the captain’s daily rhythm
- matilde tomat
- 3 days ago
- 5 min read
or: setting sail from Grey Harbour
For a long time now, I have lived in Grey Harbour.
Crammed. Familiar. Exposed. Heavy. Boats on top of boats.
I knew the old pontoons. I knew the faces. I knew the weather. No lighthouse, not a road out, just a tangle of old tatty mooring lines, a weight of boats half-sinking, and the invisible heaviness of old anchors I didn’t realise I was still tied to. It wasn’t safe. But it was known.
The sad thing? I learned to call it home. I spent nights on cheap rum and endless games of He Said + She Said.
As a therapist, I help others make sense of their harbours. But lately, I’ve realised that holding space for others isn’t the same as setting sail myself. I’ve had all the maps, the dreams, the drawings, the journals. But those are preparation. They aren’t the wind.
the map
Grey Harbour is my starting point: this town, this lack of possibilities, the greyness of the weather, the loneliness, the poverty, and this desperation which covers and permeates everything and that some wear as a badge of historical honour.
The Safe Island is not just a dream or destination. It is the promise of a life lived in alignment, with creative flow, with meaning, visibility, colour, and spaciousness. It is where I imagine myself truly arriving. It's aliveness. It's small markets and county fairs. It's indie music and white wine, and grilled fish.
The Sea in between, the Sailing? That’s the process. The real, embodied work, the flow, the trust. It's letting go. It's learning to say goodbye.
And the Ghostweight... that's inner resistance, conditioning, old patterns, the familiar discomfort. That in-between state [not quite gross, not yet subtle, the tare], this invisible tether. The mooring lines of habit. The rusty ol' anchor. The quiet fears of success, of freedom, of the unknown.
the captain’s daily rhythm
I’ve realised I don’t need more therapy of the mirroring kind. I am tired of exploring and redefining how I am feeling. I don't want more prepping. I want going! I ask for belonging and integration, no more stagnation and disorientation. I need structure. I need momentum. I need a ship’s log. And I need the wind, yes, but I need to learn to move even without it.
So I created my own metaphorical rhythm: a personal, existential practice I call the captain’s daily rhythm:
1. morning muster (check-in)
Where am I today? On the sea, in a storm, stuck near the pontoon?
Weather report: emotional, physical, spiritual.
One subtle movement to raise the sail: yoga, breath, stretch, walk.
2. aligning the compass
Revisit the map: what is one thing today that moves me out of Grey Harbour and towards the Safe Island?
A micro-action: post something, email someone, send that project, hold personal boundaries, let my body fill a space.
Not for perfection, but for alignment.
3. navigating by stars (midday re-centring)
A pause to check orientation.
Am I drifting? Am I letting the wind carry me, or am I using the mooring of old patterns?
One anchoring act: a cup of tea with silence, writing one line in the logbook.
4. evening dockside (closure)
What did I witness today?
What moved in me?
What do I want to keep for tomorrow's sailing?
not going back
This is the vow: even when the wind dies, I will not return to the grey harbour. I will stay at sea. I will trust the stillness. I will remember that not all movement is speed.
This is no longer about reaching the island immediately. It’s about staying out of the grey. Even in fog. Even in fatigue. Even in fear. I don't want the Ghostweight to pull me back, to more journaling, more reflection, more inner journey, more listening, more conversing with my inner child. More prepping. I need embodied actions, I want emotional truth, and vulnerability, and testing the wind. I need integration and visibility.
... therapy is not always enough
Years of Person-Centred counselling [in training and partly as a psychotherapist] gave me reflection. But it didn't hand me the tiller. It mirrored my story but didn’t help me write the next chapter. It validated my feelings and deposited me on a sandbank. I am wondering how many of us feel this now, that we need more than mirroring and empty smiles. We need co-navigation. We need the courage to leave. We need a storm. We need someone who cuts the mooring lines. I know that some of us have enough clarity and we need something that sits between therapy and coaching, between soul and scheduling. A system. A rhythm. A way to embody and integrate the sailing. This is why designing my paleophenomenological methodology feels aligned and risky. Real. And true to myself.
a note to fellow captains
Maybe you, too, have sat in your version of Grey Harbour for too long. Maybe you’ve prepped your boat but never left. Maybe you’ve tasted the sea, then rushed back when the wind died. Maybe you’ve forgotten the name of your island. Still, I understand if you feel you need to stay in Grey Harbour. I really do. It might feel familiar, even necessary: your boat tied up just right, your supplies arranged just so, your coordinates predictable. If that’s where you are, I won’t judge. But it’s not where I can stay. Not anymore. Let me push off from the dock and find my rhythm out there. I need to trust the open water, even if it terrifies me. I need to feel the salt in my lungs and the wind in my hair, even if some days there’s no wind at all. Out there, beyond the breakwater, I might meet dolphins. I might laugh again. But I won’t know if I don’t try...
And to those who keep pointing me to their hull number and port letters, to their bathymetric map of personal shipwrecks: do you really need it? The pointing, I mean. Or is it just the ancient terror of leaving shore? Is it inertia masquerading as identity? Fear wearing the name of a wind?
The sea doesn’t care. The sea is still out there, waiting for you to sail.
Start small. Draw the map. Choose one thing to do. Raise your sail. And if there is no wind, float.
Just don’t go back. Please. Don't go back.
This is your sea now.
onwards + upwards
mx
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