Over the ridge

Something is different in the morning. We've been used to the increasing humidity, but this air really smells like rain. The temperature has dropped by a few degrees, the deck is wet. We are in the area of isolated rainfalls, tells us the captain. Hm, doesn't look like it yet.

But just you wait: In the course of the day the clouds shift and soon we can see pillars of grey connect the clouds with the surface of the sea. The rain must be really, really heavy there, looks like a celestial brush sweeping the crumbs off the water table, very impressive.

This is typical for the heart of the Atlantic; we're in the middle of it, just above the mid-ocean ridge, the gigantic spreading zone, opening the Atlantic wider and wider. So the distance to Buenos Aires is actually increasing. But no need to speed up, it is a process as slow as the growth of toenails…

The clouds are pure magic, they change incessantly, seem to sit right on the horizon. No need to do much today, this is a day of scenery.

And of visitors: After dark, a apparently exhausted red-footed Booby (John, believe it or not - I found a bird's name in a book…! Why are they called red-footed…?!) settled on the foredeck for a little while. We gave him slack and retreated, and a little later he was gone.

Maybe we meet again...