My sleep is restless. Is it the predawn departure or the swim among stars in glowing water? I wake and check my watch often, relieved when it finally vibrates softly on my wrist: 3:30am.

I get up quietly, dress, and make tea. At 3:45 I wake Karin. We eat a small breakfast, ready the boat for sea, and fire up the engine. By 4:30 we motor past the reef and out into the open sea. It’s still quite dark, just a thin sliver of moon. Once clear, sails unfurl, the engine goes quiet, and we glide along. The breeze is steady at 18–24 knots on our starboard quarter. After so much reaching, sailing before the wind feels like something entirely new.

Sailing in the dark is always special. Sounds seem amplified, the motion more present. Dawn slowly builds behind us. High clouds shift from dark gray to red to a glowing orange. Then, almost abruptly, the sun appears — like a giant yellow searchlight at the horizon. It’s cool enough that Karin wears a fleece jacket. Not for long.

We’re making decent speed. But not enough for the skipper. I’ve been waiting for this moment: sixty miles of downwind sailing. Time to fly the gennaker — or “kite” — a huge, colorful sail that only comes out under very specific conditions. You need the right wind angle and speed, steady and not too strong, and at least two capable sailors.

Today is the day.

As soon as there’s enough light, I get impatient. We rig the lines, furl the genoa, and begin hoisting the sail. It lives in a sock — a long white tube of sailcloth. Once it’s all the way up and Karin is ready on the sheet, I pull the control line. The sock slides up, the sail fills, and with a satisfying pop the gennaker is flying. We immediately pick up two to three knots.

It feels fantastic — fast, quiet, powerful. But it’s also demanding. The breeze is a bit stronger than ideal, gusting into the mid-20s, and in each gust JACE wants to round up. We’re working hard, enjoying it, learning — and in hindsight, probably pushing it a little too much.

After about an hour I let the boat come up too much and have to ease the sheet quickly. That’s when it happens. The sail catches on the forward spreaders and tears slightly.

Ouch.

It’s not catastrophic, but it’s enough. We don’t want to risk turning a small tear into a big one in these conditions. We pull the sock back down and bring the sail below. The show is over. Lesson learned.

The rest of the sail to St. Barts goes well, if a bit slower and more rolly. After eleven hours we enter Gustavia, pick up a mooring ball, and feel a quiet sense of accomplishment. We made it.

Gustavia feels like the Saint-Tropez of the Caribbean — superyachts, private jets, designer clothes everywhere. A bit too chic for us, but fun to experience. We treat ourselves to dinner ashore, then do laundry the next morning before moving on to Anse Colombier, a calm bay on the northwest corner of the island. Clear water, great snorkeling — turtles, stingrays, lots of reef fish.

We even run into our friends from Globi again and invite them aboard for sundowners. Fun conversations, familiar faces. It feels good. And somewhere along the way, this no longer feels like a trip — it just feels like life.

The following day we press on toward Sint Maarten / Saint Martin — half Dutch, half French — where this journey will come to an end and JACE will rest for a while.

We’ve rushed a bit these last days. We could have taken more time. But there’s a good reason.

Jeff and Lynne are here — dear friends, and JACE’s former owners — anchored nearby on their new catamaran, Kili. Longtime readers will remember my many boat-related lifeline calls to 1-800-ASK-JEFF. Yes, that Jeff. Seeing them again, and right here where our adventure started, feels really special.

Kili is a beautiful catamaran — almost new, spacious, thoughtfully set up for the adventure ahead. They’re about to depart for Panama and then the long trek across the South Pacific. I get the full tour and admire how well they’ve prepared their new boat. I’ll admit I’m a little jealous of their plans — and inspired by the many smart adjustments aboard Globi and Kili, I catch myself collecting improvement ideas for JACE, half-joking that they’d be perfect projects “for the next owner.”

Soon they’re itching to visit their old friend JACE. It’s sweet how excited and nostalgic they get being back aboard and seeing the improvements we’ve made. We talk for a while, and a few days later share a long, leisurely lunch on the French side while they still wait for a good weather window to depart.

Then it’s time for the least glamorous part of the trip: cleanup and preparation for summer storage. It’s a surprising amount of work — cleaning, packing, decommissioning systems, taking down sails, making sure nothing rusts, molds, or seizes up.

We’ve done it before and allow ourselves enough time so it never becomes stressful. Karin battles a stubborn ear infection and occasionally walks around with half a hot onion strapped to her ear. She takes it with good humor, and we get through it anyway.

And somewhere in all of this — quietly, without any fanfare — something becomes clear.

As we pack gear away and think about next steps, I realize that the idea of this being just a “bonus season” no longer fits. I didn’t set out to decide anything; the decision simply revealed itself along the way.

I’m not selling. I’m keeping JACE.

So we have the slightly tricky conversation with our broker, Tony. He’s a sweetheart and takes it like a champ, despite some active interest. I suspect he’s too much of a boat lover not to understand. He even helps us find a safe place to store JACE and capable hands to keep an eye on her for now.

For now — because Sint Maarten lies squarely in the hurricane belt. She can’t stay here past June and will need to sail back down to Grenada, where she’ll be hauled out and spend July through November on land.

Which leads to a second, smaller announcement.

I’ll be back in May for that roughly one-week downwind passage south. And for that, I’ll need crew. Four aboard will be ideal. It will be a fun trip — some longer legs, some beautiful stops, and plenty of proper downwind sailing.

If that speaks to you, let me know.

With that, I’ll close this chapter of the journey. Karin and I leave JACE safely tied up, and now we’re on our flight back to Munich — where it is, apparently, snowing.

Thanks for following along. And please tune back in come May for more on Sailing JACE. Maybe this time, you’ll be part of the adventure.

All stations, all stations — this is the sailing vessel JACE, over and out.