1,000 miles

Yesterday morning just before 0600 local time, our trip log reached 1000 nautical miles. While I peeled carrots in the galley later that day, this number kept sloshing around in my thoughts. I began to consider the personal ground I've covered in these 1000 nautical miles.

At mile zero, tethered to the dock in Honolulu, I had no idea what happened when you hauled on a braille or a clewline. At mile 1000, I know that if you do a heave to maneuver and you're still making two knots of forward progress, you have to double gybe again and sheet in hard after the first one to reduce the lift generated by the jib and stays'ls, and make sure the cow of the jib is resting against the forestay.

At mile zero, I was ravenous for knowledge. I wanted to know the name and function of every line and be able to convert between degrees and cardinal directions without looking at the chart. At mile 1000, I am much more invested in learning about and supporting my shipmates. As it turns out, the parts of a sail rarely make you laugh until your ribs feel like they might snap.

At mile zero, I was so concerned about getting enough sleep, anxious that without enough of it, I'd have no energy to learn and socialize and be a competent sailor. But I know now that energy on the Seamans doesn't just come from a proper night's sleep and a full stomach - it's granted in spurts that rain down on you just when you need it most. It surges when I stand lookout at the bow in the dead of a moonless night, and the gentle exhales of giants surfacing all around me sends tingles through my fingers. It bubbles up when a rainbow kisses the sea just a few dozen meters ahead of me while I take a deck shower. It rushes through me when I step on the deck to find the sky looking up at me, the sunset's golds printed onto the dimpled waves. It spikes when, on a quiet, sleepy dawn watch, a flying fish launches out of the water, ricochets off Diego's stomach, and flops onto the deck.

At mile zero, home was far away, present only in the pictures and letters of my loved ones taped to the ceiling of my bunk (that I do in fact smack my head on every time I sit up). At mile 1000, those pictures still represent home, and I look at them for a few minutes every night before turning off my light. But at mile 1000, home is beginning to seep into the floorboards of the Seamans too. I catch whiffs of it in group workouts at the bow, when a big roll sends us flying into one another in a knot of limbs and laughter. I sense it in the moments where I speak without thinking beforehand. I feel it in my ability to joke with my shipmates, watch officers, and even professors. I hear it in the guitar and ukulele plucking at all hours of the day, and in the temporary tattoo parlor that pops up in the salon after dinner.

We're only 1000 nautical miles in, with more than that to go. And so while in less than a month, I'll be flying home, I know that by that time, I'll be leaving home behind here too.

Lilah McCormick