First Day – What to Expect

Patience Is Key (and Also the First Test of Seamanship)

The first day is mostly waiting disguised as progress. The charter company controls the schedule, and by “schedule,” we mean an optimistic estimate backed by little evidence. You’ll arrive full of energy; they’ll be printing forms and shrugging. This is normal.

Expect delays during boat pick-up, provisioning, and any conversation that begins with “just one moment.” Arguing with the base staff won’t make things go faster. In fact, it may slow them down. Deep breaths, find some shade, and remember: this is still better than airport security.

We don’t set the embarkation time. We don’t control the pace. All we can do is smile, hydrate, and slowly lower our standards for what counts as “efficient.” The sea will wait. The charter company will not hurry.

Before We Depart (Let’s Not Skip the Part Where We Learn How Not to Sink)

Once we’ve been handed the keys (and the insurance liability), Mike will get a full briefing from the base staff. This is a good time to not hover—unless explicitly invited. The rest of us will either be waiting with snacks or pretending we understand the marina layout.

If the base offers a chart briefing for guests, it’s worth joining.

Before we leave the dock, we’ll have a safety walkthrough. It’s not optional, and yes, even if you’ve “been on a boat before.” Mike will go over the gear and the game plan. List of topic he'll cover is here.

Ask questions! This is your moment. After this, you’ll be expected to know how to flush.

Cabin Check (You Get What You Get)

Once cabins are assigned, make sure you’ve got towels, linens, a pillow, window covers, and a single precious roll of toilet paper. If anything’s missing, tell Mike or Lena before we leave the dock—once we’re out at sea, you’ll be using that pillowcase as a towel.

Actual Departure

Depending on how smooth (or hilariously slow) check-in is, we’ll either:

Cast off that afternoon, sail for a short hop, and spend the night moored or anchored.

OR

Stay put on the dock, drink something chilled, and sail out the next morning.

Either way, by the time we leave, you’ll know where the lifejackets are and how to pee without breaking maritime law. A strong start.

Last Day – What to Expect

Everything Takes Forever, and Then You Wait Some More

Dropping off the boat is not a sprint. It’s more of a slow drift through logistics, forms, and a fuel line that hasn’t moved since 2009. Disembarkation is a process, and that process is mostly waiting—on the dock, in the sun, and occasionally in line for a bathroom.

The evening before, you’ll get instructions: what time to be packed, what needs cleaning, and which perishables must be heroically eaten or thrown out. Come morning, you’ll need to have your bags zipped, your linens and towels collected, the trash bagged, the dishes done, and any suspicious produce removed from the fridge. Everyone helps. No one gets to disappear.

Once ashore, we’ll return rental gear and take one last walk to the dumpster. After that? Fuel. The boat needs to be topped up before handoff, and there is always a line at the gas dock. Bring water, bring patience, bring your lowest expectations.

Bathroom Situation: At some point, we’ll flush the toilets for the final time. After that, it’s a pee-only situation until we’re back at the base. It could be an hour. It could be three. You’ll live. Once at the charter base, use their bathroom. It’s clean, it’s on land, and it doesn’t require a seacock.

Water and Energy Conservation

You’re Not in a Hotel. You’re in a Floating Compromise.

Fresh water on a boat is finite and refills are rare. That means no long showers (save the spa moments for shore) and no letting the tap run while you contemplate life over a dirty dish. Rinse with intention.

Boat water is fine for washing, brushing, and general hygiene. Do not drink it unless you’re actively looking for a stomach adventure. We’ll have bottled or refillable drinking water on board—use that for anything that goes in your face.

The refrigerator works, technically. It’s good for keeping things “cool-ish.” It is not a place for ice cream, frozen shrimp, or dreams. There’s usually no freezer, and if there is one, it’s purely symbolic.

Power is precious. Charge devices via USB ports—they’re more reliable than full outlets, which may or may not function depending on our battery level, anchoring situation, and collective karma. If your device requires a three-prong plug and a prayer, plan accordingly.

Cabin cooling is courtesy of built-in fans, not air conditioning. They work surprisingly well if you let the breeze help—but if you're expecting hotel A/C, please adjust expectations before sunset. Sweating is part of the charm.

Provisions (A.K.A. We Will Feed You, Mostly)

If the stars align and a provisioning company exists, they’ll deliver our grocery haul straight to the boat. If not, we’ll hit the local store with a pre-made list and very little patience. Either way, food will appear—just maybe not your exact oat milk brand.

We aim to cover the basics: coffee (always), tea, eggs, bread, oatmeal, a few garden salads, pasta, cheese-that-survives-heat, fruit, cold cuts, and a block of mystery meat labeled “ham?” There’ll be water. There’ll be salt and pepper. There might be yogurt if we get lucky.

Alcohol? Yes, but temper your expectations. We’ll get what we can: local beer, table wine, maybe a humble prosecco. Hard stuff like vodka, gin, or rum is usually available, but it’s unlikely to be premium. Tonic water if fortune favors us.

If you have strong preferences or food quirks, tell us early. We’ll try, but there are no guarantees—especially in island grocery stores with one fridge and three dusty apples. We do plan one resupply during the trip, so don’t ration your crackers just yet.

Extra rental gear

The charter company usually offers extra toys for rent—things like SUP boards, snorkeling gear, or fishing rods for those feeling optimistic. These are not included by default and come at an additional cost (and sometimes emotional cost, depending on quality and availability). If you want something specific, you’ll need to let us know ahead of time—as in, before we step on the boat and realize someone forgot to mention they dreamed of paddleboarding past a monastery at sunset.

Dinghy Use

The dinghy is not a luxury tender—it’s a bouncy, sea-splashed shuttle and often the only way to get from boat to shore. If you can’t swim well, or the sea is acting dramatic, wear a lifejacket. No one wants a dinghy dive on Day Two.

At some point, you should practice climbing back in from the water while we’re anchored—just to make sure you can. It’s harder than it looks, and funnier than it should be.

Don’t rely on others to chauffeur you around. If someone offers you a lift ashore, be ready and on time. Dinghy rides are not Uber. They do not loop back for stragglers.

Activities

While we can't promise everything on the brochure will happen, we do want to know what you're excited about. If there's something you're hoping to see, do, hike, eat, or swim through, let the skipper know early so it can be folded into the ever-shifting master plan. No promises, but enthusiasm is noted and appreciated.

Here are some of the things we might do, weather and collective energy permitting:

• Snorkeling in clear blue water with fish who are unimpressed by us
• Hiking (yes, stairs count)
• Swimming straight off the boat in the middle of absolutely nowhere
• Visiting local island spots that look suspiciously like postcards
• Evenings in port, exploring towns or just looking at menus too long
• Staying put in a beautiful place on purpose
• Sailing for the sake of sailing, wind willing
• Anchoring in quiet coves for solitude, reading, or existential reflection
• Mooring near villages for food, wine, and someone else’s cooking

You’re encouraged to do a little research before the trip and share your wish list. The more we know, the more likely it is to happen—or at least be politely considered before the wind sends us elsewhere.

Free Time: What To Do Between Doing Things

There will be stretches of glorious downtime—while sailing between stops or parked in some quiet cove with nothing on the schedule but breeze. This is your cue to entertain yourself: read a book, journal dramatically, meditate, nap, listen to music or downloaded podcasts (assume the internet is off-duty), or get into a long philosophical chat with whoever’s within reach.

You’re also welcome—encouraged, even—to team up and organize something fun for the group: a quiz night, a sunset toast, an improvised talent show, or a plan for the Stew by the Crew Dinner (or Солянка на ужин). No pressure, just possibility.

That said, keep one ear on timing. Be back on board when needed, especially if we’re lifting anchor, docking, or otherwise relying on human presence. And if you’re delayed or off schedule—just let someone know. Silent mystery is not the preferred communication method at sea.

Round Table Nightly Discussions

Most evenings, after dinner and before we all dissolve into hammocks or headlamps, we gather for a casual debrief—a round table without the table. Attendance isn’t mandatory, but it’s strongly encouraged. If you skip it, make sure you still know when we’re leaving, what you’re doing, and whether there’s coffee involved.

These check-ins are where we:

• Review the day—the wins, the weirdness, the sea urchin sightings
• Raise questions, suggestions, or mild complaints (kindly, please)
• Hear the skipper’s plan for tomorrow—which is subject to change, mutiny, or weather
• Share stories from the day that are funnier with wine
• Offer improvement ideas to shipmates, gently and constructively
• Confirm the plan for tasks, departure time, meals, and the ever-important wind report

Think of it as the group’s nightly compass check. Not everything gets locked in, but it’s good to know which direction we’re pretending to go.

Compulsory Group Affairs

There aren’t many official “musts,” but a few things do fall under mandatory fun:

• First-day orientation – Yes, even if you’ve done this before. Especially if you haven’t.
• Stew by the Crew Dinner (or Солянка на ужин) – Our grand finale. Organized by the crew, fueled by leftover, creativity and sentiment.
• Special celebrations – Birthdays, milestones, or any excuse we find mid-sail to raise a glass.

If it’s on this list, show up. Bare minimum: wear pants and bring a smile.

Team Leadership & Learning Opportunities

This isn’t a sailing school, and no one’s handing out gold stars—but if you show up with zero curiosity and two lazy hands, don’t be surprised if the vibe adjusts accordingly. Enthusiasm goes a long way out here. You don’t have to be perfect—just present, willing, and a little less useless than a fender in a tree. Lean more

Breakfast, Lunch & Dinner (aka The Daily Anchor Points)

• Breakfast floats around 8AM, usually on the boat.
• Lunch drifts in at 1PM—again, typically on board unless we’re conveniently ashore.
• Dinner aims for 7PM at a restaurant, winds and anchorage permitting. No promises—we might be dining under the stars with pasta from the pantry.

Mealtimes are more than meals—they’re when plans get made, updates get shared, and jokes go slightly stale. We recommend showing up. There will be rotations for cooking and cleaning. Yes, you’re on vacation. No, that doesn’t mean you’re exempt from dishes.

Nobody’s forcing food on you, but if you opt out of meals and later declare famine, don’t expect much sympathy. Snacks are your responsibility.

Let’s Talk About Drama (And Why We’d Rather Not)

Boats are small. Feelings, on the other hand, are the size of the Adriatic. And when you stuff 6+ grown humans into a floating closet with wind, heat, minimal privacy, and one toilet you have to pump, things can get... theatrical. Let’s agree to keep the drama moored firmly ashore.

Your job: be absurdly nice. Suspiciously helpful. Unreasonably patient. If someone drops your snorkel, burns the pasta, or misplaces the wine opener for the fifth time—smile like it’s your job. Because on a boat, it kind of is. Positivity travels better than resentment, especially in tight quarters.

Now about yelling: please don’t. It short-circuits brains and raises blood pressure without actually solving the rope tangle. If someone calls you out for yelling, take a beat, breathe deep, and rerun your line in a softer register. That said—volume has its place. If the engine’s roaring, the wind’s howling, or something crucial is flying overboard, raise your voice with flair—but clarify you’re projecting, not auditioning for a mutiny.

As for Mike and Lena: yes, one or both might yell. Not at you - just in your general direction, at the elements, the docking situation, or a line wrapped around the prop. It’s not personal. It’s boat math: stress + logistics ÷ wind speed = volume. They're working on it. You should too.

If something’s bugging you, say it. Or jot it down for later. Or, if all else fails, go stare at the horizon until you regain your chill. Just try not to rope others into your moment. This is a team sport. Keep it light, keep it moving, and remember: the fewer the theatrics, the smoother the sail.

Key Takeaways

Flexibility is your best outfit—wear it often. Patience too.

Plans will change, the wind will ignore your preferences, and the espresso might spill. That’s the adventure.

Show up with good energy, offer help before you're asked, and try not to hoard the sunscreen. This is your chance to learn a little, laugh a lot, and maybe surprise yourself in the best way.

We’re genuinely excited to sail with you—mild chaos, great stories, and all.