When I was a much younger woman, I ran a marathon. 26.2 miles through freezing temperatures and self-doubt.
I'd followed a rigorous training schedule for months that built my muscles and my mental strength. So when I finally crossed that finish line, the photo was taken, and my body wrapped in a silver blanket, I felt absolute victory, right?
No. Actually, I felt tired. Really tired. Also hungry. Relieved I hadn't failed.
It didn't fit the Hollywood ending that writers—ahem, people like me—teach us to expect.
Real life is messier. The biggest shifts don't happen in a tidy scene beat, but unfold slowly, piecemeal. The penny finally drops when it's least expected.
Achieving a major milestone at first feels a little surreal, like, "Did I just do that?" Then over hours or days or weeks you begin to believe it, as in, "Yeah. I guess I really did that." It can take months or years for the full meaning to sink in.
The best moments of finishing that marathon came over the course of a decade as I slowly accepted the identity of someone who can do really hard things.
I was reminded of that experience this past month as I finally reached another massive milestone. Five years after Covid upended our sailboat cruising life, my husband and I finally moved onto a boat again. And not just any boat. The boat of our dreams.
So the day they handed me the keys, I felt complete elation, right?
No, you've been paying attention. Of course, it wasn't that simple. I wish I'd been as smart as you. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I expected the beautiful sunset and the uplifting score.
But the day we took ownership felt surreal, as in "Is this really ours?" I kept expecting someone to come kick me off the show model.
They builders were more than wonderful. They carefully explained all the systems, took us to dinner, and thoughtfully left us a bottle of champagne in the fridge. I felt glimmers of joy. Our boat, Pristine, was absolutely as beautiful and bombproof as we'd hoped. The day was also an information firehose that left me flat. I berated myself that I should have been in celebration mode, but I honestly didn’t have the energy. I just wanted to get back to the Airbnb and collapse.
Ok. Chalk it up to jet lag. Glory would surely come with our first sail.
The next day we took her out on the water, and there were lovely moments—like finding out our blue-water cruiser tacked like a race boat and our black gennaker looked fabulously punk rock—but mostly it was a blur of overwhelm and rusty sailing skills. Which were the sheets for the staysail? Were we in danger of an accidental gybe? Would we run over a fishing pot and foul the propeller? By the end, I was hopeful and grateful, but utterly exhausted. The champagne stayed in the fridge.
When we moved aboard, then? Nope. It got harder. We lugged mattresses and shopped for cutting boards and toilet brushes in France, where I didn't know the stores or brands. We drove three hours round-trip to find pantry containers that would fit the boat’s storage spaces without breaking, spilling, or popping open as soon as we heeled. We came home empty-handed.
We worried that pressing the wrong button might break something. People arrived with our spinnaker pole and dinghy and tech support all at the same time. We fretted, directed, and troubleshot. We schlepped, we shopped, we butchered the French language. We made plans, threw them out, made plans again, and then started over from scratch. We dealt with drenching January rain and ate canned soup for dinner for weeks because it's all we had energy for.
All the while, that bottle of champagne sat in the fridge, and I felt like I was utterly failing to be joyful enough. I just got my dream boat. What was wrong with me? Why was I stressed and anxious, and bleary-eyed? Why could I not feel the gratitude, pride, or victory I should have been feeling? Yet at the end of each day, I honestly just felt spent. Like reaching the pillow was a Herculean effort.
And then one afternoon, I’d had it. Needing a break from the overwhelm, I walked to a café to do some writing. I didn’t think I’d have the energy for that either, but when I sat down, I noticed the cute wicker chairs and felt the happy vibe of people chatting under a red awning. Then I felt the bliss of someone handing me a cup of hot coffee. I took out my pen and wrote, “I probably won’t get anywhere today...”
Then the words poured out. I filled six pages with scrawled handwriting and felt relaxed. Refreshed. Renewed.
When I left the café, I took a different way back to the marina, twisting my way down the medieval, curving streets. Suddenly, to my surprise, I was standing in front of a kitchenware store.
I went in. There on the shelf were pantry containers. They were solid. Unbreakable. Locking. Too good to be true? I took out a tape measure. Consulted my notes. They fit the boat’s storage spaces perfectly.
Hallelujah! I emptied the shelf, paid for the containers, and walked back toward the marina.
And that's when the penny dropped.
I’d made it.
I was here. On my boat. My home.
With pantry containers.
I’d freaking made it! I really had a boat again. A home. A new life.
I got back to the boat and declared, “Colin! Let’s pop that champagne!”
This is what I love about the human experience—and what I strive to capture in fiction. We imagine the biggest moments happen at the biggest moments. A boss giving us a promotion leads to feeling successful. A screaming match leads to divorce. Finishing a race leads to glory.
But so often for humans, it takes time for that penny to drop. It takes background processing that our conscious minds aren't privy to.
In real life, those moments happen at unexpected times. Filling up a rental car with gas. Reaching for a box of Special K in the cereal aisle. On a cobblestone street in Cherbourg, carrying pantry containers.
I'm fascinated by the raw reality of being human. The history books record the date Ellen and Perk Creesy set sail, the storms they weathered, and the incredible record they broke. But as I write A Course to Steer, I wonder about their penny drops. The quiet instant when Ellen actually felt like she belonged at sea—not just capable, but truly home on the water. The moment Perk first believed his success was real, not just luck. The first time they both felt genuinely connected in their marriage, despite all the pressures pulling them apart.
I suspect those moments happened at unexpected times that would never fit a Hollywood scene beat.
Those are the stories I find I want to tell. The human ones. The real ones.
And right now, I'm living one of those stories myself—moving aboard, learning a new boat, starting a new chapter. It's messy and exhausting, and sometimes I eat soup for dinner three nights running. But it's also exactly where I'm meant to be.
Thank you for being part of this journey with me.
Fair winds,
Cheyenne
P.S. Where have you had penny-drop moments? The quiet ones where everything suddenly made sense? Hit reply and tell me—I read and reply to every response, and your stories might just inspire a character's journey.
P.P.S. From the research files: if you've ever wondered how square-riggers actually tacked and gybed, these videos capture the reality better than anything I've seen.
The Finish Line Shots
The behind-the-scenes reality
The real glory
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