Widescreen Pacific adventure, 24/7

For 16 days, the Pacific Ocean has stretched 360 degrees around us, nothing but rolling blue hills and valleys as far as the eye can see. We’ve been at the mercy of the skies, sailing southwest from the Galapagos Islands for French Polynesia. Most days have brought wind, some have not. And we can only guess that it will be at least 10 more days before we see land again.

Now, 2,000 miles out to sea, I convince myself that I’m a true sailor. My ego booming with adventurous pride, I climb atop the cockpit lazarets and pull myself up high into the wind. Underneath me, the boat lurches, rolls and climbs the swells, and I feel as if I’m holding the reins atop a giant gray whale. It’s hard not to smirk at the life I left behind in Los Angeles and breathe deeply with satisfaction.

Our passage has been nearly perfect. Winds never less than 5 knots, never more than 15, a favorable current gliding under our hull and not one squall.

My usual sailing nerves have been tempered by the mellow ride. Even the appearance of a few small tears in our mainsail hasn’t phased me. Instead, I whip out my needle, thread and sail tape and calmly go to work.

Our days are lazy, spent reading and chasing patches of shade in our boat’s cockpit. “Chasing Shade” would surely be the title of my never-to-be-written novel. The tropic sun is hard to escape on a 37-foot sailboat, and my boyfriend and I contort our bodies to share a small strip cast down by our canvas bimini. As if we aren’t getting enough time together on this small boat, we’re forced to sit just inches apart.

And at night, the sea talks to us under incredibly sparkling skies. We hallucinate voices, sometimes music, amid the constant cacophony -- the whine of the wind turbine; the sloshing of the water tank; the echo of electrical wires slapping inside the mast; the wave of swells against our hull. Most likely it’s the result of sleep that only comes in three-hour shifts.

With each day, the view remains mesmerizing yet the same. Blue to the horizon. Puffy white clouds. No other boats. An occasional bird, so far from land.

But by Day 10, we start to feel a bit lost without land for reference. We start to doubt ourselves: Are we sure we’re headed in the right direction? Only the gray sunrises, golden sunsets and the GPS clue us to our location and tell us land truly is getting closer.

Now at Day 16, we’re trying not to get restless, but failing. We stare at the GPS, watching our progress creep in thousandths of a mile. Our lower backs ache from so much sitting, and the muscles in our feet and hands cramp from bracing ourselves against the boat’s roll.

I’m craving stillness, silence and a restaurant meal with fresh vegetables.

But it’s hard to complain amid such widescreen adventure. Today is only Day 16. The ocean has already reached into my soul and asked me who I am, and I can only wonder: How will Day 26 feel?