Two fishing lines are trailing behind the transom. I've still never seen a fish caught in this fashion. So far, I've driven the yacht for twenty minutes. I spend the rest of my watch reading, gazing at the ocean and writing notes.

Yesterday, they heaved a plastic bag full of trash overboard. It contained large plastic containers, metals and other by-products of this voyage and of humanity. It was a sickening sight. My dear friend Margo, who has more concern for the planet than anyone I know, would have wept had she seen this.

Last night, in a fit of frustration, someone tossed a waterproof flashlight overboard. It floated momentarily, its white light unobscured. As it sank, it began to spin resembling airplanes dropping into cloud layers below me, their strobes marking their location underneath. It reminded me of trying to locate an airport beacon rotating in the evening haze. But the flashlight, in the dark ocean, soon faded away. The moment of laughter ended. Now it will lie on the ocean floor decaying, leaving its acids to flow in the currents.

Wednesday