Halfway between the steamy sands of Antigua and the salsa scenes of Las Palmas, steaming across waters once frequented by Vikings and pirates, merchant traders and explorers of the New World.
Being halfway creates a meditative space. A journey neither beginning nor ending, a glass of wine either half full or half empty. Our handful of guests slide and snooze in the empty spaces between meal-times and lectures, the bustle of Zodiacs and coach tours just ghostly blurs in our collective memory.
We're halfway across the Atlantic Ocean.
Every day the seas have grown larger. This morning I sat on the back deck with my breakfast and watched huge shapes move under the surface of the sea like angry limbs beneath blue eiderdown, throwing up threads of spray. There are no birds, no whales, no dolphins, but white horses gallop in all directions. Surrounded as we are by a void of life, everything on board is animated. The motion of the sea fills the ship with poltergeists that move cups and throw open drawers and turn even surfaces into hills. Walking down companionways we travel up and down invisible troughs, one moment as light as air, the next moment with soles of stone.
Here in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by infinite blues, minds fall on age-old questions while eyes focus on fresher things. Finishing breakfast, I looked up just in time to see a rainbow connect horizon to clouds, and then another catch like a colorful kite in the spray of our aft. Conversations in the lounge have moved a long way from the where-are-you-from-and-what-do-you-dos, and yet still gently dance around an all-knowing.
We're halfway across the Atlantic Ocean. Halfway between being strangers and lifelong friends.
