Lumpy gray seas reflect the sunless skes, too overcast to cast a shadow. Our cockpit cushions have a light salt grit from waves that slapped the hull and splashed over the coamings last night. The sea state has eased considerably from our first day, so I cooked a hearty breakfast for the crew/family of eggs, bacon and potatoes. We've all shaken the "blahs" that often accompany the first days of a passage as our bodies adjust to the constant motion. A few squares of dark chocolate, usualy reserved for the wee hours, find their way into my morning watch.
Niall and Jamie in the cockpit- bundled up, but still refusing to condescend to socks.
The children have slid easily into their passage routine as Jamie and I have slid into ours. Their quiet times spent reading or listening to audiobooks are interspersed with rambunctious wrestling in the aft cabin's big bunk. We shift watches in a seamless rhythm found through trial and error over thousands of sea miles.
Late at night, leaning over the binnacle and looking astern, I can just make out the phosphorescence that marks our path. Clouds obscure the stars and no moon shed light, making this the inkiest of nights I can remeber at sea. We charge along at well over hull speed, surving down the front of three meter wave fronts. Without light to expose our surroundings, the feeling of speed is magnified and exhilarating.