Fourth watch, dawn, second day. I have never seen the sea painted or drawn convincingly, nor have I ever read words that could convey the experience of dawn at sea. The ocean, as the light returns, can look and feel desolate, so much so that, when recollecting that feeling one wishes to never venture on the sea again. But that, I realise now, is a projection of one's mood. At the age of twenty-two I put to sea with my dear Patty for company, out of Sydney bound for Russell, North Island, New Zealand. The wooden 22 ft cutter was too small, too old, and quite unsuitable to cross the Tasman Sea in, but neither her nor my parents tried to prevent us, nor did we think it was highly dangerous. It was the boat I had, it was what I wanted to do.

Now, nearing seventy years of age, I remember back to that sense of desolation I had felt as a young man, as though nature - the sea - cared nothing for me, and I think of it as I gaze out on a similar scene: a vast seascape of grey, windskinned waves, wavelets, whitecapped seas - call them what you will, and the grey sky - before the sun levers the lid off the day. My thought now is: that it was me that had left me desolate and had not cared sufficiently for myself.

Think of the view of the Pacific from the cramped seat of the jetplane, through the fashionably squared circle of the porthole - that's not it! Or the photographs or the movies you have seen of the sea - no. Accompany me on this voyage by going within, to find a moment of peace, of grandeur, of not understanding, yet somehow understanding. I can think of times, like the births of my five children, when this mixture of awe, calm, knowing and not-knowing came upon me.

Conrad said once that a ship seemed two different things, depending on whether one was on watch or off watch - and I know what he means. But right now it's one to me. It's clean, enormous, powerful, extraordinary - and I feel very much okay with being here.