When I came up on watch at midnight, my mind was on other things; taking the helm and trying to get rid of the feeling of sea sickness resident in my stomach.

I relieved the helmsman, my eyes down concentrating on the boat speed and our course on the binnacle compass. Then I looked up to where a small light reflected off the windex mounted on the top of the mast. My breath caught in my throat.

Beyond the green, red and white glare of the cockpit instruments there was a moonless cloudless night. Around the horizon were a couple of dozen navigation lights from other vessels, all miles away, so that we were essentially alone on the water.

But above..

Thousands of tiny pinpricks of light, from one side of the horizon to the other. You have to see it to understand the analogy of a "carpet" of stars. Almost directly above is a glowing belt. It's made up of stars so faint, but so numerous that it looks like a single long cloud is crossing the sky from end to end. It's the Milky Way. The light from the sun bouncing off Venus is so bright that it reflects off the water.

I sailed by the windex as much as I could, so that I could stare at the stars. I counted eight meteorites in the two hours on watch. I was a little sad when I was relieved at 2.