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We landed in Saint George Harbor, Bermuda, in late May of 2002 after a boisterous and eventful five-day crossing from Norfolk, Virginia. There we met the crews of other eastbound sailing vessels, all closely monitoring daily weather forecasts. Every afternoon we gathered in a little waterside pub to talk about the 1800 miles of water that lay between Bermuda and the Azores. With varying degrees of credibility, we argued the significance of high and low-pressure systems, tropical depressions and gale tracks. Many were relatively new to extended passage making, but a few were seasoned by multiple crossings. Inexperienced or salty, it quickly became obvious that no one took a North Atlantic crossing lightly.

One veteran of six crossings took me aside, On the outside”, he whispered, “five-days’ forecast is the best you can possibly hope for. After that, there’s no telling what you’ll get. Be ready. At one point or another the wind will blow from every point on the compass. “Count on at least one gale—probably two. Save your fuel for the end. Chances are you’ll run into the Azores High where you could drift for a week.”

At last came the morning when the five-day forecast looked promising. Over the course of the next 24 hours more than twenty boats made their way out of “The Cut” and steered ENE. In the early afternoon breeze, Songline reached easily in the company of three or four other boats. We chatted on the VHF radio, glad to be underway after the long wait in Bermuda. As is always the case upon departure, the fears and trepidations that had plagued us while waiting to shove off, receded. We were sailing now.

As sunset approached we initiated the passage-making ritual that had become so familiar to us over the years. I set the watch schedule and tied up the lee cloths for the berths in the main salon. Joel laid out our harnesses and safety gear while Monica brewed hot drinks, and put comfort snacks within easy reach of the companionway. With everything at the ready, we settled in for our first night on-passage.

When daylight arrived on morning of the second day I scanned the horizon. We were alone in the North Atlantic with almost 1700 miles of ocean between our little ship and our next landfall in the Azores. During the days and nights that followed, the wind changed direction many times. The attitude of the sea varied from calm and pleasant to miserably contrary. We trimmed sails frequently and reefed and unreefed throughout the days and nights. I religiously monitored the weather on the SSB. Several times we changed course, steering to avoid gales to our north and tropical line squalls to our south. Unlike a trade wind passage, there was no routine to this crossing. We were always one edge, alert to every change in sky and sea.

We were about one week into the voyage when I calculated ourselves to be somewhere near the middle. As our separation from the hubbub of human industry neared its maximum I realized that my senses had become liberated from all shore side habits. Every aspect of my consciousness had become focused on my crew, the boat, and the sea and sky. This sustained unification of experience was something that I had only experienced before in the most fleeting of moments. A oneness of body, mind, and spirit took hold of me and wouldn’t let go. As I sat the 0200 watch there in middle, I remembered Adam, an older Polish skipper we first met at anchor in Huatulco, Mexico. Adam was a talker and after a little wine, he would spin stories until dawn. Late one evening he turned thoughtful. He locked my gaze. Marky”, he said, “at night, when I’m on passage, I sit out in the cockpit alone as can be, and “I can feel the whole world turning with me and my tiny boat atop it. That’s when I meet God.”

I suppose that’s why the late John Lennon, during a passage to Bermuda, wrote in his ship’s log, “There’s no place like nowhere”.

I hit the pause button for the last time.

In the “normal” world I had been consumed by busy-ness. I was always shifting roles, dancing from one set of expectations to another. When I did take a break, I filled my time with diversions like television, movies, books, or holiday tourism. It is true that some of us set aside a few moments to meditate or worship, but despite our best efforts, I think that the whole of our experience ashore is terribly fragmented by the demands and sheer complexity of modern life. At sea, experience and action are unified by the requirements of voyaging and this unification frees us from the folly of our own self-importance. I miss that feeling of wholeness and that makes me cranky.

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