Sunday Oct. 184:56AM. First light. Wind in the mid-20s, driving a course of 230-235 ... it does not escape me that this is the approximate course from California to Hawaii.
But the bright stars of the Southern Cross are nestled in the crook where the clew of the double-reefed main meets the boom. We're at 38-50S LAT 57-30W LON; 929 miles to the Straits of Magellan, and at our current rate of speed, will be there in a week.
I am not the sort of person usually up at this hour (yawn). I am the sort of person who always - ALWAYS - wakes up with my very first thought of the day being: 'Now WHY do I have to get up now???' Whether it's an alarm, or someone waking me up; my reaction is always the same*and rarely (actually,
NEVER) do I leap out of bed without first pondering whether it is absolutely truly unequivocally critical that I arise at that particular moment (*crying babies excluded).
Thus far I have stood five watches on XPLORE .
Friday 1pm-7pm; 11pm-3am
Saturday 7am-1pm; 7pm-11pm
Sunday 3am-7am
.. and with each one I have woken with a groan (not audible, I hope). And each time, as I pull on my fuzzies, brush my teeth, and gear up to go on deck, I am mentally calculating what (chores) I have to do and how many hours it will be before I can crawl into my bunk again.
But then . you're on deck, the sky is sapphire blue, and a pair of black browed albatross skim by, and you marvel at how 10 minutes pass without them flapping a single beat. And a petrel dances around the boat and - as if to facilitate identification - tips his wings to show the splotches of
pattern that confirm: 'Yup, he's a Cape Petrel' (also called 'Pintado'). And you realize you'd never get to see stuff like this if you just stayed in bed.
XXOO ~ Betsy 42-04S 59-43 W
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