Some mornings I step onto a racing boat the same way I once stepped into my black dress 🖤 with a faint trace of Le Labo scent on my hair 🌿. There is a space here where femininity does not have to shrink to fit. The word regatta holds both romance and reality. Romance in the way a spinnaker unfurls like a blooming flower and reality when salt water stings chapped lips. It’s not exactly a gentle sport and for most of its history women like me have been watching from the shore. Out here the energy is decisive and feels thick with a particular kind of masculine intensity with loud voices, quick bursts of commands and bodies that move like they own the space. In an instant after the whistle blows 📣, it becomes choreography of eight people moving as one 🤝, each trusting the other to play their part. It is one of the most beautiful moving works of art on the sea. There’s a strange intimacy in shared balance and how our bodies lean into the same direction. The same question creeps back ...