Unless the wind is directly behind the boat, sailing pushes us on edge, resulting in a tilted world above and below decks. Heading straight north for the first 9 days meant a pretty steep but constant angle, one we’d mostly adjusted to – comfy seats established along with a sense of what and who was about to slide where. Two days ago changing tack to head east reversed the direction of our keel resulting in some confusion and vastly re-arranged bunk real-estate values. My bed that previously lay nestled comfortable and safe against the hull now lists about precariously, threatening to eject my sleeping body onto the floor three bodies below. I now sleep with a strap tied across the bunk. Lying carefully on my back, with bedsides curling inwards I can’t help but feel like a hotdog secured in a bun with a belt.