Degrees influence much of our world as we cross the ocean. Our progress on a passage is measured by degrees. Each watch, records are made of our location in degrees and minute. These little measures of progress encourage us and lift spirits. They provide proof that we are heading in the right direction when our surroundings are devoid of any visual reference points. Distance provides a bit of supporting evidence for how we are tracking, but with no roads to follow, distance has more of a qualitative meaning on the sea. Waypoints are plotted by their latitude and longitude, allowing us to track towards a series of numbers whose exactness renders place names obsolete. We know we are heading west by the angle of the sun above the horizon. At the same time each day the angle in the east decreases and the sun rises later, confirming our progress in the right direction; we are crossing time zones.
Life on board is filled with the changing angles of our boat; 15 degrees to port, 10 degrees to starboard. On passage, we are rarely upright, making simple tasks a battle. Our head is functionally small. As the boat rocks the walls take on a life of their own and buffet us from one side to the other, while the toilet itself becomes a moving target. We wedge ourselves in as best we can and do not linger. The galley is also a treacherous place, even with the gimballed stove, scalding pots slide around unbidden. I brace myself between the galley and the saloon, hoping I won’t land headfirst in a bubbling pot, or else I just sit on the floor and surround myself with ingredients. Chaos can erupt simply by opening the cupboard where plates and glasses are stowed. Even if we are heeling towards a cupboard, earlier bumps in the ocean’s surface have rearranged everything into a new world disorder; plates sit poised to spring out in a sudden clatter. Simply walking from one end of the boat to the other can be treacherous as we grab to steady ourselves. Wearing socks and sliding around turns it into a game; I will find tomorrow the mystery bruises from this enterprise. Lying in bed, the unpredictable movement makes it feel like gravity has gone rogue. One minute I am being crushed into the bed, then I’m released and the mattress slips away from beneath me, all the while being pulled from side to side. Gravity has abandoned its own rule of a constant force directed straight down.
Finally, we live by degrees Celsius. Our progress through the latitudes is reflected by the rising temperatures of our environment. The air is warming as we get closer to Lord Howe Island, allowing us to shed layers of clothing by day and by night. We are leaving behind the chilly NZ water temperatures too. After four days of northerly progress the water has increased by about 4 degrees. I think now, as we change our course and head 230 degrees, it is a good time for a bucket wash off the back of the boat - the east Australian current is a beautiful 25 degrees.