It should be a beautiful view for typing a blog, except that in front of me Steve is rowing in just shoes, t-shirt and sunhat. And I’m finding it hard to know what to write about, where to begin. For the things that are of importance to us four out here may be of no interest to the 7 billion of you out there. We have only been rowing for four days yet already I have a really strong sense of detachment, of having left the world behind. Perhaps that is why I have so enjoyed our visits from swooping petrels and the little jellyfish with sails that bob by, running on their way with the wind. I am not sure whether I resent or relish the modern technologies on board which diminish this sense of separation. But despite our satellite phone safety net, last night was an eerie, fascinating experience.The moon had not risen, cloud blurred the stars and there was not a breath of wind. If we stopped rowing there was complete silence. Our tiny boat was suspended 4000 metres above the sea floor with thousands of miles of ocean ahead of us before we reach our destination. I felt very small and very far from the world. But it was also a thrilling, crazy sensation to be in a little rowing boat out in an environment unchanged in millions of years.
Before we put to sea I made a pledge to myself, a promise to not form any opinions about the trip as a whole based on the first 72 hours. It was a smart move. For already we have moved beyond the vomiting, the confused stumbling, the near silent night time changeovers of shift, the strained faces, the chaotic cabin kit explosion and the waves crashing over the deck.
For then the wind died and the sun came out. Appetites and smiles returned. We turned up the music and had a cup of tea, chatting once again about how it feels to be out here at sea taking on this massive but exciting challenge.