Ryan’s Take:
Morning in Porto, and the city was stretching awake as we motored into the marina. The Douro barely rippled, the sky warming from steel grey to something softer. A few fishing boats bobbed near the quay, their crews already hauling in the morning’s catch. We, meanwhile, were barely functional.
Liam slumped over the cockpit table, sunglasses on, hair a mess. “How long ‘til we can eat?”
I tied off the last dock line. “Depends. How long ‘til you can walk?”
His response was mostly unintelligible, but I took it as a ‘no time soon.’
Fine. Food first.
Liam’s Take:
Porto is not a morning city. I respect that. People here take their time. We found a café tucked into a side street, where the tiles on the walls were older than some countries. Ordered pastéis de nata and coffee so strong it probably counted as a controlled substance.
Ryan, ever the practical one, took small, measured sips. I went all in.
He glanced at my empty cup. “Want another?”
I slid my plate toward him. “Bring a pastry, too. You owe me for all that ‘adjusting sail trim’ nonsense last night.”
Ryan’s Take:
Porto is a city that knows how to exist. No rush, no sharp edges. Streets that wind into places you didn’t mean to go, but don’t mind ending up in. Buildings covered in blue azulejos, each one a story you don’t quite understand but still want to hear.
We spent the morning wandering. Down to the river, past the port wine cellars, across the Dom Luís I Bridge, which Liam swore had the best view of the Douro. He wasn’t wrong. Boats drifted below, warehouses lined the banks, and the city climbed the hillside in layers of red roofs and old stone.
“You’re thinking about staying longer,” Liam said.
I shrugged. “It’s a good place.”
He grinned. “It’s a great place.”
Which, I suspected, meant he had plans.
Liam’s Take:
Ryan thinks about practical things. Fuel levels. Weather windows. Whether or not the engine sounds ‘a bit off’ (which it always does, by the way).
Me? I was thinking about port wine.
You don’t come to Porto and not try port. That would be disrespectful. So, I dragged Ryan into one of the port cellars—a proper one, where they take things seriously. We listened to a guy in a waistcoat explain Ruby vs. Tawny vs. Vintage, nodded like we understood, and waited for the part that actually mattered.
The tasting.
Ryan sniffed his glass, suspicious. “This is… strong.”
I raised mine. “It’s perfect.”
He sipped. Thought about it. Nodded. “Alright. It’s decent.”
Progress.
Ryan’s Take:
We walked back through the city as the lights started to flicker on. Something about Porto at night—golden reflections on the river, the smell of grilled fish drifting up from alleyways, voices carrying just enough to make you curious. A city that’s alive, but not in a way that demands anything from you.
Back at the marina, Liam stretched out on deck, staring up at the sky.
“We should stay another day,” he said.
I exhaled. “We’ve got a schedule.”
He smirked. “Do we, though?”
The Douro lapped gently against the hull. Porto glowed behind us.
Yeah. Maybe another day.
Until next time,
Ryan & Liam
The Ocean Bois
