I stand there in the cockpit, a soft wind caressing my cheeks. The ocean is growing calm, the sun breaks through the clouds, the water on deck evaporates, and the floor is slippery. When the ocean is peaceful, mirroring the sky like this, I could be anywhere on earth—nothing about the ocean here, about the sky, tells me that I’m located on the North Sea. The surface is identical here and in the Pacific Ocean. An ocean is an ocean is an ocean, until you go beneath the surface. It is then that you will see the species, the seabed, hollows and seamounts, which make every ocean unique, the way mountain formations and animal life on land create the variations and characteristics of different regions. The surface of the ocean is the sky for the underwater world, above high mountains and deep valleys, for thousands of creatures we have never seen.

I tear myself away, walk on deck, over to the mast, put my feet on the mast rungs, and climb upward, two-thirds of the way up. It’s easy to loosen the halyard from the crosstrees. I look down—the deck is small below me. There is just water everywhere, the horizon, the sky—and the only thing I have is this boat.

Blue, my Blue, I think immediately, you saved me when I couldn’t save myself, you took over when I couldn’t take any more. But then I shake it off, snort to myself, how sentimental, it’s just a boat, just aluminum, plastic, and fiberglass, wood and ropes. I am the skipper, this is a skilled profession. I would never have managed had it not been for an entire lifetime of experience.

I climb down again and go inside. Everything is in disarray—cupboards and drawers I thought I’d secured have opened, knives and forks have been thrown across the floor. I have to clean up, but first I must check my position. I have no power—the fuse box may have short-circuited. I should troubleshoot, but can’t bring myself to do it. I hate the small shocks I sometimes get and perhaps it will dry out on its own. I must bank on that, I’ve experienced it before, I just have to wait until the sun and the air do their job, once again prevailing over the water.

Map, pen, paper, and sextant—I bring all of it up into the cockpit. I look at the clock—exactly 1306 hours. I check the tables, gauge the position of the sun, find the degree of longitude. I know how to do this too. I am clever, I think, I am clever, there’s nothing wrong with telling myself that I’m clever.

But it takes time. Good God, what painstaking work—it’s been a long time since I have used these ancient methods, but finally I establish the degree of latitude and a position.