He wanted to go sailing in Greece and booked a yacht before finding enough people to join us. As he worked his way down our list of friends, the trip drew nearer, and we faced a financially ruinous holiday if he couldn’t fill the remaining berths.
One day, he texted me: Did I mind if Duncan came along?
I remember my stomach tightening. I took a deep breath before replying, knowing he was stressed and this was an easy solution. I said of course, that would be fine.
Duncan was his friend from Oxford, which all three of us had attended, but he was also my first love. I hadn’t seen him in ten years.
I met Duncan in the second week of my first year at college in 2014. It was the kind of romantic entanglement you fall into at 18—shy, unsure how to communicate properly. He was an English boy who had attended an all-boys boarding school from a young age and didn’t really know how to talk to women, let alone about his feelings. I came from Berkeley, California, via Paris, France—places where emotions are expressed freely—but I found his awkwardness endearing.
We were well-matched in experience, meaning neither of us had much, and that year we learned how to have sex together. It was tender, and I have overwhelmingly fond memories of that time. We said “I love you” but never considered ourselves a couple. We were both noncommittal, and the whole thing drifted to an open-ended conclusion. We graduated, our paths diverged, and he faded into nostalgia.
And yet here he was again, on a 38-foot yacht, set to depart from the marina of Loutraki on the island of Skopelos in early August, having blossomed into a much more articulate person than I remembered. And here I was, in a red swimsuit I’d bought specially to please the man I loved—neckline to my navel, crossbody back, sideboob aplenty—being ignored.
That trip was a disaster in several ways. There was the time I was topless in our cabin, getting changed, and my partner said in a tone of pantomime reproach, “Put those away.” Or the several times he didn’t hear me, or possibly ignored me, while dealing with some piece of rigging. Meanwhile, Duncan lounged around looking like a watch advertisement, all loose-fit linen, and all that sweet desire from ten years prior came roaring back. The ridiculousness struck me: How had I ended up in this enclosed space with everyone partially clothed? Worst of all was the day my partner and I were alone on the boat and I suggested we have sex. Without looking up from his book—How Spies Think by David Omand—he said, “No.”
I went to the beach and tried not to cry. Things I’d suppressed churned inside me: how rarely he said “I love you,” how few compliments he gave me, how unbelievably untouched I felt, even now on holiday, supposedly relaxed and happy, floating on the Aegean. For a while, my doubts about our relationship had been like warning lights blinking in my peripheral vision: I missed touch, deep random kisses, compliments, the occasional sexy text. I felt respected by him and knew he desired me, but it had started to feel like holding onto faith with too little proof. At just 26, I felt cheated.
Duncan, who had been swimming, found me on the beach. Gently, he said it was interesting to see my partner “in boyfriend mode.” I had been vaguely aware that since university, they saw each other a few times a year and had started playing cricket in the summer, but my partner and I never discussed their interactions in detail. Only later did it occur to me that he had likely downplayed their friendship.
“On a good day,” I said, my voice cracking, “it feels as if loving him is my calling, what I was put on this earth to do; on a bad day, as if parts of me are dying in the dark.” He said that he saw my partner making the same mistakes he…I asked what made him stop. He said, “Lots of failed relationships.”
Nothing more happened with Duncan. On the last day of the holiday, as we waited for our flight home from Skiathos, my partner and I walked down to the rocks by the sea.
“Being around Duncan again is really getting to me,” I told him.
“Well, he’s handsome and nice, and you have history, so that’s understandable,” he said calmly, holding my hand in both of his. “You have a summer crush. All I can do is go home, try to stay calm, and see if it goes away.”
I burst into tears. “Why are you being so kind?” I asked.
We went home, and for about two weeks, I felt like I was going crazy. Parts of me that had been buried suddenly came raging to the surface. I tried to get Duncan to go for a drink with me. He said no—he was happy with his girlfriend and didn’t want to upset her, which I thought was fair enough. It also confirmed that I wasn’t imagining things; he’d felt something too. My instincts weren’t broken.
The whole situation pushed me over the edge. I told my partner that the things he couldn’t give me had made me feel ashamed of how much I wanted him, and that it was a deeply lonely feeling. The day we finally ended things, we managed to toast the good times. It was only the second time I had ever seen him cry.
After that, there was a brief period where I took my longing for touch to the trenches of Hinge. It was fun for a very short while, but then it made me feel like a delivery pizza—overly sexualized and completely unerotic. I got off the app. Instead, I’m trying to cultivate what I call an autoerotics of the self: to fully inhabit my body with joy and self-compassion, and to protect those parts of myself that only I can save. Eating, cooking, and walking have become elevated pleasures, as has the dance-like rhythm of a really good conversation or the intimacy of a long-running private joke.
It’s been two years since my breakup. Last October, I went alone to Skyros, the more remote island south of Skopelos. I rented a tiny house with two balconies overlooking the sea. The town was quiet, with many of the shopkeepers closed for the year and gone back to the mainland for the winter. One of the only shops open was the goatherd supply store. I bought a belt I didn’t need and a collar for my friend’s dog, which I tested on my own neck. Then I continued down to the beach. Under my clothes, I was wearing the red swimsuit.
Stephanie Sy-Quia is the author of A Private Man, out today from Grove Press.
*Names have been changed.
Frequently Asked Questions
Of course Here is a list of FAQs about the common scenario of being Stuck on a Boat With the Ex I Still Had Feelings For
General Beginner Questions
1 What does stuck on a boat with an ex even mean
Its a metaphor for finding yourself in a closequarters inescapable situation with an expartner you havent fully gotten over The boat represents being trapped together with limited ability to avoid each other
2 Is this a good idea Should I even go
Its rarely a good idea if you know you still have strong feelings If you have a choice consider declining If its unavoidable youll need a plan to manage your emotions
3 How do I prepare myself mentally before the trip
Set clear intentions Are you going to be polite but distant or are you hoping for closure Manage your expectations remind yourself why you broke up and lean on supportive friends beforehand
4 What should I do as soon as I see them
Keep the first interaction brief polite and neutral A simple Hey good to see you is fine Dont feel pressured to have a deep conversation right away
Navigating the Situation
5 How do I handle shared spaces and forced proximity
Use the public but polite strategy Be civil in group settings but create small buffers Sit at the opposite end of the table join different conversation circles and use headphones or a book as a visual cue for space
6 What if they bring up old memories or the past
Politely deflect or keep your response light You can say That feels like a lifetime ago or Im just trying to enjoy the present trip Redirect the conversation to a neutral topic
7 What if they have a new partner with them
This is the ultimate test Be courteous to both of them but do not engage in comparisons or compete for attention Focus on your own friends and activities Seeing them with someone new can provide painful but necessary clarity
8 How do I deal with latenight talks or oneonone moments
Be very cautious These are highrisk for emotional confusion Its often