I look at the watch on my wrist to learn that today is
Thursday. I would have no idea otherwise. In the middle of the South Pacific,
hundreds of miles away from the nearest inhabited island, the days of the week
hold no meaning.
Time moves differently on the ship. We operate in 18-hour
square peg rotations awkwardly fit into 24-hour round hole days. Sleep is no
longer a nightly activity cued by dusk but rather by the satisfying drop of the
harness at the end of a watch shift, or rushed between meals and snacks. At
certain moments the seconds trickle slow - staring at the stars while at the
helm at 0300, staring at elaborate tubes of water waiting for nitrate samples
to filter, standing at the bow scanning the vast horizon for potential threats
in the clouds. Other moments slip time by in a gust - the frenzy of striking
sails and closing the hatches at the sight of an approaching squall, the thrill
of spotting land for the first time in days and being graced by a green
deviation to our deep blue expanses, sighting a pair of whales surfing the
waves alongside our ship well into the day until sunset.
Although we are only approaching about three weeks aboard
the Robert C.
Seamans, it's difficult to remember life before the ship.
Each three-day cycle of the watch schedule feels like a full week in and of
itself, with the closest notions of weekends being the sparse days we spend
anchored or at port. The beat of the ship has skewed our sense of the flow of
time. As the days have passed, her syncopated rhythm has become our new norm.
-Jonathan Fisk
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