5 am, my turn at the helm the sky above is a shimmering realm

on an endless velvet sea, we glide along though the night 

I know how insignificant I am and somehow that seems just right 

the wind like a lover whispers my name the sun kisses the horizon aflame

the sun’s coming up, another day at sea 

all is right with the world and me 

here and now this is just where I belong 

reaching silently into the dawn 

under a clear sky on a rolling sea 

where there’s time and room enough for me

Smell of baking bread coffee strong and hot there’’s nothing that I want that I haven’t got

I can’t think of any other way 

I would rather be greeting the day

-song lyrics from “The World and Me”, by Eileen Quinn

The last night of our passage coming into Beaufort, North Carolina, after 5 days from Cat Island in the Bahamas, was magical. They’re not all like this, of course, but I wanted to try to capture a bit of it in words. Unfortunately, the camera we have isn’t good in low light, so there are no photos at all that pertain to this particular post- you’ll just have to use your imagination.

The Big Dipper hangs low and faint off the port bow, handle up, pouring whatever its contents happen to be right into the town of Beaufort. It’s about 3 am. I’ve got another hour on watch before calling Jeremy up. I doubt I’ll go back to bed, though - we should be heading into the channel by 0530. 

We’re sailing along in flat water, making 5-6 knots over the ground in a bit more than 10 knots of wind. The wave noises along the hull mesmerize me, a rhythmic whooshing that coincides with the surge of the boat along the seas. There’s no need for an alarm to remind me to take a look around; I’m not doing anything other than marveling at how we’re moving. No podcast, no French lessons. Just tucked into the corner of the cockpit, eyes wide, watching it all.

Phosphorescence spins off the rudder, leaving a trail of glitter in our wake. Other sparks come off the side of the hull in a more random pattern. The light bits let me see our path through the water with immediate feedback. My world, lost in watching the glitter, is reduced to a boat-shaped blob that reaches out a couple of feet from the beam. There’s a bit of loom from the North Carolina coast but it’s not bright enough to obscure either the stars nor the phosphorescence, thank goodness.

Where’s the moon? I’ve been more aware this passage of the rapid change in both moon phase and the rise and set times. When we were on our way to Conception from Acklins, on April 20, the almost full moon was up before the sun completely went down, and it was hard to know where to look. Ahead at the sunset? Astern at the moonrise? Now, a bit over a week later, I’m watching for the almost-crescent moon to rise at almost 4 in the morning. Ah there it is, a glowing reddish sliver. Big enough to cast a path of light just to the starboard quarter. If we followed it, where would we go?

Moonlight on the water beckons, a watery shimmery guide to somewhere else. Heck with the Yellow Brick Road to Oz - instead, follow the moonlight to your dreams. I feel this way on the lake, too, when we try to take the kayaks into the moon itself. If Averill is my favorite place on earth, which it is, then being on night watch on a night like this, with the boat sailing gorgeously in flat water, clear skies, must be a close second.

All is right with the world and me indeed.