I've been here before

I’ve been here before. At the start of a new adventure, asking myself: Why the hell did I have to do this?

I asked myself this question in August 2016, during my first ever night in the African bush. Unaware of how cold Lowveld winters could be, I had brought a light sleeping bag and lay there shivering in a small dome tent. I shared the tent with Dylan, a Malfoy-esque boy from Tanzania who seemed to know everything. I knew nothing and was intimidated by his knowledge and apparent confidence.

I asked myself this question again in January 2021, when I found myself lying on a dirty mattress on the floor of an old staff building in a game reserve called Marataba. It was one of the wettest summers in decades; insect life was thriving, and at night ants crawled over me in such numbers that there was no option but to accept it.

I also asked myself this question in September 2022, on the first day at sea with Floortje, just after leaving IJmuiden. We were beating upwind in 25+ knots, and almost immediately things started breaking.

I asked this question again in June 2023, as I was cycling up the first hill in Rwanda (Le pays des mille collines), on a bicycle weighing 50 kg, after minimal training in mostly flat country.

The last time I asked this question before now was in December 2023. Again, I was on Floortje, beating upwind in 25+ knots, this time sailling from Curaçao to Puerto Rico, with a girl who had no sailing experience.

Yesterday, when I arrived on Warrior, I asked myself this question once more.

Why the hell did I have to do this? Why the hell did I have to start an adventure travel business in South Africa, focusing on primitive walking safaris and ocean sailing? [I mean what the fuck] Why could I not just stay in my comfortable life in Amsterdam, with my comfortable house, my comfortable job, and all my friends and family around me?

While Mike, the boat captain who has looked after Warrior for the past 20 years, was showing me around, my thoughts spiralled. With every compartment we opened, the list of jobs grew longer. The task ahead felt overwhelming. When Mike left, wishing me luck as he stepped into retirement, I burst into tears.

But, as always, one feels lighter after a good cry, and it wasn’t long before I realised: I’ve been here before. All those earlier moments—the tent, the ants, the headwinds, the hills—were the beginnings of something special. They were the beginnings of journeys I’m still proud of; experiences that made me feel more alive than ever.

I also realised something else: I may not know how to start an adventure travel company, but I do know how to do hard things. Hard things aren’t done all at once; they’re done by breaking the herculean into the manageable. The first step was simple: clean the boat and unpack my gear. I cleared out thirty years of accumulated junk. Bit by bit, Warrior felt lighter, more orderly, more like mine.

That evening, I went out for dinner feeling calmer than I had all day. I returned to the boat—my new home—and slept deeply.

A good sign.