Vanishing point

Last night, there was a spectacular sunset, the kind that makes students crowd the rail to take pictures.  I was having dinner with friends and the conversation turned to how inadequate our pictures are.  The sea spreads out in front of us in all directions, our boat the only thing in sight.  Birds are occasional visitors, and today we were treated to flying fish.  They are a little like shooting stars, gone so quickly you aren't sure you really saw them.  They look like a dotted line in the water.  

The ocean is an incredible navy blue up close, and fades into the horizon seamlessly.  The sea is calm:  yesterday the wind was only one knot and the sea conditions almost imperceptible.  Both air and water are a balmy 84 degrees. 

Change is hard to gauge.  The sea is featureless, the days alternate between A and B, but days of the week have no meaning.  The ship goes slowly and steadily, night and day.

We crossed the equator sometime in the night.  It’s an imaginary line; there’s no yellow caution tape, no horns blaring.  We are pretending it didn’t happen, because our official Neptune Day celebration starts tomorrow morning.  

The ship’s noon report also tells us that we have traveled 10,000 nautical miles since San Diego.  Coincidentally, google maps tells us we are also 10,000 “crow flies” miles from San Diego.  That’s a lot of hours, moving along at a speed of 11-15 knots. 

On the bridge, the person at the helm has to press a button every 16 seconds to prove that he or she is awake.  Otherwise, sirens go off.  During the day, there are two people on the bridge.  At night, there are three.  It’s easy to get mesmerized.

Ten thousand miles.  It’s a little hard to take in.