When the sea gives way to silence, what remains?

So… we aren’t at the Annapolis Boat Show this year.

Trust me—we wanted to be. Well, I wanted to be. Annapolis has always been a highlight for us: a yearly reunion with friends from around the globe, where the laughter flows like dark rum and we remember exactly why we chose this life afloat. It’s a tradition that has stitched itself into the fabric of who we are, which makes it hard to admit that this year, for the first time since casting off, we pulled the plug.

Why? Well… that’s where things (like everything else lately) get complicated.

Disclaimer: Between Privacy and Vulnerability

I’ve always toed the line between privacy and vulnerability. On one side, there’s the instinct to keep things close, to not let the internet into every corner of my life. On the other, there’s the belief that sharing openly helps strip the stigma from the harder conversations—about mental health, relationships, and what happens when dreams start to weigh heavier than they lift.

If my words can make even one reader feel less alone, then the discomfort of putting them out there is worth it.

So here we go.

Life on Land: The Ranch and the Rebuild

When we decided to take a season off cruising, it wasn’t because the dream was over—it was because we needed to plant roots for a little while. Runaground Ranch, our 1940s fixer, needed work. And so did we.

Chris made a huge pivot— (mostly) leaving behind cinema to dive headlong into construction. He built his LLC from scratch, got his contractor’s license, and hustled every single day without a break. Nearly a year later, he is Tide & Timber LLC, and I am endlessly proud of him.

But that pride sits beside the truth: the relentless pace came with costs. Our house projects remained only a theory, and if some made it off the list they sat half-finished. Our relationship also felt half-finished. And in the quiet woods, where community doesn’t just fall into your cockpit the way it does in Mexico, I felt more isolated than ever.

The Weight of Expectations on Land

Cruising had its storms and breakdowns, but there was a freedom in it too. Out there, your obligations are to your boat, to your crew, to the sea. On land, the obligations are different. Family expectations. Social duties. The kind where you don’t volunteer so much as get volentold.

That shift hit me harder than I expected. I found myself pulled between trying to keep everyone happy on shore and missing the raw simplicity of cruising, where connection was forged in shared storms, borrowed tools, and passed-around plates of food.

And in the midst of it all, I started to wonder: who am I, outside of Avocet?

For seven years, my identity has been wrapped up in this boat, this brand, this dream. Five years full-time aboard, year six half afloat and half ashore, and now year seven—a year where we didn’t step foot on our first floating home once. Looking in the mirror without the title of “liveaboard cruiser” staring back has been disorienting. And painful.

Seven Years of Avocet, and Us

Our followers may have noticed the YouTube channel has come alive again with weekly uploads. What you might not realize is that this time, I’ve been carrying the editing alone. For the past seven years, Chris and I split that work. Seven years of late nights, huddled around laptops, arguing over b-roll or color grading until we finally hit “publish.”

But this season, it’s just me. Alone at the desk. Alone in the woods. Alone in the silence that stretches between us when Chris comes home too tired to meet me in the middle. Seven years together, seven years of boat ownership, and suddenly I feel like we’re standing on different shores, unsure of how to bridge the gap.

Growing Pains, or…?

I don’t write this for pity. I write it because I know I’m not the only one who has wrestled with the tension between adventure and stability, between love and loneliness. This year has been long. We are tired. We are still in the thick of asking ourselves what comes next.

Some days, I miss La Cruz with an ache that feels physical. I miss Ventura, where my life had rhythm and purpose. I miss the feeling of walking down a dock and knowing I’d find someone who got it.

Here, on land, the mirror reflects harder truths: about my marriage, my identity, my limits.

Gratitude, Despite It All

So with all of that said, Annapolis just seemed like it was “too much” this year on top of everything else that has been going on “behind the screens” — but that doesn’t mean we don’t miss it — or you. Every kind message of encouragement we’ve received has been a small lifeline. A reminder that even when I feel adrift, connection is still possible.

So thank you. Truly. For being part of our story in both the stoke-filled seasons and the stormy ones.

This year, I’ll raise a glass from the Ranch and hope that by next fall, I’ll be clinking glasses with you dockside once again.

Sending love,

Marissa