The return – and the silence afterwards

In September 2024, Kirana was hanging from the crane in Pomer again. A moment we had worked towards for so long. Two years full of repairs, worries, doubts – but also full of hope. And there she was: ready to feel water under her keel again. Ready to be our home again.

During that time I was alone in Pomer with B’Elanna. Sheila was in Switzerland because of administrative obligations and could not be there. So the final touches on Kirana became a very personal journey. Me, the dog, the boat – and the countless memories that returned with every sound of a screw, every new movement of the hand.

The trip back to Krk under engine was quiet. No grand passage, no crew, no wind in the sails. Just us, the waves, and the feeling of finally coming home.

Back in Krk, she was lying in the harbour again. Home. And on that day we also saw her – one of our closest friends – for the last time. Someone we had known even before we came to Croatia at all. Even before we ever thought of this life here.

She was always modest. A woman with a history. Mother of a grown daughter. And there for her elderly father every single day. She cooked for him, washed his clothes, lived with him – not because it was demanded of her, but because for her it was simply natural. Care, devotion, patience. A sense of duty that moved us deeply. In a time when so many old people fade away lonely in care homes, she lived this being there for another person with an almost forgotten naturalness.

Countless times we said: “Come with us, join us for a trip. Two weeks on Kirana. Dubrovnik i natrag.” And she? She smiled. Said: “When my father is no longer here… then gladly.” For her it would have been unthinkable to leave him alone for days. This man, over 90 years old, was the centre of her life – not out of obligation, but out of love.

She had often felt unwell lately, and people were still looking for harmless explanations. But then came the cancer diagnosis – and with it the force that changed everything.

We did not see her often during that time. Not because we did not want to. But because we knew what she needed: dignity. Quiet. Time with those closest to her. And perhaps a little hope for a later reunion. A later that never came.

At the end of February, the funeral in Krk. The sun was shining. The sky was clear – probably the sunniest day in February. And still, silence lay heavy over everything. So many people came, more than one would ever have expected. They all carried their memories, their grief, their words of farewell. Her father – an old, good, quiet man – stood there, now alone. And in that moment something broke inside us. For years he had been cared for with a tenderness and devotion that was beyond comparison. Everyone knew how much she was there for him – daily, selflessly, quietly. And now he stood there, loss written into his shoulders. How much more can a heart bear when the centre of its familiar world is suddenly gone? And Danči… strong, but marked by it.

Since autumn it had been quiet around us. No blog. No Facebook. Not because nothing happened anymore. But because life itself weighed more heavily than words. Because we lived with the shock. With the new silence. With the gap that opened not only in our circle of friends, but also deep within us.

But now… now spring is coming. Not only meteorologically. Also inside. The sun is warming. The wind smells of a new beginning. And at the same time there is still this lump in the throat. The fact that she is no longer here. That we will never drink coffee together again. Never sit by the water together again. That her story is over – at least here.

Perhaps this text is more than just an addendum. Perhaps it is the first breath after a long pause. A cautious “we are back”, with a fragile voice. Not loud. Not strong. But honest.

Kirana is lying in Krk. With new marks on her hull – the fenders were torn from the pier in winter, and she was scratched on both sides. Only in the gelcoat. Nothing dramatic. But visible. Like scars. Like signs that she too is alive, has carried, has endured.

The bow pulpit is still missing. But soon… soon it will be Kirana time again.

And perhaps that… is enough for the moment.