At sea
November 2-3-4, 2013
I'd gone to bed so early the night before then slept remarkably late on this first day at sea. I woke to a luxurious feeling of impending relaxation. Three days at sea with no ports between Boston and St. Thomas. My goal was simple: do as little as possible.
By noon we were far out at sea, somewhere off the coast of Virginia and sailing south. The winds at been fierce the night before and had not abated today. The sea was menacingly rough and sky was slate grey. It was a good day to stay indoors, read, sit on the balcony and let this marvelous aquatic world go by.
But this foul weather was OK. We were heading south to places where light was white and days would be warm. By late afternoon we'd traveled 325 nautical miles. Already the air was warmer.
I had been reflective all day. Fifty years the day before was the day my grandmother died. Ten years ago before the day my cousin John got married to Tina in Lake Placid. A year earlier I'd just flown from Nepal to Bhutan. Oh, the excitement of that flight as we flew along the spine of the Himalayas, past Mt. Everest then swooped into the fabled kingdom of Shangrila.
But that was then,and a journey of that caliber would not be possible this year. I was grateful I'd been able to do it and know I'll be able to do it again.
Just not now.
By sunset the sea was still turbulent but clouds had begun to break. I sat for a long time on the balcony--my first ever on a cruise ship--and watched day turn to night. I felt the great ship push through the waves and marveled at the great expanse of sky and water. It would be something I never tired of.
November 2-3-4, 2013
I'd gone to bed so early the night before then slept remarkably late on this first day at sea. I woke to a luxurious feeling of impending relaxation. Three days at sea with no ports between Boston and St. Thomas. My goal was simple: do as little as possible.
By noon we were far out at sea, somewhere off the coast of Virginia and sailing south. The winds at been fierce the night before and had not abated today. The sea was menacingly rough and sky was slate grey. It was a good day to stay indoors, read, sit on the balcony and let this marvelous aquatic world go by.
But this foul weather was OK. We were heading south to places where light was white and days would be warm. By late afternoon we'd traveled 325 nautical miles. Already the air was warmer.
I had been reflective all day. Fifty years the day before was the day my grandmother died. Ten years ago before the day my cousin John got married to Tina in Lake Placid. A year earlier I'd just flown from Nepal to Bhutan. Oh, the excitement of that flight as we flew along the spine of the Himalayas, past Mt. Everest then swooped into the fabled kingdom of Shangrila.
But that was then,and a journey of that caliber would not be possible this year. I was grateful I'd been able to do it and know I'll be able to do it again.
Just not now.
By sunset the sea was still turbulent but clouds had begun to break. I sat for a long time on the balcony--my first ever on a cruise ship--and watched day turn to night. I felt the great ship push through the waves and marveled at the great expanse of sky and water. It would be something I never tired of.
Periodically, I’d see Venus—low and glittery in the night sky—until
clouds pushed it away.
By day’s end I’d managed to fulfill my goal of doing
nothing, but I was still exhausted and in bed by 10:00.
November 3, 2013 Off the coast of Bermuda
35˚
50’ N
For whatever reason I’m in a more than good sleeping
cycle. In the weeks before the surgery
and for more than a month afterwards I never slept well. So falling asleep to the roll and sound of
the sea than sleeping a full eight hours was a gift.
Long before I got out bed I knew we were in calmer
waters. We’d left the storm behind
us. I could barely hear the sea slap
against the ship’s hull. When I stepped
onto the balcony it was a clear and sunny day.
The sky was exaggerated and powerful clouds scuttled by. Small, frothy waves crested the surface of
the water. Gone were the angry 12 foot
swells we’d experienced for the past 36 hours.
It would be a fine day and I knew exactly how I’d
spend my time.
We were miles off the Atlantic seaboard, somewhere
east of the Carolinas. The ship’s log
said we’d traveled more than 700 nautical miles from Boston.
The day promised to be a classic day at sea, and
despite three pages of shipboard activities I was going to be loyal to my
promise to do as little as possible.
By late morning, after lingering over breakfast, with
Glenda, I found myself poolside. I slathered
sunblock on my pale skin and settled back to do little more than read, write,
people watch and gaze out at the endless expanse of sea and sky.
Earlier in the day two freighters, heading north, passed
the Norwegian Dawn, their decks piled high with large cargo containers. Just a few days earlier I’d read a travel book—Grounded by Seth Stevenson—about these
ships.
We each of us are our own container chip, transporting
our various cargoes through the ocean of life.
At ports along the way we may stop to pick up a new lover, a spouse, a
child. At other ports we unload precious
items—friends move away, relationships end, parents die.
Even when we’re lost in the deepest fog, we must try
to keep our watch, not to be the cause of ay tragic collisions—do what we can
to keep our cargo safe.
All around me on this sunny Sunday on the Atlantic
were passengers and crew alike—close to 3,000 souls--all precious cargo, each
with his own dreams, fears, sadness and joys.
At a very late dinner the night before we’d been
chatting with our waiter, Aristotle, from the Phillipines. I told him I imagined that there were all
sorts of dramas occurring below deck, drama we ass passengers never see.
He’d recently married a fellow crew member, but when
she got pregnant it was too difficult to continue the demands of shipboard
employ and returned to her family home.
I knew he missed her, and knew he mourned not being home for the birth
of his child.
‘I’m just one of the many dramas in the crew quarters,’
he smiled.
Earlier, Glenda had met woman—not yet 60—who been widowed
unexpectedly in March. They’d been
married on a cruise 25 years earlier and this was supposed to be their 60 to
each other for her 60th birthday which would be later in the
week. But she was doing this alone. She’s told Glenda she’d been trembling with
fear at the prospect.
The collective cargo on this ship—anniversaries,
birthdays, maybe a wedding or two, the recent loss of a loved one—was all
unknown to the majority of us.
None of us would know the cargo our neighbors onboard
were experiencing. All the more reason,
I reflected to walk gently with all we meet.
November 4, 2013
At day break I checked our coordinates: 25˚ N and 1,000 nautical miles south of Boston. We were on line with Key West, rapidly coming our of the Atlantic and into the warm Caribbean.
It was another beautiful day--clearer and sunnier than the day before. The calendar read mid-autumn but we'd returned to summer! Large white clouds sailed by briskly. I sat on the balcony and let this beautiful world go by--a seemingly endles stretch of sea and sky. Often, a frenzy of fish would break the water's surface.
By now the days were blurring. There'd been no landmarks to break up the voyage. It was warm. I could be in the Indian Ocean, it could be July or January depending on where I was in the world. I liked this!
Had I not had access to the 'Captain's Log' on your stateroom TV, there would be no way of taking stock of our progress. Hour after the ship sailed stolidly through the waves of a tranquil seas.
But we had made progress. By mid-afternoon we were at the 22nd parallel and more than 1,3000 miles from Boston. My skin, November pale when I'd boarded, was tanning.
For three days I'd not been bothered by allergies. For three days I did nothing more than sit by the pool.
Three days earlier I'd set a very low standard for myself and was proud, at day's end, to have accomplished all I'd set out to do.
Not much, and that was perfectely OK with me.
The next three days would be busy enough!
At day break I checked our coordinates: 25˚ N and 1,000 nautical miles south of Boston. We were on line with Key West, rapidly coming our of the Atlantic and into the warm Caribbean.
It was another beautiful day--clearer and sunnier than the day before. The calendar read mid-autumn but we'd returned to summer! Large white clouds sailed by briskly. I sat on the balcony and let this beautiful world go by--a seemingly endles stretch of sea and sky. Often, a frenzy of fish would break the water's surface.
By now the days were blurring. There'd been no landmarks to break up the voyage. It was warm. I could be in the Indian Ocean, it could be July or January depending on where I was in the world. I liked this!
Had I not had access to the 'Captain's Log' on your stateroom TV, there would be no way of taking stock of our progress. Hour after the ship sailed stolidly through the waves of a tranquil seas.
But we had made progress. By mid-afternoon we were at the 22nd parallel and more than 1,3000 miles from Boston. My skin, November pale when I'd boarded, was tanning.
For three days I'd not been bothered by allergies. For three days I did nothing more than sit by the pool.
Three days earlier I'd set a very low standard for myself and was proud, at day's end, to have accomplished all I'd set out to do.
Not much, and that was perfectely OK with me.
The next three days would be busy enough!
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