I spent 2 weeks with the patriarchy

& it really sucked. Things got weird, way too quickly.

I am sitting in Palermo Airport. It’s 10:20. My flight doesn’t leave until 15.30. But I had to change my plans. To get off that boat. I was not expecting to find myself in an airport again so soon, yet here I am. Things got weird, way too quickly.

When the universe hands you a neon sign saying 'EXIT,' you don't wait for the next showing.

Sometimes we try things, and they don't work out. Sometimes those things involve million-dollar catamarans, mid-life crises, and a crash course in advanced patriarchy studies.

Dear reader, before we begin I want to clarify that I’m not normally exposed to people like this, who I call ‘normcore’ or ‘normies’. Due to my particular lifestyle and work, I tend to attract a certain quality of people who actively practice self-awareness and self-responsibility. So while you may be nodding your head and thinking “This is normal” it is not, to me, and the world that I choose to cultivate. It has shown me how necessary the work I do in the world is, and how much more accessible it needs to be to every ‘normcore’ ‘normie’.

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He scanned my body seconds into our introduction, his eyes doing the dance of the seven veils across my waist, hips, and eyes. I could practically hear the internal 'cha-ching' of approval. Welcome aboard the S.S. Objectification, population: me and my exhausted cat.

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The UK won’t let you fly out of the country with pets so we circumnavigate this obstacle. A taxi to the port. A ferry across the English Channel. A bus to the train station. A train to Paris. A tiny hotel room in the 8th arrondissement with perfect views.

In the morning I shower and slip on my already-worn travel clothes. Black Free People leggings and a soft green t-shirt plus double denim jackets, one a stone-washed black, the other quilted and blue. I have to be practical to carry my body weight in luggage including my cat.

A taxi to the airport. An orange juice to quench the travel-stress-induced sore throat and thirst. A flight to Menorca. A taxi to another port. By the end, I felt like I'd starred in my own version of 'Planes, Trains, and Automobiles' - with a feline co-star.

There I meet Alain. He comments on the weight of my bag and I counter that it’s hard to pack light when you don’t know where you’re going and there’s no going back.

We take his dingy (that he keeps calling dinky) to his million-dollar catamaran. I make a makeshift toilet out of an Amazon box, fill it with litter and let my cat out to explore, while Alain shows me around.

Alain is a French-speaking Belgian with limited English skills. Our conversations are simple and halted. I often translate French phrases even though I don’t speak French but understand enough to get by.

I can tell he is confused by me. Unimpressed by his obvious wealth, I do not attempt to charm or delight him. He has kind blue eyes that wink at me too often in a both lustful and fatherly way. The lustre of his once handsome youth has not quite faded. He comes from a generation of men deeply steeped in internalised patriarchy and I have zero interest in playing into his biases.

I do not need nor want anything from him and that makes me free.

He started as a hairdresser, he tells me. And then through luck and business acumen became Europe’s second-largest importer of gold and precious metals. Until the company went bankrupt and he took a few years off living in the Caribbean. That part of the story makes me think some suspect dealings were going on. Now he has a construction company in Belgium that is run by his son and daughter.

The patriarchy is chivalrous and generous but every act feels counted and measured to be paid for. Transactional.

I don’t feel he is sincere. I start to put my guard up. After unpacking I tell him I am tired and go to bed. He seems disappointed and confused.

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On our first day together, anchored in a small bay in Menorca while we wait for his school friends to arrive in a few days to join us, we share antipasto and some wine in the afternoon.

After one glass he leans close and says “Don’t be afraid. I want to kiss you.”

I recoil and answer “no”.

Not only do I not want to which is enough reason, but I also am unwilling to compromise myself when I’m already in a vulnerable position.

Plus, he’s the same age as my father, were he still alive.

For the next 48 hours, our island exploration becomes a battleground of wits and wills. He lobs inappropriate comments about my body, gender, and sex like verbal grenades, while I deflect them with shields of feminine power and independence. We're engaged in an absurd dance, his patriarchal peacocking met with my unyielding resistance.

My friend Jackson, ever the strategist, suggests I fight fire with fire. So, I reluctantly lower myself into the mud pit of this verbal sparring match. I find myself slinging barbs about his age and loneliness, reminding him that I'm not here to play saviour to his midlife crisis.

I can't help but wonder: Is this what passes for social interaction in his world, or have I stumbled into a poorly written sitcom about mismatched travel buddies?

The patriarchy is a young boy, abandoned at 14, trying to make his way through life and desperate for love.

On the third day, we talk about integrity and authenticity and how important both are to me. He becomes silent and still. Finally, I have touched a real part of him. The part of him that knows that love and affection are not transactional but has accrued wealth to feel worthy of it. He is suffering under the patriarchy too.

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When I first agreed to this trip, we had a plan: a 3-month trial period. We would start in Spain and slowly make our way from there to Italy, Greece, and then Turkey. From the first day of my arrival, Alain keeps changing the itinerary.

Every day it is something new. Tunisia. Croatia. Montenegro. By the end of the two weeks, he decided to put the catamaran onto the harbour in Sicily for 5 months and imagined me to live with him. It was not what I had signed up for.

His friends join us and alleviate the intensity.

I watch the three friends love and care for each other. It’s heartening to see. They are blind to the privilege that protects them from the suffering and diminishment that others have to face.

Confounded by the wives who have left them and the girlfriends who don’t trust them they wonder why everyone is left feeling lonely and starved. “I worked so hard!” they are exasperated. “I gave everything I had!” They’re not wrong.

They have also been robbed by the patriarchy. Never taught to feel and surrender to their humanness. Always thinking they can fix every problem by working harder and accruing more. Everyone is suffering. No one feels met, seen or fulfilled in this system.

The patriarchy is 3 giggling schoolboys in the bodies of mid-50’s white men. Ignorant to their privilege and power.

They don’t know about how many women I know are faced with the sharp slap of being disempowered by the system that credits men when they bear children. Automatically, the naming of their children, ownership, and important decisions are deferred to the man.

Patriachary is mostly invisible until ruling forces show their hands.

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Within hours we set off. Menorca to Sardinia.

The seas are wild and the waves high. All the men get seasick, their pink faces turning shades of white and grey. Even my cat vomits in response to the 4-metre rolling surges. I read and write and skip meals while they eat despite their sickness, as we all wait for the 2-day journey to come to an end.

In Sardinia we refuel and they decide to press on. Sicily is another 3 days sailing away and they have a flight out of Palermo at the end of the week.

I slowly get to know his friends.

We come from such different worlds they don’t know how to relate to me. They think I’m a loner because I don’t join them for large parts of the day but the truth is that I prefer my company to theirs when they are rolling around seasick, making crude jokes and speaking French most of the time.

I am resourced in caring for my well-being and don’t need to belong to the group to feel safe. To them, this is strange.

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It’s Saturday. I arrived on this watery adventure Saturday a week ago. Today, I can’t stop weeping. Tears flood from my eyes and I take myself away into my cabin to cry and sob and let it out. My nervous system is on edge.

I don’t want to be here anymore.

Amidst the tears, I have an epiphany. I realise I've broken a generational pattern of making misaligned decisions out of a need for survival.

The power imbalance is exactly what the patriarchy preys on. They need us to need them. But it never works out for anyone. We all end up hurt and resentful. And then women a deemed ‘crazy’ because we have to reclaim our power in unconventional ways because we are not resourced enough otherwise.

It feels so good to keep saying “no” to Alain’s propositions. Accepting or acceding to him comes at a cost that I am not willing to pay. He has never encountered a whole woman, a free woman, a woman who neither needs nor wants anything from him.

It’s fascinating to observe my journey with my own internalised patriarchy.

With my last long-term relationship, I slipped into the ‘perfect woman’ mould. I cooked and cleaned and cared and on top of that, I ran a business and paid half the bills and half the mortgage (that I was never repaid for).

Now, I have no inclination to prove my worth or lovability through female labour. I nurture and care if and when I want to freely. And withhold it as easily. My actions and choices come from a pure place. Because I am self-resourced.

This confounds the patriarchy who are conditioned to a system of exchange based on a need of survival from those who are oppressed and under-resourced. It’s easy to hold the power when the other has none.

Eventually, we find a connection point as I astound them with my impeccable music taste. One night, we share songs and dance.

The patriarchy does all the cooking. Because I can’t relax enough to scrape together a meal beyond carrots sticks and cheese slices. If meals are left to me we starve. They cook. I wash up.

After 5 days at sea, we are all glad to return to land. I never imagined the tension build up in my body from the constant motion of sailing. A stress response to the unnatural feeling of being thrown back and forth relentlessly.

Upon arriving, desperate to speak to anyone not on our boat, I introduce myself to our neighbours who tell me that no skilled sailor would consider crossing in those conditions. It gives me a new perspective on Alain, his skills as a sailor and my safety on his vessel.

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As we finally stumble back onto solid ground in Palermo, I have a heart-to-heart with one of Alain's friends. Turns out, I'm not the only one who felt unsafe and uncomfortable. He says he hated every second of the journey. He wishes he had never come on this trip. That Alain is behaving strangely. We agree that he is not well. It's a small comfort, but I'll take it.

Alain’s advances continue. When he catches me in tears he sends me a message that says “I wish I could hold you in my arms to comfort you”. It makes my skin crawl. I don’t want this man to touch me, ever. I don’t reply.

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On Wednesday I again am filled with tears. When I think I’ve cried it all out I rejoin the group and we explore the city of Palermo but the tears don’t stop. They notice and I tell them I am feeling emotional and need space. I hide behind sunglasses and try to focus on the astounding history, art and beauty of Sicily. Spirituality is devotion to beauty, I think to myself in admiration.

But I know now, that it’s time to go.

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On Thursday I book a flight. His friends leave today and it will just be Alain and me again. I am unwilling to face that.

On Friday over cappuccinos and cornettos at a patisseria I say to Alain “Alain” he looks up at me “I am leaving on Sunday. And I’m not coming back.” he nods, silently. Understood. He offers me to stay on the boat until then. “I can take an Airbnb,” I say. “No, please stay” he counters.

The patriarchy pretends it doesn’t know what it wants and is fine and chill and cool with everything but doesn’t know how to communicate how it feels and it wants directly and clearly and is boiling with anger and frustration underneath.

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Grateful and relieved, on Saturday I sunbathe and swim and read. For the first time, Alain leaves me alone. This is more like what I thought the experience would be like. Peaceful.

As I pack up my life once again, I reflect on this bizarre nautical chapter. It wasn't the adventure I signed up for, but it was the lesson I needed. I've emerged stronger, wiser, and with a newfound appreciation for solid ground.

Sunday I get up early clean my cabin and bathroom and dive off the boat to swim one last time. I am ready to leave. He takes me to shore in the dingy and we have an awkward goodbye. “Thank you for an interesting time,” I say. “Have a nice life.” He mumbles something. I don’t care what he has to say. I’m ready to go.