Gone Coastal (part II)

I jerk awake as adrenaline squirts into my veins. Have we hit something? A whale, a container, a crate of shoes? No. The thump is on the sole, not the hull. I take a long breath. Has something fallen? No. The boat is neither pitching nor yawing nearly enough to toss some heavy load onto the floor. I peek around my lee cloth to see the dark figure of the First Mate Eleanor pulling on her shoes, illuminated by her red flashlight. She has launched herself from the bunk above me to prepare for the change of watch, her third watch in 24 hours. She is covering for a mate stricken with seasickness.

Although the lee cloth obscures my view, there is no doubt that Eleanor is unhappy to be up at this ungodly hour. To shun her displeasure, I roll to face the hull and imagine at this moment a dolphin swooping in to investigate the sonic boom of her landing, slipping through the water inches from the hull, inches from my heart.  I return to sleep.

07:00

Beep-beep, beep-beep, beep. My dainty cell phone alarm easily awakens me. The berth is no longer pitch dark. I can see clearly in the low light, but the view of the tumble of clothes I nest among is without color. I sort through the pile that was tidy before I went to sleep, seeking my water-resistant pants. I arch my back, yank the zipper-less pull-ons over my hips and leave the privacy of my berth. I already wear a t-shirt, underwear and socks.

Once I open my lee cloth, I am game for all eyes on the boat. I am not concerned that anyone would care to look but more aware someone would be unwillingly exposed to a view of too much of my bare flesh. There is so little privacy: what is not stolen by our physical closeness, we strictly honor with unusual modesty. It may be tied to the fact that we all already stink to various degrees. I grab my toothbrush, toothpaste, baby wipes, clean underwear, comb and go to the head. A shower is a luxury that no one has yet considered. There is little time or room for preening, and with seventeen people aboard, there is a clear understanding of the demands for the two tiny heads. Three cold baby wipes used on the smelliest parts of my body take the place of a luxurious hot shower. I use the petite toilet, change my panties, wash my hands and face, brush my teeth and comb my hair. It looks better than usual. I am ready to greet the third day at sea.

I poke my head out greet the sailors on morning watch. There is thick fog, the sea raises and falls in silky slate colored mounds. It is cool. Water resistant pants are a good choice.

Breakfast is nearly ready. The smells from the galley remind me that I am hungry. My stomach pinches in anticipation of warm food but I must wait until the cook gives the nod. I pour myself a coffee, inhale its steamy fragrance and sit along side the hungry men who will join me on the forenoon watch.

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