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It had been five days since we departed the bustling Norwegian port of Bergen, losing the looming square-rigged ships to the horizon. At 4 a.m., I open my heavy eyes and I am greeted by Kirsty. Her round, sleep-deprived yet still cheerful face smiles up at me. She whispers in her meek Dorset accent "Lets' go! We need to be up on deck in five". I slide out of my sleeping bag and gasp at the cold hands of air that coil around my drowsy body. The crew starts crawling out of our coffin beds, stacked three-high like the graveyards of Mexico. I slip my sock-clad feet into numbing leather shoes and clip on my lifejacket. As we prepare to go up on deck, I listen to the gentle murmur of voices above deck. Jess descends the stairs and she looks almost comical. Her red cheeks, framed by red hair, are further embellished by the glowing red light from the saloon. The six watch members clamber up on deck and I take a seat between on the damp timber beam between Eve and Amalia. I look up at the halliard clanging against the mast. I try to see the top but the towering metal pole is lost in the dark abyss of the night sky. I try to keep my eyes open as the lumbering beast tries to rock us to sleep. Occasionally a larger wave would ricochet across the deck and drench our shoes. I close my eyes and submit myself to the sounds of the night-swaddled ocean. Water sloshes against the sides of the hull. The familiar sound of Rona II's sails flapping in the breeze. I pull my musty coat a little tighter around myself as the cold air of the North Sea eagerly gnaws at my knuckles. The six of us gaze out across the glimmering, vast blanket of water. As I wonder at the beauty I take it all in, trying to soak in every last bit. The moon casts opalescent ripples across the ocean. The wind dies down and I begin to loosen the sheets. The cold, wet snakes slither through my hands and ascend into the dark sky. Rona II bounces over another wave and a sheath of sea spray showers over us. We howl into the night. At 5a.m. I climb below deck and into the Navagatorium. I press the button on my head torch and the light flickers on. The dim light creates just enough of a glow to see the logbook. The yellow chart pages are adorned with pencil marks from past voyages. The radio gently crackles behind me with ships calling into the Danish port of Skagen. The skipper will put in a call when he wakes. After I fill in the logbook and plot our position I climb back out on deck. Matt is at the helm giggling to himself. The day before we had been trying to remember the words to a scout's song. Matt's sprightly laugh sings out into the night as he yells "You'll never get to heaven in a biscuit tin 'cause the Lord don't let no crumby ones in!". Eve, who had been munching on some broken biscuits, spits them out in a fit of laughter. I spray steaming tea out of my mouth and Kirsty throws back her head and lets out a joyful squeal. The delirium of sleep deprivation and six days at sea was starting to kick in. Soon it was quiet again, except for the rhythmic swish swash of the waves against Rona II. Hours go past, moments are frozen in time along with our feet. We had seen land for the first time in six days about an hour ago. There is something so bitter-sweet about reaching land. You return to fresh food, showers, and solid ground. But you can't help but yearn for the open water. For solitude. It's like your twenty crew members and you are the only people left on earth. As the sun begins to peak its sleepy head over the horizon, we take one last glimpse of the moon-blanched land. We had made it. We had fulfilled our wanderlust, and we feel infinite.