I learned enough about the use of a sextant to understand the precise millisecond of accurate time is necessary to even get a rough "precise" shot of location. Within a few miles.
Not long ago I got somewhat of a shock to learn the all-mechanical Rolex oyster kept terrible time accuracy. Sorta like a Rolls Royce that burns oil.
Avast ye lubbers! Three bells! Time to hit the siesta hammock.
Stretched between two palm trees. Swaying gently in the afternoon trade winds. The rattle of palm fronds, the chirping of birds, the distant braying of a burro (proper pronunciation - Boo-row). A horizon line of flat bottom cumulus clouds. Turquoise ocean, the "graack" of a pelican whose scoop bill just scored a small sierra. Life is gentle. An insulated five gallon bucket alongside holds scoops of ice with cerveza, refrescos (sodas) chilled coconuts ready to crack open for a liter or so of ice cold "agua". My NOOK is opened to a chapter of an absurd tale of post nuclear apocalypse. "Trump" means someone took a off suit trick. Grexit may or may not be a new brand of toilet paper. "The big Mexican problem" is the highway crew who ran out of paint before they reached the pueblo.
My rig reposes beneath a triple rainforest canopy and the three girls keep threatening that "today may be the day when we have to rush to Brenda and Jesus' restaurant because Brenda has cooked fifteen or twenty lobsters and my presence is demanded. "Only with cerveza Negro Leon" I yell. I do not like mariscos (seafood) with light beer.
