I’ve always been a list person. Some people thrive in the chaos of spontaneity, but for me, the calm comes in the form of bullet points and checkboxes. If you’ve ever caught an introvert in the act of trying to wrangle the external world into something manageable, chances are, you’ve seen a list. Grocery lists, to-do lists, “Things I’d Say If I Actually Wanted To Make Small Talk” lists. I even have a list titled “Lists To Make When I Have Free Time.” It’s not a coping mechanism; it’s a lifestyle.
So anytime the dream of a longish-range sailing excursion comes into focus, my first instinct isn’t to imagine sunsets at sea or the exhilarating snap of a spinnaker catching the breeze. No, my brain immediately turns to creating The Mother of All Lists, a grand manifesto of preparation that will guide me from part-time seafarer to competent passagemaker.
The thing about sailing—and specifically long-range cruising—is that it has a way of exposing your weaknesses. There’s no hiding from yourself when you’re out there, 500 miles from the nearest coastline, trying to remember if you packed spare impellers or a replacement fuel filter. For an introvert, whose inner world is as loud as their outer world is quiet, sailing demands a level of organization and forethought that is both thrilling and terrifying.
Take provisioning, for example. It’s not just about jotting down “beans, rice, coffee” and calling it a day. Oh, no. You’ve got to think about how much coffee you’ll need if you’re stuck in a storm for 48 hours and your watch partner has decided to forgo sleep in favor of caffeinated chatter. (Not recommended, by the way.) You have to plan meals, calculate portions, and ask yourself deeply existential questions such as, “How many cans of tuna is too many cans of tuna?” Spoiler: It’s fewer than you think.
And then there’s the gear list. This is where humility makes its grand entrance. I once was drafting one my “Gear and Safety Must-Haves” lists back in my early days of sailing, and I was feeling pretty good about myself. I had spreadsheets, color-coded categories and a solid three weeks of research under my belt. But then came the advice from a seasoned sailing buddy of ours: “Oh, you don’t have a ditch bag on board? Rookie move.” Or fast-forward to present day: “You’re bringing a spinnaker pole but no backup bilge pump? Bold choice.” Turns out, many a cruiser’s master plan is more like a rough draft.
And let’s not forget the maintenance log, because nothing says “adulting” like keeping track of oil changes, impeller replacements, and which bolt you tightened with questionable confidence six months ago. My maintenance list has sublists. My sublists have footnotes. Some days, it feels like I’m auditioning for the role of World’s Most Obsessive-Compulsive Person Stuck on a 40-Foot Boat.
But for all the effort and obsessive detail, the beauty of lists is that they anchor me. They’re the ballast to my overthinking, the windvane to my wandering mind. Sure, they’re not foolproof. I’ve forgotten sunscreen (big mistake) and underestimated how much chocolate a single human can consume in 24 days (bigger mistake). But lists give me a framework, a way to tackle the vast unknown—one checkbox at a time.
And really, isn’t that what sailing is all about? Preparing as best you can, knowing full well that the ocean doesn’t care about your spreadsheets or your neatly laminated safety protocols. It’s about adapting when your perfect plan meets imperfect reality. It’s about having the humility to admit that you missed something and the humor to laugh at yourself when it’s something spectacularly obvious, such as forgetting to pack biodegradable toilet paper.
So, here’s to lists: the unsung heroes of introverts and sailors alike. They won’t guarantee smooth seas, but they just might keep you sane when the autopilot fails at 2 a.m. and you’re hand-steering through a moonless night. And if all else fails, at least you’ll have a handy record of everything you forgot to do.
