The story of three watches, told by three different watch keepers...

Here's a look at how my watch went:

20.00 (eight o' clock p.m. for you land lubbers) - Report to the bridge. Waldemar, the mate I will be joining on watch, is already there. For the first hour, we talk politics while keeping a lookout.

At 21.00 it's time for my rounds. Every hour the crewmember on watch makes a round through the ship. You look for fire, water, anything that's come loose from its lashings and generally keep an eye out. Everyone's got his or her own routine. I won't bore you with the details of mine, but here are a few of the high points.

From the bridge check out the deck. Eyeball the helicopter and the boats. They're lashed tight and don't move.

Peek in the ship's office. Make sure the keyboards are tucked safely away.

In the galley - touch each stove to make sure they're off and cold. Check the mess - make sure the jars of vegemite are all securely in place. Seem to have a lot of the stuff on board, but at least it keeps the Aussies happy.

Next step into food storage area. Check the temperature gauges on the fridge and freezer. They look about right.

Put on ear protectors and check the engine room. Walk through it looking for oil leaks, fires, etc.

In the hold, stop and look and listen for a minute in case something's come loose from its lashings. Go out on the poop deck, and have a look at the paint locker and other fire hazards out there.

Basically, I make my unhurried way around the ship. Sometimes stopping to listen. Sometimes smelling for smoke. Lounge, laundry room, engineer's office - everyplace gets a careful look.

Then back to the bridge. It turns out to be a quiet night. At 23.00, I do my rounds then stop in the mess to make some instant noodle soup, which I take back to the bridge with me. I always eat instant noodles when I'm on watch.

At 23.40, I check to be sure the next watch is awake, and go round the ship one last time.

Then it's good night.

A mate and a deckhand (or other suitably trained crew member) must be on watch at all times. The late night watch is particularly important since most of the crew is asleep - leaving you as the eyes and ears of the ship.

Here is what took place at 63 degrees South on the 21 December, Midsummer's day, the longest day in the Southern Hemisphere. Jo is the mate on duty.

00.00 - Arrival on the bridge after grabbing a few hour sleep before the watch. Handover report from Duygu, the previous watch keeper, informs me that all is well so far. The weather looks grim; wind 20 knots (about 40 km/hr) from the southeast and rising steadily. The sea is rather rough, the barometer is falling and visibility is reduced to 400 meters due to light snow. Snow in midsummer! Actually here it is not that unusual. It is still very light as we are only a few degrees north of the Antarctic Circle, the point at which there would be 24 hrs of sunlight on this day.

We are drifting with the whaling fleet, Jo monitors the radar and other navigation equipment while I am the lookout searching the sea for icebergs, and smaller chunks of ice called "growlers" and "bergy bits". These smaller ice obstacles need to be avoided as they can seriously damage the hull of the ship.

01.00 - Time for the hourly fire and safety rounds on the ship. I walk round the ship checking out all the places and spaces where fire could potentially break out, and making sure all loose objects are firmly tied down. The rest of the crew is asleep, getting much needed rest for the coming day of action against the whalers.

These rounds are repeated at hourly intervals, and at 04.00 it is my turn to hand over the watch to Marieke. David replaces Jo on the bridge and the whole process is repeated.

And then...exit sleepiness, exit creeping nausea. The ocean is here, there. Everywhere. The entire world has turned liquid. Slightly lightened by a round moon, a piece of night still wanders on the dark shifting waters. Drained by the flow - or controlling its path? The ship is snapped by every trough of wave. Does it feel the same in a mother's belly?

Then comes dawn.

Shaped as dragonfly wings, clouds on the horizon are like a reflection of spume. They twist, stretch, change into slender herons. Dissolve. A string, only, remains, soon transformed in sparkling crystals by the rising sun. Enlightenment, such as, it seems, I never have seen!

Later, two tails of cetaceans point out of the water, in an immobile dance that suggests mating. Apotheosis? The two humpback whales escape, quietly, as we approach. They are here, a few meters away, so close my eyes are stuck wide opened. Hey! but I'm here too! Further south than I've ever been, sailing towards oceans of adventure...Never get used to the extraordinary! Get the measure of it, every second.