I always wanted to live on an island without a bridge. I was born in Manhattan, an island with many bridges. In the 90s, I lived on Bainbridge Island in Puget Sound with a bridge on one end and ferry service linking the other end to Seattle. For one year each, I was fortunate to live on a Bahamian island and a Caribbean island, neither of which had a bridge. I love it even though it’s totally impractical. There are inevitably things you need from the mainland and getting them can be impossible or difficult at best. On an island without a bridge you learn to make do and you take care to maintain friendships with your neighbors because you may need their help someday. An island without a bridge has fewer tourists. I suppose a boat could also be considered an island with no bridge.

It was a chilly, bright blue March day when Gary and I set sail from mainland Portugal for the tiny island of Porto Santo, four hundred miles to the southwest off the coast of Morocco. We had only been together in person for three weeks, but we’d been talking daily for two months and I was pretty sure he was The One. The first day of the passage I anxiously watched for orcas because they have been attacking and sometimes sinking boats in the area we were sailing through. The second day we were far enough away from the coast to be out of orca territory. That afternoon, Gary called me into the cockpit to see my first pilot whales, whose short flat dorsal fins were reassuringly un-orca-like. The sky was cloudless, the wind perfect. Dyola, Gary’s boat, sailed like a dream. I was already falling in love with Gary and with each day of sailing, I fell more in love with Dyola as well.

That evening we were sitting in the cockpit enjoying the spray of stars overhead when we heard the chuff of dolphin breath. We peered over the side and to our amazement saw sparkling dolphins racing under and around the boat. Neither of us had ever seen dolphins lit by bioluminescence and the dolphins seemed to understand how thrilling the sight was for us because they stayed with us for a long time while we watched in slack-jawed awe. It seemed a sign that Gary and I were meant to be together.

After five glorious days of sailing, the wind eased, then dropped to nothing. After four hours of gliding up and down on the fantastic smooth swell while the sails hung limp, we cranked up the “Iron Genny” (diesel engine) and motored to within sight of the golden island of Porto Santo. One of the reasons I decided to take the leap and fly to Portugal to meet Gary after we met online was because a friend of mine was living in Porto Santo and Gary planned to sail there. I figured if it didn’t work out with Gary, I could at least visit my dear friend, Georgette.

It’s always a thrill to sight land after a passage and this was no exception. As we drew nearer, the barren hills towered higher. The rocky slopes were so dull, they seemed almost colorless. I wondered why Georgette loved the place so much. I struggled to see beauty in it. I remembered my first sight of Grenada, the deep green of the rainforest cascading nearly three thousand feet down to the sapphire sea. Misty clouds wrapped around the peaks and promised coolness in the tropical heat. Porto Santo was pale and forbidding in comparison. But, Georgette stood on the end of the sea wall with her arms overhead waving to welcome us, as cheery a sight as I have ever seen.

That first visit, we stayed only three weeks. We hired a car and drove all around the island and my appreciation of the island expanded. One evening we picked Georgette up and drove to a remote spot to watch the sunset. The dirt road was deeply rutted and the car a humble sedan. Gary, a professional driver, cracked good-natured dry jokes about my nervous driving and the limited abilities of the car and our responsibility to the rental company. We laughed until we cried as we shook like dice in a cup over the uneven road.

We hiked up the last bit of hill and gasped at the scene below. Waves frothed in slow motion against the rocks of the small “Iron Islet” with a deep booming sound slightly delayed by the distance. The lighthouse was like a cake decoration on the flat top of the islet as the sun went down through clouds that hovered at the horizon. Madeira, thirty miles to the southwest was invisible behind the cloud bank. It felt as if we had reached the end of the world. If we got in our boat and headed due west from Porto Santo, we would sail three thousand miles before hitting land in Wilmington, North Carolina. Unlike many people, I found this deeply comforting.

On our second visit to Porto Santo, we stayed almost our full allowance of ninety days. On the beach, the sand shifted over the course of weeks to reveal smooth black volcanic stones, some of which formed the shape of a hippopotamus. After we named Hippo Rock, it became like a familiar friend on our evening beach strolls. We carried some of the small black rocks back to the boat, but when they dried they turned an unhappy gray so we returned them to the surf where they could shine so beautifully in the cool water. Most often, we had the beach to ourselves. The water was perfectly clear and with the sun out it was a lovely aquamarine, going darker with the depth farther out. After the Caribbean, the water felt very cold to me, but also refreshing after a long walk on the soft sand in the bright sunshine.

On New Year’s Day, we did the Polar Plunge with our Dutch and German friends who laughed and said the water was so warm it hardly qualified as a Polar Plunge. I thought I would have a heart attack getting in, but once in, it didn’t seem so bad. Our circle of friends was growing. Two couples who had come on sailboats had decided to stay and purchased homes here. Others chose to stay on boats, venturing to the Azores or Canaries when they felt the need for a change, and then returning to Porto Santo. Many people come and some never leave. One sailor joked that it was Hotel California here, but most sailors refer to such a place as “Sticky.” Georgette said when she first stepped off the ferry on Porto Santo she felt as though she was home. I still didn’t share that feeling, but I had to admit, the place was growing on me.

This time, we plan to stay even longer, maybe sailing to the amazing Azores in the spring after the boat repairs are done. Our days are quiet and slow. Dyola is on the hard at the foot of those dry hills we first saw from out at sea. These hills don’t roll, they curl protectively around our little harbor and town, sheltering us from the prevailing north wind. For a person with hurricane trauma, such as myself, wind protection is a sweet gift. I have grown to appreciate the way the light plays on the steep rocky slopes, a little red there, a patch of yellow and long lines of what looks like stone walls, but clearly aren’t. One line of dark stones is raised in points like teeth. I try to imagine the volcanic eruption that laid these lines of cracked black rocks in the reddish-brown dirt. Sunrise comes late as the hills block the sun for an hour after official sunrise. Past the hills, over the sea, the morning sky is pink and lavender. During the day, cloud shadows creep along, dimming some spots while others remain bright.

In town there is a great view of Pico Castelo, an extinct volcano. It’s a perfect cone with dark green trees at the top, planted by a benefactor of the island, after the first settlers stripped the island of trees. Everywhere you go in town, you can look up and see the Pico. It reminds me of the tallest buildings in Manhattan, my home town, which allow you to get your bearings. Not that you could get lost in Porto Santo. It’s more of a blink-and-you’ve-missed-it sort of place. Downtown can be walked easily in a half an hour. There are great restaurants, an amazing bakery and most things you might need, including hardware and a pharmacy. The supermarket is well-stocked and offers a fantastic buffet. We are already on a first-name basis with some of the shopkeepers and employees, who tolerate our impossible Portuguese with gentle smiles and do their best to respond in English.

I’m not ready to say Porto Santo is home. Home is still where the boat is, but I’m very glad to be here for now. It’s a safe, pleasant port for us, on an island without a bridge.