What We Learned Sailing 1,000 Nautical Miles With No Idea How to Sail
- Captn Tommy
- Dec 10, 2025
- 6 min read
Updated: Dec 11, 2025
Most people ease into sailing gradually.
We did not.
Our first sailboat — an Aphrodite 36 we bought with more enthusiasm than experience — was supposed to carry us from Stavanger to Alta. A thousand nautical miles, two kids, a tiny puppy, and two adults who absolutely did not know how to handle a sailboat at sea or in a marina.
Tommy had sailed oil tankers for years, but those giants don’t exactly stop — they just begin the process of thinking about stopping. By the time a tanker loses momentum, half the crew has eaten lunch. A 36-foot sailboat, on the other hand, responds instantly… usually in the direction you don’t want it to go.
So off we went. Because how hard could it be?
A Cargo Ship Tucked Us In
Our very first night aboard set the tone for the entire journey. We woke to find a massive cargo ship had docked directly alongside us — so close it felt like someone had parallel-parked a skyscraper next to our 36-footer. How they managed to pull in without waking us remains one of life’s maritime mysteries.
Tommy spent half the night on the dock, talking with the crew perched high above on their towering decks, making absolutely sure they knew a small family was asleep below. At one point he noticed one of their dock lines — about the thickness of a grown man’s arm — running right across the pier. If it had ever snapped… well, let’s just say we probably wouldn’t have needed coffee to wake up.
If they’d touched the bow thrusters, we’d have been pressed against the dock like a decorative stripe. But instead, they eased in, settled quietly, and later slipped away without a ripple, a shout, or a single clattering line. As they departed, the crew leaned over the rail, whispering, “Hush… be quiet… the children are sleeping,” and waved down at Tommy standing alone in the dawn light.
It was the first time we realized just how gentle giants at sea can be.
Crossing Stad — Norway’s Not-So-Gentle Reminder
Of all the stretches along the Norwegian coast, Stad has a reputation. It’s the kind of place sailors mention with a nod, a pause, or a small laugh that suggests they’re remembering something slightly traumatic. Ocean swell hits the continental shelf and ricochets upward in a way that makes even experienced cruisers sit up a little straighter.
We rounded Stad with almost no wind, just long, muscular swells heaving up beneath us — the kind that rearrange your stomach and your priorities. The boat rose and fell like a swing set that someone had bolted to the seafloor. One child slept through it. Another ate breakfast happily, unfazed. Bella, the puppy balanced herself on a lap with the stoic calm of a creature who trusts her humans far more than she should.
We, meanwhile, filmed the whole thing like tourists navigating Cape Fear in slow motion.
Every seventh wave was bigger. Every seventh comment from the cockpit tried to sound confident. And somewhere out there, beyond the hazy western horizon, the Atlantic opened toward Greenland — a reminder that this coast may look domesticated on a chart, but it’s still very much part of the open ocean.
An hour later the sea flattened, the drama faded, and suddenly Norway was kind again.
This coastline can be harsh, but it can also change its mood faster than a six-year-old denied a second breakfast.
Inexperience on Full Display
Watching the footage now, it’s obvious how inexperienced we were. Our dinghy wasn’t even properly secured on the foredeck — it bounced and shifted with every rise of the swell like an impatient dog trying to get down. There was almost no wind, just long rolling waves lifting us from below, but in our beginner minds it felt dramatic enough to write home about.
So we did what inexperienced sailors do: we dropped the sails entirely and motored straight through it, convinced that canvas would only add chaos to the moment. In reality, the boat was fine. The sea was fine. And we were fine too — all smiles, laughing, cheering at each bigger wave, believing ourselves adventurous while the coastline looked on silently, very aware of how much we still had to learn.
53 Harbors, Zero Graceful Landings
We spent 2.5 months working our way up the Norwegian coastline, zig-zagging inshore into beautiful harbors where seasoned yachties watched us approach with a mix of curiosity and mild concern. The coastline we were following wasn’t exactly a gentle training ground, either. We sailed from roughly 60° north to 70° north — a stretch of Norway known for weathered cliffs, harsh winters, and a landscape carved by storms. But in July, when we made our pilgrimage up the coast, the country softened just enough to let beginners believe they had a chance. The light was kind, the seas mostly behaved, and the long northern summer gave us more hours each day to make mistakes… and correct them.
We learned quickly. Or rather, we learned repeatedly.
Most marinas forgave us. A few remembered us. All of them taught us something.
Norway at 5 Knots: Wildlife, No Sunsets, and Generous Strangers
We saw whales breaching in morning light, puffins skimming the water like they were late for an appointment, and seals who stared at us the way Norwegians stare at southerners wearing scarfs in April.
As we sailed north, the sunsets stopped completely. We had entered the part of Norway where the sun simply forgets to go to bed.
The land of the midnight sun.
We visited fishing villages so small they seemed like secrets — places where time hasn’t sped up yet. And we discovered something every cruiser learns sooner or later: yacht people are generous to a fault.
One refitted fishing boat had an engine room big enough to lose a grown man in. We needed two litres of oil. He shrugged smilingly, dipped a hose into his 200-litre barrel, and pumped ten litres into our container.
No fuss. No charge. Just the way things are at sea.
Maydays and Missing Propellers
The marina in Florø gave us a day we still talk about. We heard a mayday on the VHF from a wooden sailboat that had gone aground — an older couple, shaken but safe. We watched the rescue unfold with the kind of quiet respect sailors reserve for the ocean. It’s beautiful, but it never stops being serious.
And as if to balance things out, our buddy boat later sailed directly into a marina without an engine. At the time, we assumed they were making a bold statement about confidence.
Turned out they had lost their propeller. We admired the composure.
We also checked our own propeller immediately.
The Boat We Didn’t Really Survey
Looking back now, with all the work we do helping buyers evaluate boats properly, it’s almost impressive how poorly we inspected our first sailboat before setting off.
Did we check the mast track? Did we inspect the sail slides? Did we ask about the boom height, or any of the rigging details that now form entire sections in our guides?
We did not.
Which is how we ended up in Alta, months later, with our mainsail jammed in the mast — and tearing itself open as the Arctic wind helped us understand the limits of optimism.
Experience is a fantastic teacher. But she charges full price.
From Chaos to Clarity
Looking back, we wouldn’t trade that trip for anything. It was chaotic, humbling, hilarious, and beautiful. It taught us that cruising is equal parts seamanship, stubbornness, and learning from the people you meet along the way.
It also taught us how valuable it is to understand your boat before you cast off — which is why TrueNorth Yacht Advisors exists today.
If You’re Buying a Boat, Start With Knowledge
A proper pre-purchase inspection is more than kicking a fender and checking the diesel tank. It’s understanding:
• where the weak points are on that specific model
• how to see past fresh paint and new cushions
• what “normal wear” looks like versus “expensive trouble”
• how to talk to the seller and verify what matters
That’s why we built our model-specific survey-prep guides.Clear steps.Targeted checks.Real-world failure patterns.And yes — the things we wish someone had told us before leaving Stavanger.
You can download a free sample here:
Because every sailor deserves to set off with more knowledge than we had on our first 1,000-mile adventure.
The Aphrodite 36 → Click here for Survey Guide
