Programs Blog

June 23, 2025

Time: 00:26

Location: Robert C Seamans, anchored at Nuku Hiva

Weather: Slight rain

Seasickness is a trial almost every sailor must face, unfortunately some with more difficulty than others. Whenever I feel sick, I like to lean over the rails (with my harness clipped in) and stare into the horizon, sometimes for hours. In the beginning all I saw was the endless stretch of the Pacific. Yet with a closer look there’s actually a lot to see. 

For instance, one can notice the color of the ocean. Back in Moorea, the shallow water is a startling Tiffany turquoise, transparent enough to see the coral mounds nested in the sand or the flying rays that skim by. Out at sea, the ocean’s color changes with time and weather. Oftentimes it’s a deep navy blue, or bluish-gray, and occasionally a brilliant sapphire. The ocean is the most expressive at sunrise and sunset, when she ripples with shifting hues of purple, red, orange, bronze, and gold. The clouds above are messy painters, spilling their colors onto the surface in streaks of white, gray, or pink. 

The texture and shape of the ocean changes too. In the day, the water glistens and sparkles as if the Sun had decided to sprinkle some glitter to add a touch of magic. As the ship carves through water, waves crash, sizzling with foam. The white froth breaks into irregular webs dotted by spots like paw prints of an invisible cat. To keep one engaged, the ocean is never flat. The winds add their strokes to the canvas by slapping the boat with dynamic swells that can range from 5 feet to 15 feet in height (much to my demise). At sunset, we sail through molten gold—perhaps we’ve uncovered the ultimate secret of alchemy? At night it’s almost like we’re sailing through inky tar, the blackness broken by the silhouette of the curving moon or random twinkling of agitated bioluminescence.

I’m never bored when I stare into the horizon. The ocean canvas is always there to entertain her observant audience.

Jui-Jung (Bethany) Chen
Boston University