This was the beginning.
The origin story. The once-in-a-lifetime that turned into a tradition.
Freshly licensed, underaged and overly confident, the soon-to-be committee decided to bypass the learning curve entirely. No small boats. No warm-up. No prior experience at all, actually. Instead: a fleet of 57ft giants, 72 people, and an “organisation” built on vibes, optimism and absolutely no idea what one was doing.
It was meant to be a sailing trip.
It became a fucking filthy floating festival.
We left from Trogir, on what would later become a sacred route, and somehow pulled off the impossible highlight: the first ever bunker rave in Lastovo. Concrete walls, underground echoes, no precedent, no permission. Just noise, disbelief and the realisation that we might be in over our heads.
Every day came with the same feeling: this is too big, this shouldn’t work, what the fuck are we doing.
And yet it worked out. Gloriously.
That cruise was reckless, oversized and allegedly irresponsible. It punched way above its weight and rebooted everyone involved. From that moment on, there was no going back.
We had reached, without realising it, a point of no return.