27 days out from NZ. An essential timelessness prevails, events confronting us in disjointed, oddly isolated fashion. Events familiar, predicted even, but each with no real relation to what went before, what comes after. Oddly, it’s not really unpleasant. I wonder whether severe short term memory loss is like this.
But…but… with 1400 miles to go, I am beginning to get these faint auras, tiny miasmas of something other, something overwhelmingly different, exciting. I recall similar feelings as a child, in the weeks before Xmas. I admire Berrimilla’s efforts, but such self-imposed privation is not for me. For me a month at sea is more than enough. If there were islands down here I’d stop at each and every one of them – driven by curiosity, desperation, yearning for a fresh apple and man’s Eternal Quest for the Laundromat.
I’m having a socks and slippers evening. Dave’s been up on deck and says it’s cold, windy and black as pitch outside – no other bugger mad enough to be here. At 2300utc our position is 4145s/10632w. Dave’s now asleep. I’m at the chart table waiting confidently for the dough to rise and in vain for someone to phone.