Ten days at sea. . .

We are sailing 300 nautical miles East from the delta of the Amazon river. We have been at sea for ten days without seeing land. Our universe is the boat, our 19 meter headquarters. That is where we live now. We hoist and lower sails, adjust them and keep an eye on the horizon for other boats. We cook and eat together, we sleep and we dream. On our night watches we sail under the stars and keep our heading in relation to the moon. We remember the sunset and wait for the sunrise. The wind cools our sunburned skin.

One morning, just as the sun was rising, a butterfly flew around the stern of the boat. (Was it born on board or was it blown here from some far-away place like Africa?) One night a tropical seabird tried to make a landing on deck to get some rest. An afternoon shearwaters followed us fishing in the shade behind the boat. They flew up in the air, looked for fish and landed like ducks slowing themselves down with their feet. Once in the water, they poke their heads down into the waves. How deep can they see? I wonder… and what do they see? I wish I could be in the water with them for a while and open my wings like a bird and start flying if sharks approach.

Dolphins and flying fish are as present in our lives as the sunset and the sunrise. We have learned about colors we didn’t know existed: blues of the ocean and the sky, silvery and yellowish shades of sunlight reflected on the water and rainbow-like ever-changing colors that separate days from nights. Salt sticks to our skin and hair. We develop callouses on our palms.

A day goes by and the night comes again. We raise our voices to sing in the wind. We dream while we sing. It is easy to imagine almost anything in the middle of the ocean surrounded by stars. We keep on sailing. Time exists less and less.