This Is Not a Man’s Boat: Rewriting the Rules of Sailing

I didn’t grow up near the ocean. I grew up in Kreuzberg — graffiti walls, late-night döner, concrete. Sailing was something rich people did in movies. It wasn’t just out of reach — it wasn’t even on my mind. I thought boats had captains with hats and shiny shoes, and I was a barefoot Berlin girl with a backpack and a busted bicycle. So I traveled the world the way I knew how — by train, by plane, or hitchhiking. My best friend and I ended up in India, chasing the chaos like a religion. And when I came back to Berlin, full of colours and questions, I started working for an NGO. Trying to find my “real life.” But then, boom — life zigzags, right?A coworker mentioned, casually, that he lived on a tiny sailboat on the Spree Kanal. Then he said, “Hey, I just got my dream job — I have to leave for Morocco for a month. Could you maybe look after the boat while I’m gone?”

I said yes.

Of course I said yes. Who wouldn’t say yes to living on a boat? Spoiler: I had no idea what I was saying yes to. Three months passed. Still no sign of him. The boat — Apocalypse, yes, really — had no toilet (just a bucket), no kitchen (just a camping stove), and no headroom (my spine still remembers). There was a bed, sure — but barely space to sit up in it. And yet… I couldn’t leave. I was falling in love with something I didn’t understand. With the water. The rhythm. The stillness. The neighbours floating by with their coffee cups. The quiet chaos of life unmoored. So I gave up my apartment and moved onto the boat full-time. That should’ve been the end of the story, right? Except one day, he called: “Nurit, I’m standing on land. Can you come pick me up?” He was back. And suddenly there were two of us, living on a boat the size of a bathtub. We didn’t know each other well. That became clear quickly. Let’s just say: it didn’t work out. But the river had already changed me. The people who lived there — wild, warm-hearted river pirates — scooped me up like I was one of their own. They said, “Stay with us until you find your own boat.” Here’s the thing though: they all lived on motorboats and houseboats. I didn’t know how to sail. But I couldn’t stop staring at the masts. The sails. The poetry of them. Did I have to give up on that just because I had no clue? No. I just needed to try. So I bought a sailboat.

Her name was AHAVA — it means "love" in Hebrew. She was small, but so was I. Her engine didn’t require a license, which meant I could legally drive her without knowing what the hell I was doing. I knew nothing. But I knew this: I had to do it anyway. I learned everything the hard way — knees deep in engine grease, head spinning with volts and wires, spending nights on YouTube and days at the hardware store. I cried. I laughed. I bled. I begged strangers for advice. I became that girl in the neighbourhood with a million questions and a headlamp. And the neighbourhood answered. Patiently. Again and again. They taught me to believe I could do this — even when I didn’t. Then came the engine. It broke. And then it broke me. For four months I sat in that tiny engine room, sweating, sobbing, screaming into the void. I wanted to set the boat on fire. Give up. Quit. But I didn’t. I stayed. And one day — after months of doubt and oil and tears — the engine roared to life. I did that. Not a mechanic. Not a guy in a captain’s hat. Me. A girl from Kreuzberg who once thought sailing was for other people.

That roar changed something in me. I knew then — I wasn’t just playing sailor anymore. I was one. But I also knew AHAVA wasn’t the boat to cross oceans in. She had been my teacher. My home. My heartbreak. But I needed something bigger — something seaworthy. So I gave her away to a friend, in exchange for help fixing up my next boat — the one I knew would take me far. Gaia. A Rival 38. Thirty-eight feet of fiberglass, dreams, and fear. Way too much boat for someone like me. Which is exactly why I bought her. I sailed her home with the help of friends, heart pounding, hands shaking. And now? I'm living in the shipyard, refitting her piece by piece, getting ready to sail to the Mediterranean. Still scared. Still clueless some days. But this time, with the wind behind me. And if you’re reading this thinking, Could I do something like that?

Yes. You could.

I didn’t grow up thinking I was allowed to be pink. Pink felt like something other girls were. Softer girls. Slower girls. The kind who sat still. The kind who didn’t try to climb the highest tree or run faster than all the boys. And I was always trying to run faster than the boys. I remember this one summer, in fifth grade. My mom had bought me new shoes — pink, glittery, delicate. They sparkled like they came from a fairytale. And for some reason, I let her put them on me. For once, I wanted to try being beautiful. I wanted to wear something I liked, not just something that made me blend in. I wore them to school. And my best friends — the ones I usually charged into imaginary battle with — looked at my feet, scrunched their faces, and said, “We don’t play with girls.” Just like that, I was out. And all day, I scraped those shoes against every stone I could find. Rubbed them raw. Tried to make them ugly. Tried to erase what I’d loved, so I could be “one of the boys” again. I was nine years old, and already learning to destroy the softest parts of myself so I’d still be accepted. And honestly… that stuck.

For years, I kept my femininity on a leash. No lipstick. No glitter. No softness that someone might mistake for weakness. Dresses made it hard to climb. Nail polish chipped when you fixed engines. You couldn’t be powerful and pink — at least, that’s what I thought. Until now. Until this life on the water taught me that there is nothing more powerful than building your own home with your own hands and painting it in the exact colour that once made you feel not enough. I painted Gaia pink and covered her in glitter to remind myself: I never, ever have to destroy something I love about myself again — not for anyone.

This boat is my rebellion and my healing. She’s the shoes I never got to wear, the girl I never let myself be, the softness I fought so hard to hide. And yeah — maybe I also painted her pink because every time I pull into a marina, someone looks around and asks, “Where’s the captain?” This is my way of answering before they even open their mouths. This is a girl’s boat. Built by her. Owned by her. Sailed by her. And now I get to stand on this boat, engine grease on my hands, hair full of salt, lipstick on, glitter shining, screaming into the wind: “I can be anything. I can be all of it.” So yes. She’s pink. Loudly, unapologetically pink. And every time someone raises an eyebrow, I smile — because this is what freedom looks like. Covered in glitter and refusing to apologise for taking up space.

To be honest? The hardest part wasn’t learning how to sail. It wasn’t figuring out how an engine breathes or sorting through cables that looked like spaghetti made by a caffeinated octopus. It wasn’t the bruises, the broken screws, or the days I spent curled in the bilge, whispering to myself: “What the hell am I even doing?” The hardest part... was asking for help.

I thought I had to prove something. That I was tough enough. That I could do this alone. That if I showed even a flicker of doubt, someone would say: “See? She never should’ve tried.” So I didn’t ask. I googled. I guessed. I cried. I held a wrench in one hand and my pride in the other. And still — help came. Quietly. Kindly. In the form of borrowed tools, patient neighbours, late-night tea and “Come, I’ll show you.” But I was the last to let myself off the hook. The last to say, “You don’t have to carry all this alone.”

Another challenge? Letting myself be… me. Being pink. Being soft. Being chaotic and fierce and tired and hopeful all at the same time — and trusting that I didn’t have to perform strength to be strong.Because this journey wasn’t just about fixing a boat. It was about unlearning the belief that I had to do everything perfectly, quietly, independently — or not at all. It was about believing in the impossible. About holding onto a dream so big it scared me. About knowing when to keep pushing... and when to rest. When to tighten a bolt, and when to just breathe. It was about trusting my gut even when my brain screamed, “You’ve never done this before!” Because yeah — I hadn’t. But I was doing it anyway. And somewhere between the duct tape, the tangled wires, the imposter syndrome and the sunsets that made sense of it all. — I realised: I am capable. I am worthy. I am allowed to take up space. And no, I wasn’t rebuilding a rusted wreck — she’s fiberglass, thank you very much — but there were still layers to strip away, things to clean, repair, understand. There still are. And with every day, I’m not just building a boat. I’m building myself.

I’m not just preparing a boat. I’m preparing a life. To untie the lines and sail away from the version of myself that didn’t believe she could do this. To make room for the person I’m becoming — one bolt, one weather chart, one late-night breakdown at a time. Because prepping for this trip isn’t just checking things off a to-do list. It’s learning how to be alone at sea. How to trust your gut when it’s 3am and the wind changes direction. How to read weather, fix leaks, troubleshoot the engine — and then still have the energy to make tea and remind yourself: “This is my dream. I chose this.” I’m learning everything I can — from diesel maintenance to celestial navigation. I’m installing a windvane. I’m sewing sails. I’m updating my safety gear. I’m practicing docking alone in crosswinds, reading pilots, checking visa requirements, and figuring out where I can get oat milk in the middle of the Biskaya. And in between all that, I’m trying to keep this dream alive — emotionally, financially, spiritually. Because the truth is: The to-do list never ends. And at some point, you just have to go anyway. 

There’s a part I don’t post about much. The part where being a woman on the water still means being doubted, dismissed, or just outright ignored. Where I walk into a shipyard and the first question isn’t "What do you need?" — it’s "Is this your dad’s boat?" or "Where’s your boyfriend?". Where I have to explain, again and again, that yes, I’m fixing this. Yes, I’m paying for it. Where I’ve had to search for days to find someone who’ll treat me like a skipper and not a passenger in my own damn story. Most people are great — generous, supportive, curious. But some make it hard. Because somewhere, they still believe women have no business out here. Like the ocean only answers to men. And that makes me furious. But it also fuels me. Because I’m not just doing this for me. I’m doing it to carve space. To take up space. To say: We belong here too.

As for the sailing community? They’ve surprised me. There’s the online crowd — some curious, some cheering, some asking: “Should you really be doing this alone?” But here, in real life, on the water? I’ve found a tribe. Of oddballs. Of misfits. Of salty, soft-hearted sea people who show up with spare parts, share stories over rum, and remind me that I’m not the only one trying to live differently. People who didn’t ask for my sailing résumé but helped me rig anyway. People who saw the pink paint, the chaos, the dream — and said: “You’ve got this.” And then there’s me. Still scared. Still unsure. Still occasionally duct-taping things that probably shouldn’t be duct-taped. But more ready than ever. Because sailing to the Mediterranean? It’s not just a destination. It’s a line in the sand between the life I was told to live —and the one I’m choosing to create. And when I finally slip those lines and head out to sea..it won’t be because I’m fearless. It’ll be because I’m finally brave enough to go anyway. And angry enough to keep going.

Yes. Just now. Not metaphorically — I mean just now. I had just come back from the shipyard. Exhausted. Covered in dust and engine grease. My hands shaking a little from too much effort and not enough food. I’d been working on the boat for what felt like forever — that kind of deep, endless refit grind where you start forgetting what silence sounds like, or what it feels like to just float. And then suddenly — I was back. I came out of the canal, turned the corner, and there it was: the little bay where my favourite neighbours anchor. The ones who offered me a home when I didn’t have one. The ones who made the water feel like community. I dropped the anchor. It caught on the first try — like Gaia knew we were home. The engine off. Silence. The sound of halyards clicking. The gentle slosh of water against the hull. Someone laughing softly on the boat next to me. And me… sitting in the cockpit, still in dirty clothes, heart wide open, eyes blurry from exhaustion and something else entirely — joy. “I did this.” Not someday. Not almost. Now. I built this life.

From the first moment I stepped onto a borrowed sailboat with no toilet and a bucket for a kitchen to this exact second, surrounded by water and people I love. It wasn’t flashy. No big storm. No cinematic ending. Just an anchor, some familiar masts, and a heart that finally exhaled.And I cried, because for the first time in weeks, I wasn’t fighting the boat. I wasn’t surviving. I was living. And I realised: I’m not chasing the dream anymore. I’m in it. Floating right here. Home.

The saunas. That’s always the first surprise. People hear “sailboat” and imagine sunsets and seagulls and maybe a bit of loneliness. But in my world, it’s bathtubs welded onto decks, wood-fired floating saunas, and neighbours who feel more like chosen family than anything else. My harbour is full of the weirdest, warmest, most wonderful humans. Boats that look like art projects. People who live with nothing and everything at once. A community that built itself like a puzzle with no box lid — it just works. We help each other fix leaks, laugh through disasters, cry when it’s too much, and celebrate when the anchor hits right. Right now, as I write this, I’m not even on my own boat. I’m on the floor of my friend’s houseboat. He’s next to me, focused on university work. I’m trying to answer these questions without crying — and failing — because writing all this down just reminds me how far I’ve come. How much there is to feel. And then there are the parts that sound small — but change your whole rhythm of life. Like going grocery shopping. You don’t just open your door and walk down the street. You sit on your SUP, float through the canal, and if you’re like me, you get lost in thoughts before even paddling a single stroke. Sometimes you just... drift. The water pulls you a little. The sunlight hits just right. And suddenly, grocery shopping feels less like a chore and more like a quiet little meditation.

Of course, there are tough days. When the sun hasn’t shone in a while and your batteries are low. When it’s freezing and the water tank is empty and you’re too tired to deal with the bucket situation. But what people really don’t expect is how full this life is. They imagine it must be lonely. But I’ve never felt more surrounded.We BBQ on decks. We sweat together in saunas. We share tools and tears and jokes and dreams. And when the city gets too loud, we turn it off — not with a switch, but with silence and sails and the space between two masts. This is city life — just not as you know it. And honestly? I wouldn’t trade it for any penthouse on land.

I had this clear, wild dream: Sail the Baltic Sea, navigate the English Channel, face the roaring Biscay — all to reach my friends waiting in Greece. That was the plan I trained for, day and night. But two days ago, my gut whispered: “Not yet.” And I had to listen. Because sometimes, dreams aren’t about rushing forward — they’re about pausing, rerouting, and trusting that the path will reveal itself when the time is right.

So, I found a new route — a magical journey down the Danube River through ten incredible countries: Germany, Austria, Slovakia, Hungary, Croatia, Serbia, Bulgaria, Romania, Moldova, and finally out to the Black Sea. No, I’m not sailing every inch. Gaia’s more of a motorboat on this leg — but that just means more time to soak in the sunsets, meet new people, and say real goodbyes to my city and friends before I chase the Mediterranean. This isn’t just a detour — it’s a whole new adventure. And guess what? I’m rewriting the rules of my journey. Even though I told everyone I’d leave on May 31st, I’m still here, soaking in the summer in Berlin, living fully before I go. I’ll head south in August, winter in Greece, then explore the Mediterranean in spring 2026 — until finally, I cross the Atlantic in the winter, chasing even bigger dreams.

If you want to see every messy, beautiful, chaotic moment of this unfolding journey — the triumphs, the setbacks, the wild magic of solo sailing — follow me on Instagram @chaossailing. Because this isn’t just my story. It’s proof that your dreams can change shape, slow down, speed up, or even take a completely unexpected turn — and still be yours, every step of the way. Come sail with me. The chaos is just getting started

Nurit's story is an anthem of becoming — of reclaiming softness, asking for help, daring to dream loudly, and choosing a life that doesn’t fit inside anyone else’s lines. From painting her boat Gaia in unapologetic pink glitter to navigating shipyards where she’s still asked whose girlfriend she is, Nurit is not just charting a course across seas — she’s carving out space where women like her can exist powerfully, vulnerably, and wholly. She reminds us that you don’t need permission to begin, that bravery is often just staying the course when everything feels uncertain, and that freedom might just look like a pink sailboat, bobbing quietly in a city canal, held by water and lit by hope.

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