At Sea: The Night a Boat Became My Classroom

The Night Everything Went Quiet

There’s a kind of silence at sea that you can’t find anywhere else. It’s not empty — it’s full of small sounds that keep you company: the hum of engines below deck, the creak of rope, the faint clatter of waves against metal.

I used to sew late into the night when everyone else had gone to sleep. The costume shop was tucked behind the stage — a small space lined with spools of thread and pieces of half-finished dreams. Out there, the ship was a city that never stopped moving. But inside that room, time stood still.

One night, a storm had passed, leaving everything washed clean. I remember looking up from the sewing machine and realizing I couldn’t tell where the ocean ended and the sky began. The horizon had disappeared, and in its place was a soft, endless blue.

That was the night I learned something about trust — in fabric, in life, in myself.

The Floating Classroom

Working at sea taught me that creativity and survival aren’t opposites. They’re siblings.

I didn’t always have the right materials. Sometimes a bedsheet had to become a new pair or pants; sometimes two costumes became the base for an entirely new look. There were nights when I mended the same piece three times before it looked right. And somehow, that repetition became sacred.

Every sailor and performer on board had their version of that discipline — the violinist tuning between swells, the chef balancing a saucepan as the deck tilted, the dancer stretching in a narrow hallway. We were all trying to make art in motion.

And that’s what life feels like, isn’t it? Making beauty in the middle of chaos. Holding the line steady while everything moves around you.

The Lesson I Didn’t Expect

I used to think creativity meant inspiration — lightning bolts, divine timing, the perfect idea appearing out of nowhere. But on that ship, I learned creativity is mostly endurance. It’s choosing to try again in imperfect conditions.

Some nights, I’d stitch through tears. Other nights, laughter spilled out of the costume room like music. And slowly, the sea became my teacher — not in grand lessons, but in small, steady reminders:

• Balance comes from adjusting, not holding still.

• Teamwork is an art form.

• Every repair, no matter how small, is a kind of hope.

Coming Home to Myself

When I finally step off that ship, I carry more than a suitcase of fabric. I carried a new rhythm — the one that comes from learning to live between worlds.

That experience guides everything I make. Whether I’m sewing, writing, or dreaming up the next piece for Everybody Loves Everybody, I remember that horizon — the one that vanished — and the way it made me feel both small and infinite at the same time.

Maybe we’re all floating classrooms, constantly learning how to balance, create, and begin again.

From my corner of the world,

Erika

💬 Have you ever learned something unexpected from your work or your travels? Share it in the comments — I’d love to hear your story.