There are days when sailing feels like a game of precise calculations and a bit of good old-fashioned luck. Today was one of those days.

The alarm went off before the sun had even begun to paint the sky, and we slipped out of our berth just as the first light touched the water. Timing was everything. The shallow entrance channel to the marina only gave us a slim two-hour window around high tide, and we wanted to hit St. Marys inlet as close to slack tide as possible—wind against current there would’ve been uncomfortable. But it wasn’t just one inlet we had to plan for. St. Simons Sound inlet would be another challenge, and waiting for slack tide there meant dealing with a building breeze in the afternoon. So, we played our best hand, gambling with the tide tables and wind forecasts.

Sliding out of our slip was smooth, which was a relief after watching a motorboat across our slip crash into its neighbor just the night before. The marina was still sleeping, no other boaters stirring, and the stillness felt like a reward for waking up so early. We cruised past Fernandina Beach, a place talked up by many sailors, but the view from the water was dominated by a towering paper mill and a busy ship harbor—not quite the charming sight we’d imagined. Maybe the magic is in the town itself, but from out here, it wasn’t convincing.

St. Marys inlet, our gateway to the open ocean, wasn’t without its bumps, but nothing too dramatic.

And once we were free of the land, the engine finally went silent, the sails filled, and that sweet moment of being purely wind-powered settled in. The forecast, as usual, had let us down—the wind, instead of behaving, had swung east, setting up an uncomfortable swell that rolled right under our beam. Not the most pleasant ride, but we were committed, and after some time, we adjusted, finding our rhythm with the waves.

A routine trip below deck to empty the holding tank quickly turned into a lesson in seafaring wisdom: avoid going below when the seas are bouncing. A few dizzy moments later, I scrambled back into the cockpit, breathing fresh air, vowing not to make the same mistake again.

Halfway through the passage, we got an unexpected guest—a little bird, exhausted beyond belief, searching for respite.

How he had made it this far offshore was a mystery, but his tiredness was unmistakable. He perched on our shoes, hopped onto our laps, and at one point even nestled on Bettina’s head. No fear, no hesitation—just pure survival instinct. Every now and then, he’d try flying away, only to realize there was no land in sight, forcing him to return. Only when we finally entered St. Simons Sound did he disappear for good, heading towards solid ground.

The inlets today demanded patience. These weren’t short hops—you had to commit, with several miles of deep water before the channels finally narrowed. After a long day, we reached our chosen anchorage, a quiet side river shielded somewhat from the wind, though still affected by a steady current. No other boats around, just marshland stretching out, peaceful and wild. A small church stood nearby, its bells marking the hours, adding a quaint touch to the setting.

Dinner in the cockpit, a sky full of stars above, and a video upload on its way. Not a bad way to end a day of calculated timing, rolling swells, and unexpected visitors.