Tonight we are sailing the Pacific Ocean about sixty miles northwest of Zihuatanejo, Mexico. Bright white stars fill a jet black sky, so much so that Orion is not a hollow outline but has a body made of tiny white lights. The almost-full moon has not risen yet and we are under sail, no engine, just the wind in three sails moving us forward about 5 knots, a gentle swell nudging us from behind. Warm air caresses us in our summer clothes, no jackets or blankets needed. Looking into the blackness of the night sea, Richard and I notice bright green phosphorescence stirred up by the wake our hull makes as she slices through these tiny creatures' massive watery world. Richard wants to take a photo but when he realizes it's too dark, he gets pencil and paper and begins drawing. Carmen curls up in her sleeping bag in the cockpit with her book and Tiger. It is silent but for the swooshing of water moving past our hull, the click of the steering wheel chain as the autopilot does her job steering us on course, the scratching of Richard's pencil and the tap tap of this iphone keypad. Bruce went forward to lay on deck below the jib and mainsail and rest before his night shift. I write in the ship's log and then here, trying to preserve this memory. And now I must stop so I can watch another natural wonder - a dark orange globe rising in the East, the moon painting a glistening yellow road on the ocean in front of us.