Today is the beginning of the end for S-283; we began the last leg of our voyage from Napier to Auckland. It is simultaneously bittersweet and exciting to think about how far we’ve come. This morning, all hands were on deck to help us get underway.

So many times I think that I have reached the peak of an experience and then an opportunity arises that surpasses all expectations. Today, after an early wake up for another delicious breakfast (shout out to Sabrina, our fabulous steward), we headed into Napier once more, and after some brief but much appreciated free time in the morning to grab coffee and pastries and otherwise explore, we were bused to visit the gannet colony out at Cape Kidnappers.

Today was the first day of planned activity in Napier and things on land are already becoming familiar again. When we arrived in port, Captain Rappaport used an analogy during one of our first musters to warn us against falling back in to old habits while we are here.

The wait is over folks, here it is, Mia’s account of the time she licked a man-of-war:

“Biovolume the sample.” I read the question maybe ten times before I start trying to answer it. In front of me there is only a graduated cylinder and a small metal lab spatula. I look around the crowded wet lab, too aware of the two minute timer ticking away somewhere out of sight, knowing that if I don’t biovolume something soon, I’ll have to skip the question entirely.

We’ve been on the ship long enough now that we’re all familiar with the intricate peculiarities of life here. Undoubtedly, one of these peculiarities is communication, in all of its iterations. This is the only place I’ve ever been where repeating what other people say to you back to them becomes a near-comical reflex, popping up even in casual conversation. I am in constant communication with some of my shipmates, namely those on my watch, who I see every time I am awake, without fail.

Although I hate to be the next person to talk about a sun rise, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

The sun rose at around 0600 this morning; however, I wasn’t watching it closely. I was on the helm steering a course of 185.

A myriad of emotions are flying around the ship right now. We are nearing the end of our two-week transit to and from the Kermadecs, coming closer and closer to sighting land and soon, stepping foot on it. There are feelings of mourning for life out on the open ocean as well as excitement for this next leg. I’ve found that life at sea is comprised of these fluctuating thoughts and emotions. When on lookout, gazing out at nothing but blue, rolling water, you pass your time daydreaming of land.

Bob McDevitt is a semi-retired senior forecaster from the Kiwi national weather service that any visiting sailor would do well to meet. He goes by the pen name MetBob.  Among other things, Bob is the author of something called The Mariner’s MetPack, the first book that I ever read on weather in the Southwest Pacific.

Happy December! I think? Ever since we crossed the International Date Line, I’ve been a little unclear on what day it is in the rest of the world. For the crew on the Bobby C, however, it is definitely December, which means it’s time to break out the Christmas songs. I am officially ready to start hearing everyone sing Mariah Carey’s “All I Want for Christmas is You” on repeat.

Our voyage thus far has been incredible. If you’ve been following along with the blog, you’ve seen a glimpse of the wonder and excitement that comes with each new day. Today, I’d like to showcase a less glamorous but very real part of life aboard the ship: our lack of personal space, or as I like to call it, “community living.”