Re-Fenestration

Somnambulism - 20 days at sea. All is quite constant, samey. We have not seen ship nor land in 17 days. There is S/V Alobar and the ocean.

Outside the ocean is cerulean blue in sunlight or metallic blue under clouds. There are two other species: Boobies fly above and Flying Fish fly below. (The fish appear like hummingbirds. Swarms of them cross our bow and die on deck. One flew through the hatch in my berth and flopped around to death in my bed as I slept. Re-fenestration perhaps?) The ocean is always there, always moving, to consider her is to consider how unwelcome one is.

On the boat a cacophony of clangs, thuds and creaks sound day and night. Yet, unlike a rail-side apartment, the sound cannot be ignored. One registers each noise. A clang awakens us from sleep to conjure an image of the Cunningham striking the mast, which means the main is spilling air, which means we have lost wind or course which precipitates a series of actions. For example. Sailing is a noisy affair which, for a better sailor than I, begets a certain conversation between her skipper and craft.

Damp and clammy. Everything is damp and clammy. The wooden doors and drawers have swollen shut. One's clothes and bedding are never dry -- sweat leaves salt, the air leaves salt, the sea leaves salt, salt holds moisture, we are sweating on the ocean in the rain. In this climate we sail an average of 4 knots -- that is to say the speed of walking. We are walking across the Pacific. --Rob