The day started early. I was dreaming of my former life, surrounded by friends and a plethora of Portland’s best micro brews. I was catching up with one of my best friends from college when I awoke suddenly to the engines rumbling.

My eyes were greeted by pink mist blazing through the Phuket sky. The sun was just making its appearance, glowing orange in the SE Asia haze. 

Dad had already pulled up the main when I stumbled into the galley.

Our course: 307 degrees NW to Port Blair, the biggest city in the Andaman Islands, India, 400 miles from Phuket, Thailand. At our current speed of 8 knots, it should take us approximately 48 hours to make the journey.

We start the sail with a full main and jib on a starboard tack. The true wind greets us at a 90-degree angle so we adjust our sails to a beam reach.

 Conditions are favorable; the sea rocks the boat gently. 

 Seachild croaks in contentment. After several days of boat maintenance and provisioning she’s been aching to stretch her canvas wings. She surges forward as she becomes one with the apparent wind and the breathing sea. 

 The child sighs in ecstasy. 

 We tend to think that the ocean is something separate from us, as this dislocated element that warrants no empathy or sympathy.

But the ocean lives; she breathes, inhaling and exhaling in each ripple and wave. She breathes life, existence, and reality. 

 She beacons home.

 A small pod of bottle nose dolphins say hello a few times throughout the day. They chase the flying fish, forcing them to flee the water to find temporary solace in the sky above.

The wind has left us for now so we are averaging 5.3 knots on full motors. At this rate we won’t make Port Blair until Monday at midnight. I don’t mind in the slightest. 

 The sea is calm; the water is peaceful as if in the midst of a meditative trance. 

 I love watching her breathe. 

The firing sun melts quickly into the arms of the sentient sea. He leaves behind wisps of condensation so we would not forget his plight. He leaves trails of sherbet orange and periwinkle blue, promising to return but abdicating the stage to the half-full moon. She glimmers brightly in anticipation for her night, for her moment to shine through the dark absence of the sun. 

She shimmers in silver trepidation.

She dances with the mast and the cobalt sea, her reflection a spotlight on the waterlogged stage. Around midnight she gracefully bows back to the horizon, the stars twinkling brightly in thunderous applause. 

The thunderous applause eventually fades to cheerful blinking. The Milky Way is a silver frost on the horizon while the Southern Cross stands attention. Pockets of clouds skew the glittering canopy, providing depth to the darkness.

On the third morning, 52 hours after leaving Phuket, I awake to the engines rumbling once again. The air smells like land, the musky aroma catching a ride on the NW wind. With Port Blair ahead, we begin a mad dash to tidy up the boat in preparation for the bureaucracy involved with entering a country on a catamaran. 

 In other words, we hurry up and wait.