12.06.2010

Henrik mowi ze dzis jest 18 dzien od opuszczenia San Francisco. Ja juz dawno stracilem rachube, wiec musze mu uwierzyc. Przeciwnie do pierwszego etapu, tuz po wyjsciu z portu dostalismy piekny wiatr w plecy, ktory bezzmiennie towarzyszyl nam o ho moze z tydzien albo i poltora. Idealne warunki, co dzien kolejne 100 mil na poludnie. Oby. Co dzien jednak robi sie coraz cieplej, wiec chyba plyniemy w dobrym kierunku.
Ktoregos dnia zamiast codziennego, a raczej conocnego "Karol, pobudka, za dziesiec trzecia, wstawaj na wachte." uslyszalem krzyk kapitana. Okazalo sie, ze Henrik, bedac za pomoca audiobooka przeniesiony w swiat hobbitow, elfow i mordoru, poczul na swojej czaszce uderzenie goblinskiego topora. Natychmiast oprzytomnial jednak, zobaczyl ze jest na lodce, na oceanie i ze tu nie ma goblinow, a uderzenie to byla tylko zgubiona kalamarnica. Dwie noce pozniej, to ja, a raczej moja szyja miala szczescie zostac ladowiskiem dla latajacej ryby. Stworzen tych zaczelo pojawiac sie coraz wiecej, czesto cale stada po 30/50 uciekaja
przez zblizajacym sie kadlubem Nektona. Glupiutkie pewnie mysla ze to wieloryb.
Cieplutko. Tropiki. Woda za burta 29oC i rosnie. Polary i rekawiczki wyrzucone za burte. Chyba od jakichs 5 dni nie mialem butow na nogach.
Dni uciekaja niesamowicie szybko. Wachta, spanie, wachta, sniadanie, ksiazka, gotowanie, obiad, wachta, lekcja szwedzkiego, drzemka.. lecz czasem nagle aaa! fisk! ryba! fish! i wszyscy czekaja co tym razem pokaze sie na koncu haczyka. Tunczyk, mahi mahi, czy stary kalosz? Nie tym razem to 70 centymetrowy mahi mahi. 2 dni bez puszkowanego jedzenia. Ryba na surowo z wasabi, na surowo z cytryna, smazona, marynowana, pieczona. Piekne. Ryby, ktore nigdy nie slyszaly o farmach ryb i wedkarze, ktorzy nigdy nie slyszeli o pozwoleniach na polow.
Troche jest takie wraznie jakbysmy byli tu od zawsze. Cale otoczenie wydaje sie zupelnie naturalne. I jakby o tym pomyslec, 70% Ziemi tak wyglada. Przepiekny lazur wody. Wielki jedwabny, szafirowy calun. Otoczony blekitnym niebem przyozdobionym bialymi cumulusami. I te wschody i zachody slonca. Przepiekna paleta kolorow. Na plotnie najlepszego malarza wygladalyby kiczowato. Tylko ze natura nie jest kiczowata.
A, no i tak w ogole, to wlasnie wplynelismy do takiego miejsca, ktore sie nazywa pasem ciszy rownikowej. I tu wielkie oszustwo, bo to ani nie jest pas ciszy, ani rownikowej. Raz, ze do rownika jest jeszcze ponad 1000km. A dwa, ze tu raz nie wieje, raz super wieje, raz z polnocy, raz z poludnia, potem ulewa jak tralala, potem cisza i dalej znowu burza. Chaos.

Karol

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1.06.2010

When we left Victoria (and then Round Two, San Fran), hungry, our skin a shade of skim-milk, the road ahead seemed depressingly long and wide. No support from the sunless sky, obscured by the oppressive clouds (or cloud; one mass of grey) and the thermometer holding our spirits down, just above 0. And now, 1500 miles down the dusty dirty road, our skin tone slightly thickened and beginning to match that well known, to some of us, dirty road, in tone and texture...not having showered in a while and longing for that first, virginal catapult into the abyss of the azure that surrounds us. Almost at the Tropic of Cancer, is where we are. 1st of June, sea temperature in the mirror stage of the air temperature, but not quite there, a plump 20, the sun a bright lemon tingling our drowsy melatonin to life. 1st of June, our hirsute chests and faces bare, Children's Day is upon us. In Poland, at least. Not too sure about other countries; cultures, and their approach to progeny. Dinner was delicious, a soup of chocolate with chocolate bits and candy and sugar and sugar and honey.
Later, watching as the cotton clouds soak up the colourful palette of the setting sun, I reminisce over the last few days, weeks, months... molasses, melting pot. The days flow, cascading over each wave-crest at a fresh pace. And the swell gently lapping, teasing our home further and further South. This vastness that surrounds us, at times a blanket of blue or a black freckled tarpaulin, the horizon a thin line where the world ends and goes a-tumbling-down into a different dimension. But I digress. We write to forget, I don't want to write too much.
A humorous incident: Some time ago I was awakened from Stage of Sleep #3 by some inexplicable force, and so came out to see the helmsman, at the time Henrik. It was about 0432; moon phase, waning gibbous; 15 C; insignificant cloud cover; and after a brief exchange of adverbs and adjectives, a volley of expletives follow for it came to be that a squid, for some curious reason rocketed out of its watery world and into ours, straight across Henrik's face. Entranced by his audio book of Lord of the Rings, wedding rings and Rivendale, tree hugging elves, ghastly goblins, you know, the occurrence was shocking (was it an attack? a foreshadow of a 21st century 20,000 leagues above sea bottom?). Stuck between the cockpit seats on its side, the bold 7 inch creature died a horrible death, if squids have any idea of horror. One black eye the size of a button, disproportionate to the lubricious almost transparent body, looking towards the sky.
This overlapping of troughs in the texture of time, a cruel cosmic coincidence, the unfortunate creature; a synaptic souvenir Henrik will return to and caress for the rest of his life because we made a Himalaya out of a small ripple, this calamari calamity. Out here anything is possible. Anyone can be anything. The ocean is welcoming in life and in death. It will take your hand in the palm of it sinuous soul and show you both worlds, respectively, if it so wishes. So we go forth, sharing our days with calamaris and all, A+ mes amis!
(An Aside: On our traverse, the trash we encounter is massive. Every few minutes, a piece floats by. Flotsam, jetsam, big, small, alien or homely in shape, its destiny in life uncertain, but its fate confined to be an eyesore for us and destructive detritus for all of the God's creatures that call the ocean their home.)

Lukasz

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