Day 7: Pacific crossing
The seventh day at sea began with repairs:
By now, even the smallest task on the boat carried a strange weight to it. Nothing was simple out here. Tightening a line, checking a sail, repairing a damaged part of the bow, everything happened while the floor beneath your feet constantly moved, groaned, and resisted you. The ocean never stopped reminding you who was in control.
We spent part of the morning fixing the front section of the boat. Salt crusted on our hands. The wind carried spray across the deck in short violent bursts. And somewhere underneath the routine of passing tools and securing ropes, I noticed something else creeping back into my body.
Not the violent seasickness from the first days. Not the kind that leaves you bent over a railing, emptying yourself into the sea.
This was quieter.
Subconscious almost.
A strange heaviness sitting somewhere behind the eyes. A dull lethargy. The body adapting, but never fully relaxing. I had stopped taking seasickness pills today after relying on two, sometimes even three a day during the rougher first week. I wanted my body to find its own balance again. But maybe balance out here was an illusion.
After the repair was done, the boredom arrived again.
Not normal boredom. Ocean boredom.
The kind where time stretches unnaturally.
There is nothing except water. Endless water. No trees moving in the wind. No streets. No mountains in the distance. No feeling of progression except numbers changing slowly on a GPS screen.
One day feels like three.
The boat shakes constantly. Every movement, every step, every attempt to rest comes with another slam of a wave against the hull. The sound never stops. Creaking ropes. Crashing water. The low humming pressure of the wind. Even silence is loud out here.
And slowly, after a week together in a confined floating space, conversation itself becomes exhausting. Not because of conflict. Simply because my social battery feels empty.