A worrying piece of acclimatisation -
My cabin temperature is 74 degrees,
23.5 degrees centigrade
And I feel cold.
AND THERE IS GAZING AT THE SEA
And there is gazing at the sea.
It only affects some of us
But there is no end to it.
What is its endless fascination?
It isn't fear,
hope,
expectation
it is just itself.
Earlier I found I had been sitting in the same place for many minutes and I had done nothing. Just ideas of what I might do had passed through my brain - I thought of going to the toilet, going on deck, cleaning the lenses, doing my washing. But I had not moved.
Perhaps this is the way seamen and others get through these immense weeks, just by slowing into a reflective mental morass.
But my life is messy because I endeavour to avoid passing the time, just getting through, putting another day behind me. Because a little thought reminds us what we have to look forward to at the end of this trail of days.
I have wondered
what the captain and crew think of the passengers
especially such a ragtail bunch as us
I have noticed
that morale amongst the passengers
goes down in proportion to expectation of events
perhaps the crew look to us
for a vicarious belief in the meaningfulness of time scales
that there is some reality and significance in travel
we become the visitors in a kind of hell
the curse of the Flying Dutchmen,
of the Ship of Fools
that nothing is achieved
that there is nowhere left to go
just another routine of unbelievable length and time
to paint all nothing
we are the prince ex machina in a fairytale
with no one to kiss.
what does travelling mean to me
do I like travelling
it focuses things I feel to be important
living lightly, having tasks and achieving them
within imaginable times
and it confronts me with things
I feel I should confront
talking to people
communicating without qualifications
taking away the choice to stand aloof
without testing assumptions
and I feel I should see the world
if I can't do anything else
all these things I have heard about
and pictures I have been shown
I know there is excitement in placing yourself amongst them
of living within them
of coping with them
but I miss home
and I used to wonder if that would be true
and I miss my family
who don't judge me as harshly
as I deserve
and my friends
not all of whom like me very much
but whatever I am
I can be it here
it can carry me around
defend me
cope for me
write and communicate
that is more than just getting by.
that is some of what travel means to me
do I like travelling?
it passes the time
but so much time
and this time is so long.
Who was the little man
who always smelt of scotch
the expensive sad giveaway
at the wrong time of day?
He would give tips and comments
that were always useful
balding, small, buff and brown
but who was he
that made this anonymous, lasting impression?
2125: I have rejigged the teabag ration to take account of the extra days. This pen is dying.
1615 LT 23/10/04
N12 14.709 W75 04.45
19.4Kn 74T
ETA 11.11 25/10/04
1615: After tea I went to the bridge and chartroom. The navigational news is bad. At that time we were not yet at the cape where we would begin to backtrack our route from Guadeloupe. There was an ETA on the navigational instruments - 1111 on the 25th! That means another whole day like this, not yet on the way home but with nothing certain to look forward to. After all, portents don't look good for going ashore in Guadeloupe, though I'm going to do my damnedest to make sure it happens.
This also means we won't be in Britain until 4th November and I would dearly love to be home by the following weekend (6th and 7th). That is going to be tight. It would be a shame to go halfway round the world and back and then die on the M27.
The bright side is that we would be in Point-a-Pitre on a Monday rather than Sunday. If I can get some shopping done all might be redeemed at the last moment. The past week and a half would be fine as long as I know postcards are on their way.
I noticed Robert eyed very warily
one of these strange double insects I photographed on the ship in Turbo.
I prefer to hear high temperatures expressed in centigrade degrees
It doesn't seem so hot that way.
The heat of Costa Rica seemed easier than the sun of Marrakesh
which punished every error with confusion
42 degrees centigrade with 95% humidity
and I went for a walk
without any water
and enjoyed it.
Is the change in me or the heat?
Does my body now have heat in its vocabulary?
Or are the tropics kinder than the mountain or desert?
Every night: dreams of ships
Solo voyages on huge vessels
Phantom passengers -
A secret community we have not yet discovered.
Every broken night this world keeps a tight grip on me
No escape
No rest.
1500. More dolphins, or perhaps whales. They were black with dorsal fins, travelling in the opposite direction to us off the port side. They were already passing aft when I saw them so by the time I fetched Peter, who is desperate to see sea mammals, they were out of sight.
1000: Dolphins! At last. In two waves of perhaps 10 bottlenoses coming from the south, leaping from the water in pairs and threes to dive beneath the ship. They didn't hang around to play though. They seemed at least as purposeful as us.
0820: Ever since we left Moin yesterday it has been cloudy. The sea has turned lumpy - Peter told me he could not sleep - and has gone an almost North Atlantic black. It's like a rehearsal for what comes later: autumn.
The sun is breaking through now.
Today promises to be an empty day.