Project Freewheel

Morning thought.

I've taken to reading in Bunky—our affectionately named pilothouse. It’s the perfect spot to sip coffee, soak up the morning sun, and maybe catch a glimpse of the Mangles Bay dolphins splash past.

It’s taken a while to get here—flipping our lives upside down, securing income, residency, and slowly appreciating all the sacrifice it took to make this strange, beautiful moment possible.

Inhale. Exhale. Aaaaahhh.
A place to develop routine, show up, and move forward with what I’m genuinely passionate about—Project Freewheel.

I’ve been tackling Crime and Punishment lately. First few chapters felt like a record needle skipping—jarring, disconnected—but eventually, it dropped into the groove.

Dostoevsky’s insight into the human condition is brutal and brilliant. Not admitting to murder, of course😂—but his way of unpacking guilt, pride, and redemption is oddly resonant.

This morning, a line from the book stopped me cold:

“Catch several hares and you won’t catch one.”

Luzhin throws it out mid-ramble, but it hit me hard.
Because that’s me.
Chasing multiple versions of freedom—creative, financial, emotional—trying to move everything forward at once.
Sailing. Editing. Writing. Lifting. Fixing. Uploading.

Sometimes it flows. Sometimes I stall out completely.
But today felt different—a breath of rhythm. A spark.

We’re building a website. Sharing old stories. Shaping this thing into something that might mean something—not just to us, but maybe to someone else, too.

Maybe you’re chasing a few hares right now.
And maybe we can remind each other to slow down, pick one, and follow it all the way.

A wee jaunt around Cockburn Sound, and for the first time, Nautigirl (soon-to-be Freewheel) got her sails out downwind—she’s fair loving the breeze behind her! We weaved through container ships, like a maritime slalom, before skirting the shores of Garden Island in a gentle 8 knots apparent. Sun on our faces, salt in the air—it’s the kind of day that makes you think, aye, this’ll do nicely!

Episode three over at Project Freewheel YouTube as we dive into the nitty-gritty of boat life, tackling a jam-packed to-do list—on a budget! 🚤💪 From climbing the mast to hoisting sails and testing our dinghy, we’re getting shipshape for adventure. Western Australia isn’t just sunny—it’s Windy Always, and we’re embracing the gusts while knocking out essential boat maintenance tasks in Carnarvon Marina. Stick to the end for our first proper shakedown...LET'S GOOOO!

How we landed Nautigirl as our liveaboard vessel is shrouded in serendipity. We’d thought sailing was behind us, as the pandemic sealed our fate on our last boat—dreams dashed, we made roots in Golden, BC, and fully embraced the landlocked life surrounded by the Dogtooth Range. But there's something about the smell of salty air, and when we decided on a whim to winter in Australia, it took about five minutes on the shore of Fremantle for the Indian Ocean to beckon our restless souls.

Six months later, we snagged the first boat we’d seen—a 42ft Steel Swanson. Fate, or something like it, led us to Mark and Kris, Nautigirl’s owners and like-minded adventurers. Hard to pin down while exploring Australia in their Troopie, they finally made their way back home, and we drove 900 km to catch them before flying back to Canada. Our ‘choose us’ letter must’ve done the trick, leaving our competition in the dust, because they accepted our offer over a drink at the yacht club that night, as we continued to bond over the parallels in our lives.

Mark and Kris invited us to their home, an incredible seaside space they had built over 15 years. We continued to share Nautigirl’s history and old photos, making us fall even harder. Next morning, after camping in their driveway, they introduced us to the marina & boatyard crew, setting us up to get cracking on the antifouling when we returned from Canada. Leaving her was hard... but we knew she was ours.

Catch more of our journey on YouTube!

Leg 3/4: A Tale in Two Parts

We decided to take a breather at Shelter Bay instead of setting off early like we’d planned. The winds had picked up, and the thought of crossing the sandbar exit at Dirk Hartog for the first time had us feeling pretty sketched out. The next day’s forecast looked far more favorable, and this trip south, heading out into the open ocean, had been weighing on us—a weird mix of excitement and terror. We'd heard plenty about this coastline and, having only sailed in the Mediterranean before, we were determined to go cautiously, give ourselves some grace on this new boat.

Turned out, it was the best call. We spent the day basking in the stunning surroundings, coffee in hand, perched on the bow, just soaking it all in. Only one problem—our bike garage, the forward berth, door was jammed shut. Inside? Our tools and the bloody outboard. S**t.

We spent a good while scratching our heads, trying everything from brute force to turning ourselves into contortionists. And then, Jobbo had a lightbulb moment. Instead of wrecking the door, he sliced a small section of the floor, found a tiny gap—just big enough for an arm—and squeezed into the bilge. After some wrestling, he managed to pop the floor up on the other side, shift the rogue drawer, and voila… we broke in. 😆

After that bit of hard graft, we rewarded ourselves with a proper brekkie and flicked a line off the back. We took a moment to reflect on how lucky we were to be here, on our way south, and how many stars had to align to get us this far. We’d planned to make it all the way to Rockingham, but with the autopilot out and the very real possibility of me going down with seasickness again, we decided to stop in Geraldton for a halfway breather.

Later, we got the dinghy out, headed to shore to stretch our legs, and had a good chat about the next morning’s sketchy sandbar crossing and our impending plunge out of the sheltered waters of Shark Bay into the vast Indian Ocean. If I said I wasn’t anxious, I’d be lying.

After a fitful night’s sleep, we woke to no wind—perfect. A stress-free exit was just what we needed, as leaving Dirk Hartog in high winds on an ebb tide with big ocean swell isn’t something you want to mess with.

We eased out of Shelter Bay, waving to a few fishermen near Monkey Rock. Everything was going so smoothly, my anxious knots began to unravel into something closer to excitement. That fear of the unknown was slipping away. We headed offshore around the 100-meter depth mark, leaving behind the confused waters smashing against the cliffs at Steep Point. Then, the swell started rolling in, the seas got choppy, and like clockwork, my seasickness kicked in hard. Once again, Captain Jobbo was left at the helm, while I wrestled my stomach and my mind, doing my best to give him some rest between throwing up. One hand on the wheel, the other gripping a bucket.

About 26 hours in, things started to shift. The slow, agonizing crawl inland gave way to a calm I didn’t think possible. As if by some miracle, my stomach settled, the misery melted away, and we finally moved into the second phase of the sail.

With 10 knots on the beam and calm seas, we were flying—hooning along at 7, sometimes 8 knots. We were ahead of schedule, set to arrive a full six hours earlier. Spirits lifted as we dug into our first proper meal of the trip, took more photos and videos, and marveled at the endless pods of whales. We soaked in the sheer joy of sailing this wild coastline, the weight of the previous day lifting with each passing mile. What a difference a day makes.

As Geraldton appeared on the horizon, we were buzzing with that giddy mix of pride and exhaustion—chuffed at what we’d just pulled off, and absolutely gagging for a beer and some real rest. After anchoring just after sunset, we didn’t waste any time—hit the bunks and passed out.

We were over halfway!