It absolutely does not feel like we've been doing this for a week. We have barely gotten anywhere. Right now the water is like mirror; perfectly still and reflecting the sky above, which is better ugly with the moon illuminating the clouds. The beauty makes it easy to forget the frustration of not moving.
Day 5
It was a sleepy day. We started moving well at the end. My confidence on the boat grows every day, which is new despite having been traveling for almost a year. It's because there are no distractions and since we are on the boat every minute of every day, I suddenly find myself genuinely interested in how everything works and I want to be a part of it.
Mars rises up from the horizon every night on my watch. It differs from the other stars and planets dramatically with its deep orange color. It's magical.
Day 4
I'm starting to become familiar with the stars. I've learned some new constellations: Scorpio, Libra, Pegasus, but even the ones that stand on their own are becoming reliable companions during watch. The first two nights didn't have a moon, but now it's a glowing crescent that forms an infinite pathway of light through the water behind us. We're going south. It's not supposed to be this way, but the weather isn't following its normal patterns, which is frustrating. Luckily, Herby has studied so much that he knows what to do. Moral is low when the wind dies. Herby and I are trying to stay positive. Frank is very impatient, but perfectly pleasant when we are moving at an acceptable pace. I think seeing his attitude helps me improve mine in order to make up for it. My biggest regret is not downloading more podcasts.
Day 2
We're finally moving at a good pace. The wind was so light today that we put up Dill, but he was limp as often as he was full, so we barely moved. We have to eat all of our veggies before they go bad. I made Avocado chicken, which was easy because there was no wind.
I'm watching. I'm watching the compass, I'm watching the time, the speed, the lights of other boats on the horizon. I'm watching the stars multiply inside the black dome that comes down on all sides, uninterrupted. I'm
Watching the bioluminescence twinkle past the boat. They're too fleeting to be reminiscent of stars in the black waves. They're like glitter caught by a moving light. They remind me that that black ocean is alive and we are skimming over it oblivious to all of the life existing 3,000 feet below the keel.
Day 1
Today I walked to the bow of the boat and looked forward. Forward was East. The ocean stretched out in front of us like an infinite blue blanket being shaken over a bed: billowing and settling into place, and then billowing again. And the reality set in that we weren't going to stop until we got to the other side. That was a new feeling. I let it rise from my stomach to my head to make peace with it. And I looked back at our beautiful boat with all of her red sails pulled taught, and Frank and Herby were sitting in the cockpit tossing peanut shells over the side, and I knew that we could do it and that we would be fine.
I have first watch tonight. There is silent lightening. It's not menacing lightening. We're going almost 6 knots with the trisail and there are the lights of another boat far off the starboard bow. I don't feel alone.
