A story about waiting.
About this strange, soggy time of year when everything feels held fast. Like the world has tied itself to the dock and decided not to move just yet.
We’re still tethered to the boatyard. The weather has been relentless — grey days stacked on grey days, rain drumming on decks and roofs, puddles that never quite dry. It can feel as though time itself has stalled, as though we’re caught in a pause we didn’t ask for.
This rusty chain knows its job well. It holds steady. It keeps things where they are meant to be. And right now, that’s us.
And yet… there are hints. Small ones, but unmistakable. A lighter edge to the mornings. A softness in the air that wasn’t there a few weeks ago. The quiet promise that something is shifting, even if it’s not ready to show itself fully yet.
Those hints are enough to make me restless.
This is our launch year. After seven years of building Gwennel — almost three of them full time, day after day — the waiting feels heavier now. Not because I doubt what we’re doing, but because I can feel what’s coming. I’m ready for sun on my face, wind in my hair, dolphins at the bow and the sound of water lapping beneath her nose. I can picture it so clearly it almost feels like memory rather than imagination.
For now, we work inside. Small, careful jobs that inch us forward while the weather rages on outside. There are still so many outdoor tasks waiting for dry ground and warmer hands, and patience is required — whether I like it or not.
I know the season will turn. It always does. The days will lengthen, the rain will ease, and one morning this tether will feel less like a restraint and more like a temporary kindness — holding us safely until it’s time to go.
Until then, we wait. We keep building. We make tea. We watch for signs.
And we trust that movement is coming.
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