Time, Rhythm, and Life At Sea

“Far Across the Western Ocean I Must Wander”

 

All For Me Grog Lyrics

 

Wind Surf Transatlantic Sailing Day 5

 

Slow Travel at Sea

 

The ocean holds a powerful place in the human imagination. Even now, in an age of satellites, GPS, flight tracking, and instant communication, the sea remains wild, remote, and in many ways unknown. We often hear that we know more about parts of the solar system than we do about the deepest places on our own planet, and whether or not that comparison is precisely measurable, it captures something that feels true. The ocean still resists us. It cannot be fully mapped from the surface. It changes by the minute. It can be unpredictable.  And it hides more than it reveals.

 

Perhaps this is why sea journeys and narratives have always carried such symbolic weight. In The Odyssey, Odysseus does not simply travel across water and return home unchanged. He is delayed, tested, transformed, and almost lost from the very thing he most wants to reach. The sea becomes not only a means of travel, but a place of unmaking and remaking. It strips away certainty, interrupts intention, and forces the traveller to confront what remains when plans are no longer enough.

 

In some ways, that is how we had been feeling, too. Not heroic, and definitely not mythic, but lost from ourselves in so many ways. Too much noise, too much worry, too many decisions put off, too much of our lives spent reacting rather than living. To set out across the ocean again was not only to travel from Sint Maarten toward the Azores and Lisbon. It was to move closer to something more elemental. Water, wind, weather, food, sleep, conversation, music, and the slow passage of time began to feel like the essential facts of life again.

 

Slow travel, after all, is not defined only by walking. We have often understood it through trails, pilgrimage routes, rail journeys, and long days spent moving between towns under our own power. But at its heart, slow travel is about the pace at which one experiences the world. It is about attention. It is about intention. It is about allowing yourself to see the world, to be in the moment, and to allow distance to mean something.

 

At sea, that slowness takes a different form. You are not measuring the day by steps or kilometres walked, but by watches, meals, light, wind direction, sea state, and the \ shift of the ship across a vast blue space. The body does not have to push forward, but the mind still travels. Perhaps that is what makes an ocean crossing such a powerful form of slow travel. It moves you steadily onward while giving you almost nothing to do but notice and reflect.

 

Morning and Breakfast

 

This morning felt like another gorgeous beginning to our fifth day at sea aboard Wind Surf, as we continued toward Ponta Delgada in the Azores and then, weather and circumstance willing, Lisbon. Through the porthole, the sea was a brilliant blue, with only small-looking swells moving across the surface. Almost as soon as I looked out, I spotted a flying fish, which felt like the Atlantic offering its morning greeting.

 

When I made it up on deck, the sun was still partly hidden behind a bank of cloud, sending long golden fingers down toward the water. Sunrise brought streaks of pink and red across a blue sky, while the clouds behind the ship glowed softly as shafts of light broke through ahead of us. The water around Wind Surf remained unusually calm, almost free of waves or noticeable swell, and soon the surface began to glitter in the morning light.

 

I have come to believe that there are colours at sea for which we have no proper names for yet. The water reflected pale yellow, blue, silver, and something else altogether, a shifting tone that existed only for a few minutes and only from that particular angle. Watching light play across open water is one of my favourite parts of sailing. It is also one of the hardest to describe accurately. The mind wants to name it, compare it, and define it, but some things can only be experienced. They resist description and translation.

 

Before long, a bright path of light stretched from the eastern horizon toward the bow of Wind Surf, as though the morning had briefly drawn a road across the water for us to follow.

 

We stepped into Veranda for our usual breakfast of muesli, fresh fruit, detox smoothie, and coffee. The café was surprisingly quiet, and we had already noticed the absence of many early morning walkers doing their usual laps around the deck. Perhaps the time change had taken its toll and tuckered everyone out. As with hiking trails, we often find that day four or five of a new adventure is more challenging than most, when the energy of discovering a new routine is starting to wear down and the extra effort and excitement of starting a new journey are beginning to make themselves felt.

 

Whale Surveys and Water Watching

 

After breakfast, we moved to the side of the ship and completed an hour-long ORCA survey. Sean briefly spotted a small all-brown seabird, possibly a Sooty Shearwater, but it vanished into the sun’s glare before he could get a photograph. I counted twenty-one flying fish during the hour, though I felt sure we had seen many more leaping during breakfast when I was not formally counting. Once again, despite the relatively calm sea and the near absence of whitecaps, we did not spot any marine mammals.

 

Partway through the morning, a band of rain showers pushed across the ship, soaking the decks and me along with them. I attempted to limit the soaking by taking refuge near the front of the ship behind a windbreak, which turned out to offer very little protection from the weather moving sideways across the Atlantic. The shower passed quickly, as these squalls often do, and in its wake a glorious, well-defined rainbow arched over Wind Surf and across the sky.

 

There is something about rainbows at sea that feels especially improbable. On land, they often appear framed by hills, rooftops, fields, or trees. At sea, they seem to rise from nowhere and return to nowhere, spanning an emptiness that is not empty at all. This one briefly joined sky, ship, water, and weather into a single moment of colour, and then, like so much else out here, they fade away.

 

When the survey ended, we stayed on deck a while longer, relaxing in the sunshine and cooler air. It was not cold by any means, but as on our previous crossing, the air had taken on a different quality. We had left the heat of the Caribbean behind, and I found myself thinking that we could once again feel Europe somewhere in the wind.

 

Second Survey and Plastic in the Sea

 

For our second survey, we stood near the aft of Wind Surf, watching the ship’s wake and scanning the surrounding water. Again, no whales appeared. What we did see, however, was plastic. 

 

Pieces of garbage drifted past in the open sea: small, scattered, unmistakably human remnants moving through a place that otherwise felt vast and wild. It was not a dramatic island of trash, and in some ways that made it more unsettling. The North Atlantic garbage patch is associated with the North Atlantic Gyre, where currents can concentrate human-made marine debris, much of it plastic and microplastic, across broad areas rather than into one visible floating island. NOAA-linked research and long-term Sea Education Association sampling have helped document plastics in this region of the Atlantic, with debris accumulating through ocean circulation patterns rather than remaining close to where it entered the water.

 

Seeing it from the deck was sobering. We had been thinking so much about clearing our minds, shedding stress, and releasing the clutter of our minds behind us. Yet here we were, sailing through a part of the ocean where the world’s discarded material also gathers. The metaphor was almost too obvious, but that did not make it less true. Human beings shed what we do not want to carry, but much of it does not disappear. It collects somewhere: in the sea, in the body, in the mind. Here, the ocean reminded us that discarding is not the same as fixing. What is thrown away without care may simply gather elsewhere.

 

Perhaps the work is not only to shed, but to understand what must be released, what must be repaired, and what must be preserved. That thought would return later in the day as we thought about ships, renovation, and renewal. Not everything worn or weathered should be abandoned. Some things are worth restoring.

 

Practical Tasks

Eventually, we headed inside so Sean could upload photos and edit his journal. While in the cabin, we also sorted our laundry and sent it off for washing. On a journey of this length, Windstar Cruises provides a free laundry service, which is a surprisingly meaningful luxury. It is practical, of course, but it also contributes to the sense that life on board has become a temporary domestic rhythm.

 

In our experience, the laundry returns folded with almost intimidating precision, with small tags noting the cabin number, and are placed inside white garment bags. Clothes that would be lucky to survive a normal wash-and-fold situation at home suddenly come back treated with more dignity than many formal outfits receive in ordinary life. There is something both humorous and lovely about that.

 

Even the mundane tasks of living are transformed at sea in ways we could never have expected.

 

Captain’s Noon Announcement

At noon, the captain’s daily announcement placed us once again on the map. We had sailed 943 nautical miles since leaving Sint Maarten and were travelling at 10.2 knots over approximately 4,000 metres of water. The temperature was 21 degrees Celsius, the wind was blowing at 25 knots, and the seas were around three metres. To my mind, these were very pleasant conditions: enough movement to feel like an ocean crossing, but not enough to make life difficult.

 

The nautical fact of the day focused on Wind Surf’s sails. She has five masts and seven sails: the jib, the mizzen, and five mainsails. Each sail is enormous, weighing around 1,100 pounds, with a lifespan measured in only a handful of years and a replacement cost high enough to make one appreciate every unfurled sheet of canvas. Given the number of questions the bridge had likely received after we spent the previous day under full sail, it was an appropriate topic.

 

Hearing those details made the sails feel less like decoration and more like labouring parts of the ship. They are beautiful, certainly, especially when filled with wind against a blue sky, but they are also practical, heavy, and expensive.  Like so much aboard Wind Surf, their romance is inseparable from the labour required to keep them functioning.

 

Lunch at Veranda

Shortly after the noon announcement we headed to Veranda for lunch, which was delicious as usual.  There is nothing quite like eating fresh salads while sitting in the shade out on deck, enjoying the sea breeze and watching flying fish leaping and jumping in the royal blue ocean. 

 

For all my reflections on returning to essentials and questioning the modern world, there is no denying that some forms of human innovation are very enjoyable. A shaded deck, a well-prepared lunch, a stable table, clean water, a beautiful ship, and the ability to watch the Atlantic pass while someone else has done the cooking all belong firmly in that category.

 

Hot Tub with Atlantic Views

After lunch, we headed to the hot tub and spent a lovely hour soaking in warm salt water on the back deck of the ship. The pool and hot tubs aboard Wind Surf are filled with salt water, which somehow feels appropriate. Even in the tub, the sea remains part of the experience.

 

The ship was rocking gently, however, and this made it difficult for me to stay seated. I kept floating toward the surface and migrating around the tub with the movement of the water, which was undignified but also rather funny. There are worse problems to have than being unable to remain properly seated in a saltwater hot tub in the middle of the Atlantic.

 

Mostly, we just soaked, talked, watched the water around the ship, and enjoyed the warmth. Stepping out into the wind at the aft of the ship was another matter entirely. The contrast between hot water and cool sea air was sharp enough to wake us fully from our lazy afternoon state, but even that felt part of the pleasure. Warmth, cold, salt, wind, and laughter all belonged to the same hour some days.

 

Afternoon Enrichment

At two o’clock, we headed inside for Wayne White’s talk, “The Great Seafarers.” Rather than offering a standard history lecture organized around dates, routes, and achievements, he chose to humanize the explorers themselves. Leif Erikson, Vasco da Gama, Vasco Núñez de Balboa, Francis Drake, and Captain Cook appeared not merely as names attached to voyages, but as complicated, ambitious, difficult people who pushed into the unknown and often beyond acceptable boundaries as well.

 

It was a useful reminder that exploration has never been simple. These individuals crossed oceans, opened routes, expanded geographical knowledge, and altered the course of history. They also participated in violence, conquest, exploitation, and acts that cannot be separated from the larger imperial systems they served. Many went astray ethically as well as geographically. Many came to grim ends.

 

And yet, listening to Wayne, it was difficult not to feel that most of them would still have chosen the risk over staying home. That does not excuse what they did or make their legacies simple. It does suggest something unsettling and persistent in human nature: the desire to go outward, to test limits, to seek what lies beyond known horizons, even when that impulse carries both wonder and harm.

 

Sea Shanties with Elaine

After the talk, we headed up to Compass Rose for another session of learning sea shanties from Elaine Eagle.  The sun was out, the sea was almost flat, and it was wonderful to sit in the open air and sing pirate songs.  

I imagine we lacked the raw grit and gruffness of actual pirates, but I’d like to think that we were singing the songs in the environment where they belonged.  I also think there is something about creating music and raising our voices together in song that feeds the soul, and we thoroughly enjoyed it.

We had been intending to head inside afterwards for a talk on Modern Pirates by the bridge crew, but it was a simply glorious afternoon.  

The thought of sitting inside the darkened Lounge when the weather was so pleasant was simply too much, and we ended up staying outdoors, simply basking in the expansive beauty of a sunny afternoon in the middle of the North Atlantic.

Sometimes the best decision on a ship is to abandon the schedule.

 

Evening Sunset and Dinner

 

Refreshed and changed for the evening, we returned to Compass Rose to watch the sunset. The sky turned gold first, then deepened into orange before blooming into vibrant pink. Each evening at sea seems to find a slightly different way to end the day. 

Some sunsets are dramatic, others subtle and tender, but they all feel magnified by the absence of land. There is nothing to block the light, nothing to distract from the horizon, and no reason to look away.

 

With that said, eventually we went inside for dinner at Amphora. As usual, it was delicious. I had spinach pearl couscous, while Sean chose lasagna al forno. I finished with espresso tiramisu, which I loved.

 

After a day of saltwater, sunshine, surveys, singing, and lounging, the meal felt indulgent, though I am not sure what exactly one has to do to earn tiramisu on a sea day beyond being lucky enough to be there.

 

Candlelight Concert with Elaine Eagle

After dinner, we sat in the Lounge for Elaine Eagle’s candlelight concert. Dozens of soft yellow candles covered the stage floor, and the backdrop showed the interior of a stone cathedral, complete with dark wooden ceiling and stained-glass windows that looked as though they belonged somewhere in Europe. The lights in the Lounge were dimmed, and for a while the ship seemed to become part concert hall, part chapel, part theatre, and part floating refuge.

 

Elaine played piano and sang with a voice that carried astonishing range and power. We had discovered last year how talented she was, with a voice that rivals Adele’s in power and range. Yet this performance still felt special.

 

The music filled the candlelit space, creating a truly magical performance that was part cathedral, part ocean, part classical music, and part popular songs.

 

Outside, the Atlantic moved around us. Inside, the room glowed with music and artificial candlelight, creating one of those shipboard moments that is difficult to explain without making it sound overly sentimental.

 

Evening at Compass Rose

Afterward, we made our way back out into the dark and windy night toward Compass Rose. To our surprise and delight, we have met six lovely people from Newfoundland on this voyage, and that evening we spent several enjoyable hours chatting with them on the back deck.

 

Given our current uncertainty about where we should live next and what we should do with the time remaining to us, these evenings felt pointed. Newfoundland has already played such a large role in our lives. It was where our 18,000 km Trans Canada Trail journey began in earnest, where the East Coast Trail first tested and welcomed us, and where wildness, weather, kindness, and difficulty arrived together in ways we have never forgotten. Now, in the middle of the Atlantic, surrounded by people from that island, it felt as though the universe was sending a rather unsubtle reminder.

 

Perhaps the wildness and friendliness of Newfoundland have been calling to us for longer than we have admitted. Perhaps it is time to listen.

 

As we eventually headed inside for the night, we spotted the faint red light of another ship passing along the horizon. Above us, the astronauts aboard Artemis II had circled the moon and were preparing to return to Earth. We were not quite alone out here, despite the solitude the voyage provided. Somewhere beyond the darkness, other vessels moved. Somewhere far above, others were travelling too.

 

Reflecting on a day aboard Wind Surf

 

Today had entertainment, enrichment, music, conversation, terrific meals, whale surveys, and long stretches of time. That last part may be the rarest luxury of all. Time. Not empty time, exactly, but time just spent relaxing. Time that does not demand immediate use or to be filled up. Time in which thoughts can settle, attention can remain focused, and the mind can begin to sort itself out.

 

Many people do not enjoy that kind of time. It can feel uncomfortable at first, especially when daily life has trained us to equate value with output. But at sea, unscheduled hours become part of the crossing’s gift. You can watch light move across water. You can count flying fish. You can sing badly and happily into the wind with abandon. You can sit in a hot tub, listen to music, talk with strangers/friends from Newfoundland, or simply stand at the railings and let the ocean do its work.

 

There is no denying that today we have not accomplished much in the usual sense. But we lived the day. We inhabited it. We let it pass through us without needing to turn every moment into evidence of productivity.  And it was wonderful.

 

Perhaps that is what shipboard and seafaring rhythms offer when we let it. Not escape from life, but a return to it. Time is measured not by alerts, deadlines, sirens, or headlines, but by sunrises, meals, weather, music, light, and the movement of a small ship crossing the ocean.

 

See you on board!

 

Nautical Term of the Day – Watch - A shift of time aboard a ship.