By four hours in (or out, depending on how you look at it), the last dregs of daylight had oozed off the western edge of the world. The ocean underneath gave way to perpetual black, and logic (like the fact that we were still breathing) was the only proof we were on its surface. Incidentally, back when we were escaping from seized-in-Mexico with our new friends and their monster muscle-boat, it was right around here we saw (silhouetted in the lights of Tijuana) the unlit gunboat that had been shadowing us. Ah, fond memories, indeed.
First night is always the hardest on an anticruise. It's a cold reboot into a totally different operating system, a paradigm shift (oh my dog,* I've been itching to use that cliche) in one's perceptions and expectations: it's all about the losses. Survival is how you handle them. First to go is stability, then the smell of land, then the cellphone signal's gone, then no more Internet, then the VHF becomes silent, the radar returns nothing, the sea floor falls away, and the depth sounder goes infinite. Finally, daylight is gone. Your world turns in on itself. Everything you've got now exists within your tiny sphere of perception, or the edges of your boat. In other words, you're on your own.
It's self sufficiency time, babe! If you don't get it, you're not going to make it. Shit's gonna happen. Some of it's gonna be really bad shit: the kind that makes you want to curl up into a ball and die. Which you'll do, if you don't deal with it and get on with being alive. Nobody's going to save you, help you, or know what you're going through. And the ocean, the world, the universe; it just plain and simply, doesn't care. Dwelling on it is pointless, which is why, about the time Crewman Elena goes down for some shuteye, I blast heavy metal through headphones and try not to think. Besides, there's always something busted that needs fixing.