Getting the hang of it

Today is the fifth day of our passage, and things are finally starting to feel "normal." The days just kind of roll along...if you're a Pink Floyd fan, it's kind of like the mellow riff of the song "Pigs," with the same mildly ominous undertones. With only about 1600 nm to go, the daily routine is pretty much like this:
Morning snack, steer for a few hours, nap for a few hours, lunch, steer, nap, dinner, steer, nap.
That last part is tricky. Nobody wants to be outside, wet and cold when the wind is howling and it's pitch black. We were spoiled the night of our second day, as the conditions were perfect for letting our autopilot, Brizo, do all the work. (Brizo is named after the Greek goddess who overlooked the safety of sailors and navigators--we figured it fit pretty well.) It ends up that many nights out here are too tough for Brizo to tackle alone, so Jon and I alternate hours of sleeping and freezing our buns off. C'est la vie, this is all a part of the ocean crossing experience, and I'm still glad to be a part of it!
There is, however, one redeeming point about the nights out here. Once your eyes adjust, it feels like you can see every single star in the universe. Just CLOUDS of them. It's amazingly humbling: our insignificant speck of a boat, the infinite sky, and the infinite water that cradles us.
My favorite part so far is laying on the deck in the sun, swaying along with the big 10 foot rollers, and staring up into the sky. Some days you can literally watch clouds being born. Little patches of what looks like fog will lazily rise up into the sky from the water, then expand into massive white cotton balls.
We haven't heard chatter on the radio in at least 3 days. It's quite the contrast to our first day, when it felt like we were being hailed non-stop by the Navy and a cargo vessel asking us what our planned itinerary was. The captain must have been bored, and wondered what a little sailboat was doing so far from land.