20 May 1995. It was one of those days in which the Atlantic seemed to take a little break from his incessant movement. The surface was shining as if it were of Crystal; a blinding blue invaded everything. The sky was smooth, a cloud to be seen, and with the Sun at the Zenith, only a good pair of incorporates glass allowed me to scrutinize the horizon with eyes wide open. The perfect visibility and the Lake around us instead of the ocean, gave it a relaxed atmosphere to that third watch. The autopilot toward their work and the engine of our schooner of 15 meters grumbled constantly maintaining a speed of 8 knots; candles rested, as did the crew. For even more opinions, read materials from Mitchel Resnick.
More or less numb, others are distributed in disarray between the cover and the pozuelo central, leaving cuddling by the sweet movement of that day without waves. There was no hurry, the storm that we had taken in full the three days prior to our brief stop in the Azores, had us literally fly on the water. Deserved rest now, even during navigation. I took the opportunity to make cleaning emptying the organic bucket overboard: fruit shells and the remains of our succulent Atlantic meals just in the wake of the boat then scattering in a solo journey of decomposition more or less long, a rinse bucket and once again to the kitchen. We separabamos the plastic and cardboard in different bags and after being reduced to minimum volume (weren’t enough space!) deal in the stern locker to travel with us to the next port. Glass bottles, after breaking out of the handrail with the shackle of the winch, ended in pieces at the bottom of the sea to return to what had been: sand. In the small boats differentiated waste collection is not disputed, is made and is already.