Long-distance cruising isn’t for everyone, and there is no iron-clad argument that your partner will join you in cutting the dock lines. After all, your partner’s resistance might be based on a tangle of finances, fears, family, friends or physical worries. 

But there are some strategies that can help your partner transform reluctance into excitement. Getting my wife on board with my dreams of cruising adventures involved a slow, thoughtful process. I encouraged her to open her eyes to the wonder and possibility of bluewater cruising.

Here are four things I did that helped my partner accept and embrace the cruising life.

Make It Seem Normal

There’s no mainstream model for the cruising life, so it can be practically impossible to imagine. Most stories in the media about sailors include the word “rescue.” Making the idea of bluewater cruising more normal can also make it less scary. More manageable. More possible. And, ­eventually, more likely.

From the time Joy and I met, she was well aware of my passion for bluewater sailing. She was mildly interested, but in a way that could easily evaporate if I let it drop. So, I didn’t let it drop. 

I talked to her about my dream to sail oceans. We walked docks and boatyards. I shared passages from books, snippets of articles, and video clips. I always tried to remember that less is more. I didn’t want to overwhelm her. I wanted to make this extraordinary lifestyle seem almost ho-hum.

When we sailed our local waters for a few days or weeks, we chatted about what it might be like to go a bit farther. To stay out a little longer. Evenings at anchor lend themselves nicely to this kind of dream weaving.

Making the idea of bluewater cruising more normal can also make it less scary. More manageable. And, eventually, more likely.

I tried not to overdo it. I watched for signs that she was bored or overwhelmed. At first, those signs were anything but rare. When I could see that she’d had enough of the boat thing, I was happy to move on to other topics.

It took a long while, but all this talking and gawking, watching, roaming and reading helped her to normalize the idea of cruising. It wasn’t just my harebrained idea; it was something that people—regular people—actually chose to do.

Talk Less, Listen More

I asked her questions about the boats we saw. About the sailors we met. About the places she’d like to visit. About the opinions we heard. About how all this made her feel about the very idea of long-distance cruising.

And here’s the important part: I listened to her answers. I kept my mouth shut. (It was hard to do.) I redirected my impulse to interrupt into the simple motion of nodding my head. When she said that she was worried about leaving family and friends, I nodded. Just that. I didn’t try to minimize it, offer options or suggest solutions. I just nodded.

When she said she was frightened by the idea of being so far from land on such a tiny boat, I looked into her eyes and nodded. I could see her anxiety. I wanted so badly to say something, anything to minimize the fear. To make it better. To fix it. But I bit my tongue and focused on what she was sharing with me.

If listening like that comes easy for you, then you have a superpower. It sure doesn’t come easy for me.

What I learned is that if your partner can see that you get it, that you really understand their fears, anxieties and worries, then they can more easily let that stuff go. If you dismiss these issues by trying to fix them, by waving them off as irrational, then you force your partner to keep trying to explain, to keep trying to get you to understand. It’s a cruel cycle. And it gets you nowhere.

The big payoff from all this listening and incessant ­nodding is that I learned a lot. 

I learned that for her, cruising would be more about people than passages. I learned that feeling secure was more important than going fast. I learned that while simplicity is a virtue, she isn’t particularly into peeing in a bucket. I found out that she was excited by the process of provisioning. That she wasn’t even remotely intimidated by the challenge of creating delicious meals in a dinky galley. And that she had a deep and abiding fear of laundry.

A critical side note is that back then, she didn’t call it a galley. She called it a “kitchen.” And she called the head the “bathroom.” And she called the stateroom a “bedroom.” Resist, resist, resist the urge to correct your partner’s terminology. At least in the beginning. 

If you don’t, you’ll miss important stuff. The words will come.

Get Out of the Way

Give your partner the space they need to find their own way. This might actually be harder than the nodding thing, but it’s equally important.

Early on, I spent a lot of time sharing my love of sailing and cruising. I freely shared what I knew. What I thought. What I thought I knew. And when Joy expressed those first real glimmers of interest, I was ecstatic. 

It didn’t take long to ­recognize that my enthusiasm for cruising left little room for my partner to find her own excitement. I needed to temper my enthusiasm and let her make her own discoveries, reach her own conclusions. 

She attended a couple of sailing seminars for women, and I didn’t bug her for all the details. I saw a book about sailing on her nightstand, and I didn’t mention it. When she signed up to take a sailing class on her own, I resisted the urge to do cartwheels. 

If I wanted us to walk down this path together, I had to resist the urge to dash ahead of her. I needed to slow my pace to match hers. And in many cases, slow down enough to let her take the lead.

By slowing myself down, by getting out of her way, Joy was able to see details that I had just skimmed over. Or missed completely. Details that were important to her—and, subsequently, to us. 

Cede Control

Don’t let being “captain” go to your head (see: Bligh, William; captain, Royal Navy). Share the responsibilities whenever possible. 

And I’m not referring to the old trope of “blue jobs” and “pink jobs.” I’m not talking about “jobs” at all. 

Whenever possible, I let Joy take the lead. It works something like this: I make the ultimate decisions about departure windows and routes. I involve Joy in these decisions. We talk it through. I share my reasoning. I listen and act based on her concerns. But ultimately, I make those decisions.

Joy is OK with this, but she chafes at lacking control. So we created some balance. Joy controls our itinerary once we arrive in a country or an island group. She assumes the responsibility of deciding which atolls and anchorages we’ll explore.

To be clear, this is not a revolving dictatorship. We talk about all of this. We share points of view and trust each other to speak up if there is a problem. We make ­accommodations for each of our interests.

Joy was able to see details that I just skimmed over. Or missed completely. Details that were important to her—and, subsequently, to us.

We both need to feel in ­control. Neither of us is content to just be along for the ride. For us, this way of balancing control works quite well. And we’ve kept the balance of control as we’ve ­explored the Pacific from Mexico to New Zealand. 

Your results may vary. But if you can start with normalizing the idea of cruising and then truly listen to your partner’s concerns, you’ll be on your way. Give your partner space to explore various aspects of cruising on their own, and then identify areas where they can be in control. 

These deceptively simple steps can move you toward your cruising dream with an enthusiastic partner on board.

Harry Pattison and Joy Archer sail aboard a 44-foot Mason launched in 1988. They are circumnavigating the Pacific Ocean. When they’re at home, Pattison runs sail training for couples in and around Puget Sound. Learn more at ­matesfirst.com.

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I’m seconds from slipping over the side of the dinghy into the turquoise waters of Tahanea Atoll in the Tuamotu Archipelago of French Polynesia. Manta rays, easily 8 feet across, swoop below. My pale white feet frame their dark velvety backs. This is always a moment of high anxiety, plunging my whole body into an ecosystem full of creatures I can’t see from above. 

I slide in and slam my face underwater so that I can see what is coming at me. My heart thuds in my ears. Within minutes, I’ve got a tight grip on my husband’s forearm. We kick slowly into the ray fray. I can hear him laughing through his snorkel. At me? Unclear.

Harry has talked about long-distance cruising for so long that I can’t remember a time when he didn’t. I always knew that it was his (somewhat vague) dream to sail around the world, but in the early years of our marriage, we were building a business and raising our children. The cruising fantasy remained that—
a fantasy.

This is where it ends for many people. Cruising is logistically more complex than anything you’ll ever do. It requires a lot of self-motivation and long-term focus. If your partner has a dream to sail long distance and you’re just not into it, then waiting it out isn’t a bad strategy. For many people, the dream evaporates under the weight of one partner’s noncooperation.

But then, we must be honest with ourselves. Could you live with the death of your partner’s dream? Knowing you killed it? Could you accept responsibility for that heartbreak? 

Going along with it might sound like an awful lot of give and very little take. Like personal sacrifice. Like being intolerably unhappy and resentful. That’s OK. Cruising isn’t for everyone. 

But maybe you’re tired of resisting, even though you’re still scared. Maybe you recognize that gifts come back to you when you advocate for your partner’s joy. 

Could you live with the death of your partner’s dream? Knowing you killed it? Could you accept responsibility for that heartbreak?

If this is the line you’re walking, I can share what worked for me. Here’s how I got on board with my partner’s dream to sail the world.

Take an Interest

This was hard at first because I couldn’t see a lot of value in trading my time with a good book to learn about port and starboard, tacking, sails, and inboard engines. My partner’s enthusiasm for all these things made it easier. I wanted to be able to talk to him about the things that interested him.

I imagined that I was learning a new language, and a new country. Sailboats have their own vocabulary. The words—clew, tumblehome, freeboard, baggywrinkles—appealed to me. I took small steps at first. Tiny steps. Just sailboat vocabulary. 

Then, the weirdest thing started happening: Learning the words led to questions. I connected the names for boat parts and the functions they served. Freeboard is the part of the hull above the waterline. Is it better to have more freeboard or less? 

After that, I was imagining myself on a sailboat with lots of freeboard versus one with not much freeboard. My mind led me there.

Find Ways To Learn More

Before I gave myself permission to accept the cruising dream, I was reluctant to talk to my partner about it. I didn’t want him to be encouraged if I was eventually going to decide it wasn’t my jam. 

Even so, I still wanted to learn more so I’d at least be informed when I told him it was too dangerous and there’s no way I’d do it. I found books and articles on sailing and cruising topics that interested me. I joined a Facebook group called Women Who Sail. It’s a supportive, inclusive group of women sailors all over the world. Every question—even the ones I feel nervous to ask
—is respectfully answered. 

I also attended a women’s sailing seminar for a weekend. And even though I’d been on sailboats for 20 years at this point, I signed up for a learn-to-sail course. 

Getting distance from my partner while I investigated this world was critical. I needed space to explore without the weight of his delight.

Own the Dream

A lot of cruisers singlehand. We’ve met many, and all but one were men. I tried to imagine my partner alone on an adventure like this, and I simply didn’t want that for him. I understood that he would likely go without me. I thought about how it would feel to maintain my land life while he learned incredible things every day on the water. 

I thought about what that would do to our marriage in the short and long term. I imagined the gulf that would grow between us. I didn’t want that for either of us.

So I accepted that I would participate in this dream. This was an important step.

After that, I sat for a long time in the place where I thought I’d made peace, but I still felt like I didn’t have a choice. I was willing, but—and this was the ticking time bomb—only for his sake. Over time, I realized this wasn’t good enough. I needed to be just as passionate about the adventure. 

I identified parts of the adventure that excited me. Crossing the ocean on a sailboat? Terrifying. Swimming in the tropics with manta rays? Exciting! I latched onto specific things that made me genuinely enthusiastic about sailing away from the safety of our home. 

For starters, I decided I would swim everywhere we anchored. I then decided I would write weekly stories about our adventure for friends and family to read. I got all sauced up learning how to provision for passages, how to buy food in Mexico, French Polynesia and Fiji. 

Maybe you love reading. That’s great: Stack your nightstand with books about cruising or about the places you’ll be cruising. Maybe you like napping. Terrific: Get yourself the best hammock you can find, and plan to get a selfie at every anchorage. 

Taking ownership of the dream puts you in a good place. Be open to ways this dream can become your own.

Work Through Phases

No part of this process is fast. You have deeply ingrained ideas and expectations about  “normal life.” You’re looking down the road less traveled. 

Unless you’re lucky, you won’t find a lot of friends and family who have done this before who can guide you. From the time I realized that my husband was sincere about pursuing his cruising dream to the time I was completely on board was about 10 years. Your timeline will be your own.

I identified parts of the adventure that excited me. I latched onto things that made me enthusiastic about sailing away from the safety of our home.

My husband isn’t drawn to get in the water. He rarely swims when we drop the anchor, though he’ll happily put down the swim ladder for me, and then watch over me while I stroke from our boat to that one and then that one. But when the snorkeling is good, he joins me in my dreamscape. 

He knows it’s important to me to share my passion for the water, and he’s interested in seeing the undersea life. He likes to look up the species in our fish books, poring over the colorful pictures. Swimming alongside magnificent manta rays excites him too. 

He still gets some of the snorkeling vocabulary wrong (they’re fins, not flippers), but he’s learning.

Joy Archer sails with her husband, Harry Pattison, aboard a 44-foot Mason launched in 1988. Tune in next month for Harry’s side of the story.  

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