Breaking up is hard to do

Hooray!  After two days on the Atlantic, we made it to Charleston.  Time for a rest.  We didn't have a breath of wind the whole way, and Erik is exhausted from trying to sail anyway.  I'm exhausted from the night watches.  Where is a handsome paid crew when you need them?
 
Dear Autopilot,

Baby, where did we go so wrong?

I remember the day I met you.  You were the answer to problems I didn’t even know I had.  All quiet and confident there on your little stand.  “Let me drive,” you said.  “Put your feet up.  Read a book.  Auto’s got it from here.”  And you did.  No more mindless steering on those long, straight routes.  Just keep an eye out for other boats and obstructions, and let Auto do the rest.  Those were good times.  Happy times.

Oh, Auto.

Then we planned a passage – round-the-clock sailing for days on end.  Maybe that was too much of a commitment for you.  Maybe the thought of 36 hours of driving gave you cold feet.  Baby, why didn’t you just say so?  We could have figured this out together.  Had you serviced ahead of time.  Because this rudder communication error you came up with?  Lame.  We’ve got a communication error, all right.  Let me be clear: steering us off-course and sounding alarm bells to get attention?  No.  Not okay.  We’ve come too far together for you to start playing games with me now.

Cards on the table, Auto.  I took you for granted.  I know it.  And maybe that makes me a bad person.  But you know what?  You’re the motherf***ing Autopilot.  Your entire existence revolves around driving for me.  That’s right, I said it.  And if you can’t do that?  Well.  There are plenty of other Autos out there who can.  Either pull it together and steer like you’re built to, or sit back and watch a newer model take your place.  Because I am not hand-steering this boat at 2 am ever again.

My heart is growing cold, Auto.  I won’t wait for you forever.

Yours, but not for much longer,
Amy