Bracuhy, Baia da Ilha Grande.
There are long periods for reflection, when crossing an ocean. With other crew you don’t need to talk to yourself, not out loud anyway, but I found myself doing it all the time. The outside world has ceased to exist; politics, sport, world events, just don’t matter anymore. You may be faintly interested in what may be happening, but as it doesn’t affect you in any immediate sense, these things all get put to the back of your mind.
In my case, what came very much to the forefront, was the incredible vastness and majesty of the natural world, the breathtaking beauty of things we often take for granted, and our own utterly insignificant part in this universe. Certainly we are doing our best to screw our planet up as quickly as possible, but in the greater scheme of things the universe won’t even notice if Earth ceases to support life.
Back home, my nocturnal visit to empty my bladder usually times itself to allow me a view of the Southern Cross through the window above the toilet, and there she is, sorted of laid on her side. By comparison, sitting alone on watch from 02h00 to 04h00 on a crystal clear and moonless night, and you struggle initially to pinpoint those same five stars. The pointer stars are much easier to see, and they help confirm that you’re looking in the right space, but the sheer number of faint stars that make up the Milky Way along with their brighter companions, and which even in Pringle Bay are invisible to the naked eye, literally smother out the familiar ones. I thought I’d experienced seeing clear night skies, but this is on another level altogether. Perhaps it’s the fact that you’re getting literally half the night sky, unimpeded by any land or manmade structures. Add in the view you get of the moon, in all it’s phases, and it’s an experience you’ll want to repeat again and again.
The title to this piece starts with the word Sunsets, so perhaps it’s time to get to the point. Sunrise and sunset seem to be the time that the whole crew was awake and together. Breakfast and sundowners certainly had something to do with that, but I have another idea. There’s something magical about sunrise and sunset, some sort of transition. Of the two, generally the sunsets were far more beautiful. Sunrise was peaceful, calm, and slow. Sunset by comparison, was vivid, aflame, and spectacular. Many an evening I’d scuttle off to fetch my camera before the moment passed, and many of my attempts to capture the drama were utterly pathetic. Once I work out how to post pics, I’ll present a couple of my better and more artistic efforts, but don’t hold your breath. The sunsets were always worth waking for, despite sleep being important too. Sunrise happened behind you on this voyage, and was less colourful. I did enjoy the warmth it brought, and standing at the wheel, you could start rebuilding the suntan that autumn had taken away.
Not quite Heavenly Bodies, but certainly skimming across the heavens, were the number of satellites passing overhead. Some jumped out at you, others required watching a segment of the sky for a while before you picked them up, but there are plenty up there. Asteroids, or shooting stars, or whatever they are, were also an almost continual occurence, certainly when I was on watch. Some were brief, some covered a large range, but most seemed to attract your attention without your having to look for them. At one point it occured to me that I’ve probably got more chance of being hit by something from space, than Shoestring hittting a semi-submerged container or big floating object.
Time to go now, there’s a gin and tonic calling my name (tip – a slice or two of lime is better than lemon).
Bye,
The Skipper.
Shoestring Diaries 