I wonder if it ever gets old? Oh god, I dearly hope not, any more than would the first whiff of a rose in spring, or the magic of a slowly blooming smile from your beloved. The magic of departure, especially on a ship, especially at night.

We filtered onboard throughout the afternoon, found our bunks and bedding, found main lab and the mess hall. Circled together and sat through our safety briefings, and flopped around around the deck for the obligatory Gumby suit exercises. Stowed our gear for the open ocean with ratchet straps and bungee cords and then, with nary a shudder, the pier began slipping away in the darkness.

I took my time, trying to tamp down the giddy enthusiasm I remember from my first cruise. There was already giddiness to spare from “the kids” – undergrads, many going to sea for the first time. Main deck was abandoned by the time we swung our bow away from the berth and began making our way forward, out of the harbor. Still, I took my time – I didn’t want to rush into the experience. Everything secure? Dropped my book and journal off in my bunk before I let myself pop one of the hatches and step out into the darkness of the weather deck.

The wind was at our back, so it was almost still forward. Half the science team had gathered below the bridge, leaning against the rail and speaking in hushed tones, the way one might if entering a cathedral or some other hallowed space. Which, of course, we were, in a way. Leaving the world of the mundane, the comfort of the dry and familiar land, of any sort of landmarks – have you ever thought about what that word would even mean at sea?

A hundred and fifty years ago, there were a lot of unknowns out there, and return was by no means certain. Leaving land behind like this was not to be done without a fair bit of trepidation and reverence for the act of crossing the bar outbound warranted a certain gravity. Even in this modern, computerized steel nautical spaceship, it’s hard to escape the observation of the old Breton fisherman’s prayer, that our boat is so small, and the sea is so great.

No one had to say anything about it – somehow we were all just drawn to our places there, looking out into the darkness ahead, being as present as we could as we entered the great cathedral of the sea.

We’re coming around the south end of Oahu, eastbound, and turning north by northeast from there. The equatorial current wants to push us west, so we’re going to run perpendicular rather than fighting it, jinking north to catch the currents that will carry us east to Alaska. Ten or eleven days at sea – half a dozen “instructors,” a few more “students” than that, and then the rest of us who fit somewhere in between, or not at all. We’ve not even gotten to the point of trying to remember everyone’s names. Just the reminders to make sure you’ve secured your gear, and don’t get behind on your seasickness meds.

Sure, we’ll settle into our routines in the morning, or later, after we’ve all got our sea legs. But for now, with the lights glimmering on the shore and the great cathedral of the night sea ahead of us, it’s enough to just stand and watch.