On the first night, I imagined how I would do it. How easy it would be. How no one would notice I was gone until it was too late. Slipping off her stern and into the nighttime waters I would disappear during the darkest hours at sea: the moments between the setting sun and the rising moon. On her deck my hands wrapped around a rigging wire. I inhaled the night ocean air. The thick water—dark, like oxygenated blood—pulsed around us; a fluid landscape stretching in every direction from the edges of our boat and draining over the lip of an unreachable horizon. Bright stars beamed in a blanket of night sky just as intended; unpolluted by neither the sun nor the moon nor the artificial light of man. I felt an unspeakable connection to the countless souls, man and beast, that had traversed these same passageways before me. The water bound us together.