Last month, I got to do something I’d been dreaming about for years. More than dreaming, in fact. I’ve been actively visualizing this thing every time I sat down to write the next Navigator novel.
I got to sail a tall ship.
Not just spot one through binoculars, or take a tour, or a day cruise. I got to actively crew a square-rigger for two full weeks, bracing yards, climbing rigging, and taking the helm over some of the most storied waters on the planet. The trip covered 1500 nautical miles, starting in Piriápolis, Uruguay and ending in Ushuaia, Argentina, a mere 91 miles from Cape Horn. Ushuaia is known—for good reason—as the End of the World.
So what on earth was that like, you ask?
When I stepped aboard the bark Europa, I had the most surreal feeling—as if I’d stepped bodily into my own imagination. I almost expected the main characters Ellen and Perk to appear from around a corner.
For the first several days, I was just grateful not to be seasick. Then I was amazed to not only see the maneuvers I’d researched in books, but feel them. The burn of a three-strand rope in bare palms. The force required to heave, sweat, and tail a royal halyard versus an upper tops’l. The stickiness of tar-coated fingers, and the sea state required to turn the fo’c’sle into a launch pad.
I also loved every time I discovered an assumption I’d had that was wrong, because it meant the novels will be that much more authentic when you read them. Turns out, unfurled sails don’t just fall open with gravity. Because of the friction of the clew and bunt lines, they have to be hauled down. Not quite how Hollywood depicts it. And unless you’re a warship with a massive crew, you don’t trim all the sails at once, but move forward and back between masts to brace a few sails at a time. Oh, and balancing on the footrope under the yards wasn’t utterly terrifying after all—at least in benign conditions. It took concentration and practice, but balancing with your belly instead of clinging with fists actually felt more stable than it had looked to me in videos.
I also got to embody my characters in their whole range of emotions, from the crabby disbelief that it was already time for my 4am watch, to the soul-replenishing feeling of a warm beverage, to the joy of a whale spout and a starry sky, to the little irritations of a missing glove and wet pants, to the camaraderie of a sea shanty and a rousing game of cards, to the blessed welcome of a bunk after an exhausting watch was completed.
So, just as I’d hoped, I came away with a huge list of scene ideas, details to add, and corrections to make in the next edit pass. Cheyenne the writer was thrilled. But even better was what happened to Cheyenne the human.
The modernity signals faded away into the distance. There was no traffic, TV news, or emails to check. The work was physical. We hoisted, struck, braced, and furled halyards, clew lines, bunt lines, and sheets. And each time the wind boxed the compass, we did the same again. And again. Surrounded only by the creak of wooden pulleys, the thud of rope coils hitting the deck, the calming sound below of water trickling past the hull. Soon enough, the surreal feeling gave way to a timeless one. Squinting past the Gore-tex clothing and radar dome, it could just as easily have been 1825.
But if I’d thought that was a lovely feeling, it paled in comparison to what came next.
Timelessness gave way to the eternal. Sea. Sky. Wind—more of it or less—from one direction or another. The kite-shaped Southern Cross. The sea in all her many moods. The gentle rock of a swell. A dolphin’s leaping joy. A fog’s shrouding mist.
The land world receded so far into the background that all its speed, busy-ness, and stresses began to feel like a surreal dream world. In its place, the deeply present, tactile, natural world of sailing a tall ship started to feel much more real than ‘real’ life. The pace and rhythms of sea life brought me the deepest sense of inner peace and contentment I’ve felt since—well, probably since the last time I was at sea—more than five years ago.
It was such a profound experience that when I later heard this audiobook quote while walking around Buenos Aires, I burst into tears of joy.
“When it all clicks, when you’ve survived the storms, the seasickness, and the endless damp, you’ll take the midnight watch on a moonless night. You’ll look up and see so many stars you’ll feel as if you’re sailing through the universe itself. And you’ll think I’m home.” —James Evenson, Be the Captain
So I feel beyond grateful that this coming week, my husband Colin and I finally take possession of our own boat in Cherbourg, France, and can start working toward new adventures at sea for 2026. And while planning exactly how the next few months will play out is a bit harder than usual, I have every intention—and all the inspiration possible!—to keep the manuscript of the next Navigator book sailing along as well.
Wishing you the greatest adventures in 2026,
Cheyenne
P.S. Want to know what one wears on night watch in penguin territory? Here’s a quick 90-second video of my silly (but warm!) outfit.
P.P.S. Here’s a last fun tall ship detail that I couldn’t have made up. A day out of port, we were suddenly beset by a swarm of dragonflies. Thousands of them! Apparently, they’d decided to take a rest in one of the furled sails and were more than a little miffed when their canvas cocoon suddenly chucked them out into the air, miles from shore. That experience will certainly make it into one of the Navigator books, though I’m not sure which. But one day you’ll read that scene and know exactly where it came from. ;)
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