Nutella and Sherlock Holmes

Nutella is actually quite tasty, I happened to pick up a jar here in Mexico. Funnily enough, it brought back memories of Koinonia last summer. There was a jar of it and we just put it on everything. I mean everything... well, of course we did the same thing with the hot sauce, but...
Spreads in general I find quite interesting. Australians have a spread called Vegemite, which I've heard is a byproduct of beer. People seem to have mixed opinions about it, most of the individuals who have mentioned it to me either love it or hate it, which I personally have yet to test it. It's supposed to go on toast or bread in a very thin layer.
One prominent saying I've heard about this sort of thing is that one must be raised around it in order to like it. In some ways it may be true (for example, I don't like oysters), but it could just be an old wives' tale (for example, I like Nutella and steak). I really don't know how I got off on spreads and food, because I really meant to write about Sherlock Holmes.
I've found Holmes singularly intellectually stimulating, which is something I rarely find in certain books, depending on what mood I'm in. The powers of observation and deduction are truly amazing to read about, although I find it hard to apply to the modern-day world. Holmes' one and only character is in itself the mark of an expert penman.
Well, I have to go read The Life of Lafayette for school, which I am really not looking forward to, as it really has not succeeded in obtaining my undivided interest.

Rare Occurrences

Well, I seen to be having more energy today, the third day at sea; I’m finally adjusting to the watch schedule. I had a lot of energy during my watch last night, which is funny because a couple things happened that were out of the ordinary.

I actually got some prime sleep during the late afternoon, with the exception of weird dreams that left me puzzling about something I couldn’t remember. My regular watch is from 9pm to midnight. I was in the subconscious, during some weird dream, when there was a cold tapping upon my arm. It scared the heck out my subconscious self, and I awoke to find myself gasping in fright. It was my mom waking my up for my watch. Nothing can scare me when I’m sleeping, absolutely nothing. That was the beginning of an unusual evening.

We had been sailing without the motor when I had gone to bed, and I must have slept through the period in which the engine was running. I got up, brushed my teeth (that always makes me feel less groggy), and headed up into the cockpit. The hatch to the engine room was open, and I heard my dad doing something on the engine.

“Oh yeah,” my mom mentioned before going to bed, “the engine’s been overheating, and dad’s trying to figure out what’s going on.”

The GPS beeped while I looked at our speed and position: 2 knots, and about halfway from Cabo San Lucas to Puerto Vallarta. The voice came from the engine room, “Krista, are you up?”

“Yep,” I answered.

“We’ve got something plugged in the water intake, so I need you to keep us going under sail for a while.” I thought upon this while me and Julie pulled the genoa out and trimmed the sails in the 3- knot breath of wind. The engine almost never goes out. I heard a comment from below that there was a squid stuck in the through-hole. This was getting to be a weird night!

About a half-hour later, the mutant, deranged, foot-long squid having been pried out of the through-hole, dad went to bed, and I sat in the cockpit, the motor rumbling away once more.

I should have mentioned that it was an otherwise beautiful night, with the constellations blazing overhead, and about 3-5 knots of wind off the beam. Julie hung out in the galley, while I listened to music, checked the horizon, radar and GPS, enjoying the warm weather. It went on that way for a long time, and I suppose I just figured dad would come up for his watch when it was time.

I went in the galley for some water, and found Julie sacked out on the seat, and the clock reading 1am. It was the last of the rare occurrences of that night. Dad is never late for a watch; on the contrary, usually he’s a bit early. I chalked it up to the squid being caught in the through-hole, and today has been surprisingly ordinary compared to last night.

Reflections on a Rainy Day

There is a drip, drip, upon my windowpane. Outside the trees moan as the wind brushes them aside. Speedily, speedily, she rushes along; she must make haste, but to what end? Passing over hill and valley, pond and knoll, to lull herself to sleep, then silently ruffle the blossoms of a cherry tree; no more threatening than a child’s breath.

The trees and their agony can be heard throughout the valley. Their cries from an unknown world shiver up their roots and extend to their very leaves and twigs, where the wind pulls their voices from them and the air is filled with their shrieks. Then for a moment there is silence while the wind gathers her strength, and the quiet melody of the raindrops is allowed its chance to sing.

Softly, quietly, beautifully they voice their song, pattering on fern and rock, path and roof. The gutter-water begins its drone as it channels its way along its travels, while the ever-present drops delicately chime a harmony. Each raindrop, completely singular, straight from heaven, where the Master bids them where to go. Perfectly beautiful spheres, a majestic touch of creation, something so innocent as they glide down the glass of the window that one could forget the harm they once wrought.