world of movement, energy and constant vigilance.

The harbour, on the other hand, is a place of tranquillity. Here, thoughts are allowed to slow down. Here the body can feel how tired it is. And this tiredness is not a heavy, oppressive exhaustion. It is filled with calm and peace and relaxation. It is the kind of good tiredness that you feel when you have completed your sports programme or run a marathon.

Maybe we'll have a chat now. Maybe we'll cook. But maybe we'll just sit and look at the water while the sun finally starts to set for the day.

Crockery and cutlery clink softly, there are footsteps on the jetty, we hear the distant hum of an engine - all these little noises add up to a quiet melody of the evening at the end of a day's sailing.

Thanks to the ship

Some people are now even talking to their ship, saying thank you - because the ship has also experienced the day. It has weathered the wind, travelled through waves and brought us safely to our destination. It is now coming to rest, just like its crew. Sails and lines are no longer tools in motion, but part of a calm, floating home.

And that is perhaps the deepest feeling of this moment: being at home. Not necessarily in the sense of a fixed place. But as a state. A feeling that arises when you feel in balance with the world. When the outside and the inside come to rest. The harbour is then more than a collection of jetties and boats. It is a small, sheltered space in the vast expanse of the sea.

Under the starry sky

The darkness descends further over the water. The sky deepens, the stars appear one after the other. The lights of the harbour are reflected in the harbour basin. And somewhere between these lights sits a sailor who has just arrived. His hands may still be a little rough, his skin warm from the sun and wind, his thoughts filled with the vastness of the day. But there is something else in his heart now: a deep, quiet contentment.

We felt the wind and found our way. And now we are safely moored in the harbour. Perhaps we are already planning the next stage in the pleasant knowledge that we are safe in our harbour. Maybe we'll go and explore the new town again, walk along the centre of the road to feel the space we had on the water to our right and left.

We are glad to be ashore, to have got everyone here safely and are looking forward to the next sailing day. But for now we're here! Staying for now is also nice. Arriving has many facets, but it is always one thing: wonderful!