Another surprise: we have no shortage of things to talk about when daily life may include a barnacle-encrusted hawksbill turtle -- bigger than a Thanksgiving platter and a critically endangered species -- surfacing beside your boat. Or a one-metre-long great barracuda gliding into view from behind Receta's rudder just as I slide into the water for my afternoon swim (the next day, I send Steve in first). Away from work, which always seemed to demand top priority, we have time to explore: fish, flowers, trees, birds, insects, shells, coral, books and the music, food and culture of the islands. We talk together more now, about more things.
And those close quarters I had worried about? Steve has decided they're an opportunity for regular hugs as we squeeze by each other in the main cabin, shoehorn into the galley to grab a snack and climb into or out of bed.
Life and death decisions
By the time we're off the west coast of Nevis, 18 months into our journey, I have realized that trust takes on new meaning when you must trust each other with your lives.
Yesterday, the view from Receta's cockpit was travel-poster perfect: an unruffled turquoise sea, miles of sugary sand along the shore, scattered coconut palms rising like random exclamation points against a green-velvet mountain wreathed in chiffon clouds. The beachfront bar is poster-perfect, too -- just a small patch of sand covered by a thatched roof, serving island rums and beer (cold Carib) and playing local tunes. Today, with a sudden and unexpected wind shift, our placid anchorage has become dangerous. Big rollers break on the beach close behind us and Receta bucks against her anchor line as two-metre waves lift her up and throw her down again. If they get any higher, she will be slammed against the bottom of the ocean in the troughs. We need to get out of here now.
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