The first time a crew member told me to climb the mast, I laughed.
He didn’t.
A few minutes later, I found myself clipped into a safety harness, staring up at a maze of ropes and rigging disappearing into the sky. Somewhere above me was a platform nearly 100 feet above the deck. Somewhere below me was the Southern Ocean.
I had willingly signed up for this. The irony wasn’t lost on me.
Over the years, I’ve sailed on everything from family-friendly mega-ships to luxury cruise lines and expedition vessels. I’ve enjoyed beautiful staterooms, exceptional dining, Broadway-caliber entertainment, and all the comforts modern cruising offers. Then I boarded the Bark Europa.
No private balcony. No buffet. No room service. No Wi-Fi. No daily schedule packed with activities. Instead, someone handed me a harness and expected me to help sail the ship.
At first, I wasn’t entirely sure what I’d gotten myself into. The Europa isn’t a cruise ship in the traditional sense. She’s a working three-masted tall ship built in 1911, carrying passengers who quickly discover they’re not really passengers at all. They’re expected to participate. Everyone stands watch. Everyone helps. Everyone learns.
On the first day, I was introduced to an entirely new vocabulary. Lines, braces, sheets, halyards, clewlines. Crew members tossed around nautical terms as naturally as ordering coffee. I nodded as though I understood, while secretly wondering whether I’d ever figure out what anyone was talking about.
Then the work began.
Pulling lines. Coiling ropes. Keeping watch. Learning how wind, weather, and sail all work together. It wasn’t difficult because the tasks were complicated. It was difficult because participation required something many of us rarely practice anymore: complete presence. There was no phone to check. No email waiting. No social media feed to scroll through while pretending to pay attention.
For the first few days, I reached for my phone constantly out of habit. Every time, I remembered there was nothing there. No signal. No notifications. No distraction. Just ocean.
At first, the silence felt uncomfortable. Then, it became addictive.
Somewhere between Antarctica and South America, I stopped caring what day of the week it was. I stopped measuring time by appointments and deadlines. Life became remarkably simple. When it was my watch, I was on watch. When it was my turn to work, I worked. When I wasn’t needed, I sat on deck and watched albatrosses glide effortlessly over the waves. It felt less like travel and more like stepping into a different century.
Of course, there were moments that tested everyone aboard. The Drake Passage earned every bit of its reputation. Towering waves tossed the ship relentlessly. Sleep became a challenge. Walking across the deck required concentration and balance. There were times when simply making a cup of tea felt like an athletic achievement.
Yet something interesting happened during those difficult days. The strangers aboard stopped being strangers. On a traditional cruise, it’s entirely possible to spend a week surrounded by thousands of people and never know anyone’s name. On a tall ship, that’s impossible. You share watches together. Meals together. Storms together. You celebrate calm seas and endure rough ones side by side. By the middle of the voyage, we had become less like passengers and more like shipmates. That sense of community surprised me. So did the vulnerability. There is nowhere to hide on a small ship crossing one of the most remote stretches of ocean on Earth. People see you tired. Cold. Sea sick. Uncomfortable. And somehow those shared challenges accelerate friendships in a way I’ve rarely experienced while traveling.
The moment that best captured the difference between cruising and sailing happened high above the deck.
Eventually, I stopped avoiding the mast. One afternoon, I climbed. Higher and higher, the deck shrinking beneath me with every step. My hands gripped the rigging tightly as the wind pushed against me. When I finally reached the platform, I looked out across the Southern Ocean. There was nothing. No land. No ships. No buildings. No evidence of human civilization whatsoever Just an endless horizon stretching in every direction. For a long moment, I simply stood there. I’ve enjoyed incredible views from cruise ship balconies and observation decks around the world. I’ve watched glaciers calve in Antarctica and sunsets paint entire oceans gold. But this felt different. Because I hadn’t simply arrived at the view. I’d earned it.
That may be the biggest difference between cruising and sailing. Cruise ships are designed to remove friction from travel. Everything is effortless. Meals appear when you’re hungry. Entertainment begins on schedule. Destinations arrive exactly when promised. Tall ships ask something of you. Your effort. Your patience. Your participation. And because of that, the rewards often feel deeper.
Don’t misunderstand me. I still love cruising. I have no intention of giving up the comfort of a beautiful stateroom or the convenience of unpacking once while visiting multiple destinations. But the Bark Europa changed the way I think about ocean travel. It reminded me that ships were never originally built for entertainment. They were built for adventure. For exploration. For connection. For carrying people beyond the edge of what they knew.
Somewhere between Antarctica and South America, while hauling lines, standing watch, and learning to trust the wind, I rediscovered that spirit. And that’s why, if given the choice between another week of luxury and another voyage aboard a tall ship, I might surprise myself. I’d choose the harness.