Yesterday, we stopped at Ascension sland, nearly eight degrees south of the Equator. On the bridge wing, a meeting for the Invisibles - interrupted on three occasions by individual pollywogs; the web-wiggler Dave, the absent minded professor Adam, and the efficient deckhand Timo - the last reporting to the bridge ten minutes before his night watch. Sabine was short and frank with each intruder and shooed them away. "Can't you see the ship is leaning over this way? It's too crowded over here already", she barked at them. This meeting of the invisibles had become urgent following what happened the night before.

Recorded by web-cam and still fresh in the mind of the mate on watch, the flickering red of fireflies appeared on the foredeck before metamorphosing into irregular shadows lighting up cigarettes. The web-cam and I watched the fireflies and the shadows from our vantage point on the bridge wings - their voices echoed against the bridge face and their meeting recorded together with a lot of Sara's laughter. These weren't fireflies, or the crew, these were the pollywogs on the fore-deck.

When will we cross the invisible line?

- Mike

History of "Crossing the Line"