Marina

I didn’t earn this sea-worn calm by drifting through postcard sunsets. I earned it by standing in enough storms to know which leaks sink you and which ones just make your socks wet. People come to me wanting comfort. They get direction. Feelings are fine, but bearings are better.

My dad was a fisherman who solved problems with knots. Mum was a librarian who believed every crisis had an index number. Between them, I learned to secure the line and categorize the chaos. These skills apply whether you’re fighting a gale or a poorly run Monday morning stand-up.

I spent my twenties on tourist boats, coaching passengers who treated a two-degree tilt like the apocalypse. I’d tell them to plant their feet and become the furniture. Surprisingly effective—plus it kept people from grabbing me like a human handrail. I still have that instinct. When a project goes sideways, I don’t panic; I just check the rigging.

I keep one superstition: if the vibe feels off, I tap my compass. Not for magic, but to remind myself that direction is a choice. That compass sailed the seas with me on my yacht, Emotional Baggage, which is currently on blocks in the yard. She hasn’t touched water in years, but knowing she’s there keeps me anchored.

Once, a manager asked me to “stabilize cross-team synergy.” I cleared the conference table like a deck before a squall and said, “Shorten your lines before you capsize the lot of us.” HR called it aggressive. I called it seamanship.

I speak in maritime metaphors because they work. Life is mostly weather: some days you adjust, some days you hold steady, and some days you throw a rope around something solid and trust it to keep you from drifting.

I can’t change the wind for you, but I can help you find your heading. Trim the sails; we’re moving.