I admit it: I’m just not a morning guy. My family will readily back me up on this. I’ll snuggle back under the covers for the faintest of excuses: a rainy morning, a sunny morning and especially those days when the paperboy (yes, I still read a printed newspaper) manages to hit near the front porch so I can read in bed.
As I said, it doesn’t take much. But there’s one type of morning I always enjoy, and it seems to embody much of what I love about cruising: the dawn watch.
I uniformly volunteer to stand the last watch of the night. With many watch systems, this means I must endure two stints on deck in the darkness. I’ve always felt it was worth the effort. Dawn is a tease that tempts and taunts before finally surrendering. After hours of watching the canopy of stars, there is just the faintest hint of lightness as the black bulk of the boat acquires discernible features.
There are even three official categories of dawn: astronomical, nautical and civil. Astronomical is when the sky lightens with the sun 18 degrees below the horizon. Nautical is when the sun is at minus 12 degrees, with stars and the horizon visible for sextant shots. Civil is when the sun is at minus 6 degrees, the stars are gone and you can probably read a book.
The demarcation between stars and no stars becomes a horizon line that begins to glow, as if a dimmer switch is being turned up. In stormy weather, dawn can be a frightening time when you actually see the size of the previously invisible seas thundering past. Conversely, it can be a delight when the ocean is glassy to the horizon, bringing good speed and well-spaced pencil ticks on the chart. Either way, it is always fresh and new.
Dawn is also a part of the world in which we cruise. In the South Pacific, it can be a Technicolor celebration of pink-edged cumulus. In Scotland’s Hebrides Islands, it is often gray and misty, with angled rays of sunlight like vaguely remembered pictures in a Sunday school text. Above the Arctic Circle, several countries have four to five months of daylight and no dawn. I’ve cruised in Norway—the “Land of the Midnight Sun”—with sunlight for months, and it bothered my sensibilities.
At my age, it’s always a pleasure to see a new dawn, but more than the scenic beauty, I enjoy the companionship of my fellow crew members. Those of us on watch begin to stir, flexing legs and fingers that may have relaxed into stiffness. As the light increases, eyelids that have been sagging under the weight of darkness are miraculously easier to keep open. We glance around surreptitiously to see if anyone else saw them droop closed. The renewed conversation at the helm revolves around when to wake up the off-watch, still sleeping below. We also discuss, with only a hint of malice, how to go about it.
The hiss and pop of a stove lighting brings the aroma of coffee, and the dark cabin comes alive as the off-watch stretches, scratches and grumbles while searching for missing socks and errant shirts. It isn’t long before a head pops into the pilothouse like a tousled jack-in-the-box, swivels to scan the horizon, blinks sleepily at the crew, and disappears below again without uttering a word.
Whoever has the cooking chores clatters about the galley, causing noses to quiver with an array of scents. Burnt toast is the most identifiable. Breakfast on the bridge or in the pilothouse is quiet, but as the plates are emptied, conversation returns. Cruisers are generally relaxed, reaching for a paperback novel that was laid down halfway through a particularly lurid passage.
Even in the comfortable silence, there is a warmth and companionship about dawn that makes it a treasured time.
Give me the dawn watch any day.
