It was 1:30 a.m. when Raven, an Oyster 82 sailing yacht en route to the nation of Antigua, received a distress signal. Despite the yacht being low on reserve fuel, its skipper changed course, diverting 100 miles to rescue Rebecca Ferry, a 47-year-old rowing alone across the Atlantic Ocean. She'd lost her steering and damaged her solar panels; by the time Raven reached her, she had been adrift for two days. Raven's five-person crew lifted Ferry aboard and, very likely, saved her life. The yacht’s intended voyage hadn't even begun.

        The Caribbean air hung thick with anticipation as I settled in Saint Paul, on the southeast coast of Antigua. Treading my way past weathered, wooden restaurants and shops, I greeted proprietors posted outside, the sounds of Junior Murvin singles bumping from tiny speakers. I was on my way to meet a group of adventurers preparing to embark on the Oyster World Rally, a 16-month, 27,000-mile circumnavigation of the Earth, held biannually for owners of Oyster sailing yachts. "There are a lot of emotions, a lot of tears," Allie Smith, Oyster's director of rallies and training, told me as we walked the planks in Nelson’s Dockyard. She'd spent months preparing the participants with in-depth instruction and intensive safety briefings, like a parent sending her kids off to college. Oyster's technical support teams had been meticulously inspecting each vessel, with Smith personally ensuring that every yacht contained proper communications and medical equipment, and that their owners had the knowledge to operate it.

        At a modest cafe constructed from a repurposed shipping container, I met Richard Hadida, chairman of Oyster Yachts. Ten years ago, after experiencing a serious health scare, Hadida vowed not to miss any more time with his family. So he, his wife Ali, and their two-year-old son, Harry — along with Harry's nanny and Ali's mother — were joining the Oyster World Rally, sailing their boat, Lush, around the world. Hadida described his planned route and deliberate preparation with the charm and affable ease expected of a man who has the words "Carpe Diem" tattooed across his wrist, even as he confided that Harry has a propensity to dart off and Ali gets horribly seasick.

        Later that afternoon, I joined a group of owners posted up at a nearby beach bar. Pau Serracanta, a former MotoGP executive who'd completed the previous Oyster World Rally, is accustomed to speed, but sailing his Oyster 595, called Mastegot, has taught him to appreciate sailing’s slower pace. "I realized how connected I was to the planet. You're looking for wind, the right current. If there's a full moon on a long passage, you feel so lucky," he explained. Seated across from Serracanta, Barry Parkin, a former Olympic sailing racer, chimed in: "It's very humbling being in the middle of an ocean. You realize how insignificant you are against Mother Nature." Parkin and his wife Susie (also an Olympic sailor) co-own Viva La Vida, an Oyster 825, with three other couples. The eight friends were making the voyage together. "We're a social experiment," laughed Jens Mueffelmann, a co-owner. I asked Parkin about some of the hazards one might encounter on the open ocean. Without missing a beat, he listed a series of harrowing scenarios, including ghost ships and jettisoned shipping containers, which are invisible to radar. I understood: The sea doesn't discriminate between a rowboat, cargo ship, and luxury sailing yacht.

        That night, the owners gathered for a farewell dinner at Catherine's Cafe, a small, beachside restaurant. I watched Ali twirl Harry by his arms, on the sand, his blonde curls fluttering as the mother and son enjoyed every second of this precious time on shore. There was a buzz, an expectant energy in the room as new owners were embraced, literally, by more seasoned sailors. I clinked a glass of pale-pink rum punch with Ian Farquharson, an enthusiastic Australian.

        Four years ago, Farquharson was relaxing on his sofa after work when he casually googled "beautiful sailboat" and found the Oyster website. Despite having zero sailing experience, he commissioned an Oyster 595, then realized he'd better look into lessons. His Oyster, christened Viva, was delivered just in time for her final bluewater testing and the start of the rally. "I'm excited, but that may just be the ignorance talking," he laughed. Later, Harry devoured short ribs while glued to an episode of Paw Patrol. (My rough math indicates a 16-month sea voyage might require over 10,000 episodes.) Maeva, Harry's nanny, joined me, admitting with a nervous smile that she had never sailed before.

        The following morning, Hadida invited me for breakfast aboard Lush. In addition to Hadida’s family, Lush carries a crew of four. Maxime, Lush's chef, who'd previously completed the rally, had prepared a gorgeous spread in the galley. I wandered below deck, questioning whether I would have the fortitude to undertake such a journey — if so, I'd unequivocally want to do it in an Oyster.

        Lush is gorgeous. She boasts a full-width owner's stateroom and three guest cabins, each with an en-suite bathroom and shower. Crew quarters are forward of the galley, and every finish on the yacht, from the quartz bar to the textile walls, is expertly crafted. And the entire vessel is childproofed for Harry: Plastic baby gates guard stairwells, and safety nets line the deck. Lush's crew even wrapped stacks of yoga mats around every sharp corner (cushioning options were limited in Antigua).

        On Sunday morning, before the rally's start, I followed the sound of steel drums to the marina, where I found Smith visiting each boat for a final check. The next time these sailors would reunite would be to transit the Panama Canal together. Spotting Raven's owner Philippe Goossens as he coiled his lines, I asked after Ferry, the rower they’d rescued weeks earlier. He told me that she’d recovered and had decided to meet Raven in Panama to join her crew for the rally. I suppose the kind of experience they shared bonds people forever.

        Watching the boats raise anchor and glide away, their hulls finished in glossy marine blue, slate grey, vibrant white, I marveled at the beauty of these magnificent vessels. But, as I'd learned over the weekend, it's not really about the boats. It's about the community, the chosen family these owners have created.

        Before my arrival in Antigua, I'd wondered if a group of yacht owners might seem out of touch with the world, but I’d found the opposite. On the Oyster World Rally, there are no escorts, no helicopter pads, no medical ships accompanying these adventurers. As those aboard Raven know full well, along with the immense privilege of owning these yachts comes the most sacred of human responsibilities. Each night throughout the rally, Oyster owners are required to check in on their fellow sailors: the Olympians, the parents, the "social experimenters," even Farquharson, the new guy. Out there, crossing the great blue amid restless waves, they have to look out for one another.

        When I returned home, I downloaded an app that let me chart each boat's position. I imagined my new friends at sea, caring for Harry, for each other — the tiny, digital triangles on my screen representing truly analog transportation. I echoed the words Smith called out to each crew as they sailed off, the blessing seafarers have carried in their hearts for centuries: Fair winds and following seas.

I showed up for the Rainforest Experience at Banyan Tree Mayakoba, just south of Cancun, Mexico, coated in mosquito repellant and wearing hiking shoes. But when I met my guide, she handed me a spa robe and sandals before leading me to a labyrinth of themed showers, saunas, and steam rooms.

        I began the ritual by walking across a pathway of smooth stones while alternating warm and cool water rained from above. The path led to an aromatic steam room, where I scrubbed myself with turmeric, local honey, tamarind, and sesame — a paste that smelled so fantastic I wanted to eat it. The heat opened every pore of my skin and, as I watched sweat bead and roll off my body, I realized how long I’d been holding tension I couldn’t even name. A cold rinse shocked me awake, a reset I felt in my lungs.

        Next came another steam room, this one infused with salty air, where I smothered myself in a fresh avocado body mask and hair treatment. Another cold rinse was followed by the heat of a Finnish sauna, finished off with crushed ice that I pressed into my skin.

        The Vitality Pool, a cavern-like bath lit with flickering candles, was the grand finale. Underwater lounge chairs gently massaged my back while Jacuzzis offered therapeutic jets. The noise in my mind eventually quieted, and I began to laugh. My limbs felt loose, my skin was silky, and the tired, brittle person who'd stepped into the labyrinth was gone. I couldn't remember the last time I’d felt so recharged.

        The experience was part of the property’s annual Women’s Retreat, designed “for those who wish to reconnect with themselves, nourish their spirit, and share with like-minded women in a space of peace and transformation.” The brand’s founder, Claire Chiang, and her daughter, deputy CEO Ho Ren Yung, were part of this group. Hearing them speak made the spa experience click. It wasn’t just pampering. It was about defining self-care, slowness, and presence as forms of power rather than indulgence.

        Chiang founded Banyan Tree in 1994, with the symbolism of its namesake in mind: deep roots, cultural continuity, and communal gathering beneath the shelter of a generous canopy. Banyan Tree’s properties — now stretching from Mexico to the Maldives — are likewise evolving sustainable luxury by preserving local ecosystems and cultural integrity without sacrificing experience. They’re all grounded, elegant, and conscious, but they never feel austere.

        Similarly, Yung spoke about leadership as something relational and circular, rather than hierarchical, an ecosystem rather than a pyramid. The brand invests in local artisans, invites community members into programming, and celebrates craft and culture in ways that feel lived rather than performed. The nightly turn-down gifts left in my room — a hand-carved bookmark, a glass heart pendant — came from local makers and carried their stories.

        What I took home was not just those gifts or a spa-induced afterglow (though I would happily fly back to Mexico anytime just for that experience). It was the realization that personal restoration is not extravagance but a form of capacity building. To lead, create, and care for others, you have to know how to return to and strengthen yourself. And, sometimes, that return begins slowly, with water: cleansing, scrubbing, polishing until the shine reemerges.

I took this image at breakfast while staying at Hotel Sambaqui, situated on Juréia Beach, along the coast of São Paulo, Brazil. I was drawn, as I so often am, to that fleeting pocket of morning light — the kind that transforms an ordinary moment into something radiant.

        The hotel holds a special place in my heart. It is not fancy or polished, but it’s where my Brazilian family gathers for milestone occasions. I grew up in Boston, speaking Portuguese at home and spending holidays in Brazil with my mother’s side of the family. This stretch of coast is deeply woven into those memories. The last time we were all here together was for my grandmother’s 80th birthday. This past spring, we returned to mark what would have been her 100th, nearly 50 of us gathering in remembrance and in laughter.