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Sailing the Seven Seas — it’s much more than crossing oceans with a boat and a few faded maps. It’s, above all, a dance between human boldness and the ocean’s arrogance, an age-old choreography where the sailor is both tragic hero and unwitting clown.

Every wave breaking beneath the keel is a verse; every storm faced, a suspenseful chapter; every endless calm, an existential pause worthy of Camus — only with more salt in the nostrils and less philosophy in the pocket.



Sailing the Seven Seas, then, is sailing the human condition itself: between fear and curiosity, between the concrete and the imaginary, between the safe harbour and the call of the unknown. It’s accepting that, no matter how much we chart routes and calculate coordinates, the sea will always have the final say — and it will be spoken in a language of foam, wind, and salt.

The Seven Seas aren’t out there. They’re inside those who dare to set sail — even if it’s just with a map in hand and a dream of sails in the wind.

Hoje, num vento do norte
Fogo de outra sorte
Sigo para o sul
Sete mares