Approximately 593 miles, at the moment. That is, if you consider the center of nowhere to be the fabled Point Nemo, the Oceanic Point of Inaccessibility.

I’ll ‘fess up: we’d all been hoping to pull off a little geographical science stunt on this otherwise straightforward transit. Captain had determined that, taking ocean currents into account, Nemo was actually not far from our optimal course, so hey – why the heck not? Even better, with the course laid in, it looked like we’d reach it just about at midnight (okay, midnight UTC) on New Year’s Eve.

And here was the frosting on the cake: as the Wikipedia entry explains, “The area is so remote that, since no regular marine or air traffic routes are within 400 kilometres (250 mi), sometimes the closest human beings are astronauts aboard the International Space Station when it passes overhead.” It didn’t take too much Googling (thank you, Heavens-Above.com) to determine that, improbably, at 23:58 UTC on New Year’s Eve, the ISS would be sweeping by on an improbably straight-overhead pass, with a minimum slant range of just 266 miles.

Plans, obviously, immediately slammed into gear for a “ship-to-ship” radio call between the most remote humans on/above earth. Mariners claim bragging rights, with fancy certificates to boot, for various nautical transits: “Shellbacks” for crossing the equator, “Blue nose” for the Arctic Circle, “Golden Dragon” for the International Date Line, etc. Well, this particular nerd (Shellback, Red Nose, Golden Dragon, if you’re asking), took it upon himself to find what certificate and ritual existed for a Point Nemo transit. And…there didn’t appear to be one.

There is now.

Alas, it was not to be.

As the wise ones tell us, Nature bats last. And while we were on our way to Nemo, so was a low pressure system that was forecast to bring gale force winds and eight-meter swells to bear on our anticipated little detour destination. Captain and crew conferred, and consensus was that we’d all rather not get our butts (and the boat) whipped for a little bit of bragging rights.

In the olden days, of course, we could just tell people we’d done it – not like there are any landmarks to take photos of (I’m looking at you, Freddy Cook). No one who didn’t check the captain’s celestial sightings log would be any wiser, right? But first, let’s not be like that. Second, nowadays, everything is tracked, logged and broadcast out on the web for instantaneous verification.

So instead of bragging rights, we’re having a smooth ride, planning to make Punta Arenas on time, and getting our various bits of maintenance, science, etc. done. Spending time on the bridge watching the sea, getting to know everyone better – favorite movies, improbable connections of No, really, you two used to date?!?.

Birdwatching has been unusually engaging. Not because of the immense variety, but because, for the most part, there are none here. I mean none. Eerily none – you watch the horizon for hours, and – none. Seven days out Lily sent a team-wide message on our chat channel: “Albatross off the bow!” And last night, hanging out with Clay, Genevieve, Robin and Amy (yes – that Amy) we saw a petrel. Maybe a couple? It’s hard to tell when they disappear behind the swell, and you see another bird a few minutes later. A couple flying in loose formation, or an SBA (same bird again)? We’re not part of a formal survey, so it’s not a pressing question, but it makes for conversation to break up the silence.

There are the usual drills, an embarrassment of Gumby suits, simulated fire, etc. We continue to eat ridiculously well. Ramen night was a couple of days ago, followed by roll-your-own Baja tacos with grilled shrimp. Breakfast this morning was pesto goat cheese fried eggs on focaccia.

And then there’s the work – I think I’ve already gotten enough done to pay my way on this transit: Julian helped me identify a gap in the OpenRVDAS/CORIOLIX capabilities and I not only managed to code up a couple of components to plug it, we’ve now got a script that codes you up a custom logger for it with a single command line. That probably doesn’t make any sense to y’all, but trust me, I have ample reason to feel smug right now.

Alright, we’re at Day 9 of 18, nominally hump day. I’ll be getting off in Punta Arenas with the rest of the science and some of the support staff, but most of the crew are continuing south, first to drop a research team off on Seymour Island, and then to do a Palmer Station resupply. Those of us who’ve crossed the Drake on the NBP and LMG have been assuring the rest of the gang that they’ll soon be seeing more albatrosses and petrels than they could swing an ancient mariner at. But as much as I’d love to get back down to The Ice, I don’t envy those who’ll be doing the crossing. Unlike the NBP which was designed to cut directly through the ice, Sikuliaq is a smooth, round-bottomed boat, designed to ride up on the ice and push it away. What that round bottom means is that in blue water she sways like a gin-soaked debutante. And y’all remember what an iron constitution I’ve got, right? 

But I’m going to miss these folks. Some I’ve sailed with before, pretty much all I’ll hope to sail with again some day. Firefly fans will understand what kind of amazing, improbable weirdos you meet and bond with when you’re bouncing around the vast void in a noisy old ship.

In the meantime, let me make this declaration out there for The Internet at Large: Here is the Official Point Nemo Order of the Null Horizon – Sentinel of Silence certificate. First person who sends me credible proof of their having transited 48° 52.6’S, 123° 23.6’W, I will send a bottle of my favorite hot sauce on board.

Lemme know. In the meantime, it’s way past time I got back to work.