This isn’t a blog about perfect sailing. It’s not a highlight reel, it’s not polished, and it definitely isn’t written from a place of comfort. This is about what coaching looks like when it’s real – when someone is tired, stretched thin, emotional, determined… and still choosing to keep going anyway.
Coaching Jazz through her challenge wasn’t glamorous. It was practical. It was chaotic. It was funny. It was occasionally brutal. It was full of tiny decisions that mattered more than the big ones.
And it reminded me, again, why I love coaching so much. Because when it’s done properly, coaching isn’t just about improving performance, it’s about helping someone stay steady enough to access their own capability when everything feels like it’s wobbling.
That’s what makes it rewarding. You don’t get the “win” for yourself. You get to watch someone else find their way through something hard and come out the other side stronger. And honestly, I don’t think there’s anything better than that.
Because when the world gets loud, and the sea gets angry, we still show up for each other.
When Jazz set off, I knew what was coming. Not because I’m psychic, but because this is what happens when you do something genuinely hard: the weather doesn’t care about your plans, the sea doesn’t care about your mood, and your brain will absolutely try to talk you out of it at 3am.
So I did what I always do when I care about someone and I can see the pressure building.
I went full coach.
I reminded her that emotions would be high and she’d be pulled in every direction, but once those lines were let go, she’d be out there for herself, not for anyone else.
I told her to sail fast, sail safe, and enjoy it. To take in the views. To learn on the way around. And to remember that when it all goes wrong (because it will at some point), you breathe, you reset, and you handle it.
Not because she isn’t capable. But because this is what big challenges do. They squeeze you. They test you. They show you who you are.
And Jazz… is a lot tougher than she gives herself credit for.
What I didn’t fully appreciate at the time was how much of our coaching relationship would live inside messages like these. Not because we’re glued to our phones, but because when someone is offshore and you’re on land, words become your lifeline. Sometimes it’s tactics. Sometimes it’s reassurance. Sometimes it’s humour. Sometimes it’s just someone reminding you to eat, drink, breathe, and do the next right thing.
Sometimes the messages were pure comedy.
“Maybe I’ll set the record for being the first person to go round the whole of the UK upwind.”
And I’m sat there like… yes babe, that does feel like the vibe right now, but it’s coming behind tomorrow – you’ve just got a fun hole to get through first. Because this is the mental game. You don’t need the whole journey to feel manageable. You just need the next few hours to feel survivable.
But it wasn’t always funny.
There was one moment in particular where it stopped being a challenge and became a proper reality check. The kind of moment every sailor dreads, when something goes wrong, fast, and you’re forced to switch from “pushing on” to “protect the boat, protect yourself, make a plan.” It wasn’t pretty, and it wasn’t the story anyone wants… but it was real.
And what I’ll always remember is how Jazz handled it. Not perfectly. Not without fear. But with grit, humour, and the determination to keep moving forward.
After moments like that, the messages change. The adrenaline drops, the exhaustion hits, and the self-doubt starts creeping in. That’s when the “sorry” messages come through, the ones that tell you someone is spiralling, not because they’re weak, but because they care and they’re holding themselves to a massive standard.
And that’s where coaching stops being tactics and starts being permission. Permission to not be perfect. Permission to not be embarrassed. Permission to reset and keep going.
I told her not to apologise. That we’ve all sailed backwards, hit lobster pots, forgotten how to steer, and done many, many worse things. Because the sea will humble you eventually; the only question is whether you learn from it, laugh about it, and carry on. And she did.
Then there were the moments where it was time to stop being deep and just get brutally practical. Safety mode.
This is one of the reasons I know I’m good at coaching: when everything gets noisy and emotional, I can still make it simple. I can still prioritise. I can still reduce the chaos into a short list and a calm plan. And that matters, because when someone is tired, cold, overloaded and alone, they don’t need a motivational speech, they need clarity.
That’s the bit people don’t always understand about resilience. It’s not about being fearless. It’s about being practical when you are afraid. It’s about accepting that it might be horrible, and doing it anyway; one tiny chunk at a time.
And Jazz did exactly that. “I’m doing what you said and taking it in tiny chunks.”
That message still gets me. Because that’s the whole thing. That’s the work. That’s the mindset shift that turns a wobble into momentum.
Some of the coaching was mindset and reassurance. Some of it was food, water, sleep strategy, and keeping the boat together when the sky decided to throw a tantrum.
Some of it was decision-making: reefing early, slowing down, accepting sideways progress, and knowing that sometimes “safe” is the win.
And then there were the moments that were bigger than coaching. The moments that felt like pure perspective.
Jazz sent me a selfie from Muckle Flugga; grinning, freezing, alive, completely in her element, and captioned it in the only way Jazz can. I told her well done, told her it looked nicer than when I’d been there… and she replied:
“That’s because I had you helping me.”
That line is the heart of the whole story.
Because yes, she sailed there. She did the work. She made the calls. She endured the hard bits. She earned every mile. But support matters. Not the performative kind. Not the “I’ll clap from the sidelines when it’s convenient” kind. Real support. The kind that shows up in the dark. The kind that keeps you steady when you’re wobbling. The kind that reminds you you’re not alone.
That is what coaching is when it’s done properly.
And honestly… it’s also what inclusion is, when it’s done properly.
Inclusion isn’t a buzzword. It isn’t a logo. It isn’t a post you share once a year when it’s trending. Inclusion is the infrastructure around a person that says: you belong here, you are capable, and you will be supported to succeed.
Not pitied. Not “allowed”. Not treated like an inspirational side quest.
Supported. Challenged. Backed.
Because the Para Inclusive community isn’t built on sympathy. It’s built on grit, humour, adaptability, and a stubborn refusal to be told what’s “realistic”.
Jazz is the perfect example of that. She’s funny. She’s fierce. She’s chaotic. She’s brave. She has bad mornings. She has brilliant days. She gets scared. She swears (a lot). She laughs. She keeps going.
And I love her for it.
I’ve learned a lot from coaching Jazz. I’ve learned how powerful it is to have someone who believes in you when you’re not sure you can keep going. I’ve learned that the smallest messages can be the ones that matter most.
And I’ve learned that when we talk about inclusion, what we really mean is this: people don’t need saving.
They need access.
They need opportunity.
They need community.
They need a system that doesn’t shut the door the moment things get hard. Because when people are properly supported, they don’t just survive the challenge.
They grow through it.
And that’s why I keep doing this work.
This is what inclusion looks like when it’s real: not sympathy, not slogans – just people showing up, properly.
That’s the power of being believed in.
Shared with Jazz’s permission. Some details removed for safety.
Happy Sailing,
Hannah
SAILING HANNAH 
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