Busan Falls Astern

We left Busan today. Departure was announced to me only after it had been arranged by everyone who mattered, which remains one of the great luxuries of being the least useful person on a ship. I put on a jacket, checked that the biscuit tins were secured, and went upstairs to watch.

The port slid backwards in pieces. First the nearest crane, then the next berth, then the long line of buildings beyond the water. The tugs stayed with us until they were no longer required and peeled away with an efficiency I found almost discourteous. I had become quite fond of them over the previous hour.

Back into the rhythm

There is a particular moment after leaving port when the ship becomes herself again. The harbour instructions finish. The distant machinery ashore disappears into the general view. The vibration beneath your feet settles into the familiar pattern, and the people around you stop looking at land and begin looking ahead.

I felt it standing near the bridge windows. We were turning south into the Korea Strait before working our way towards the ocean beyond Japan. The Pacific is on the itinerary as two words, which does not seem remotely adequate for the amount of water involved.

Priya asked whether the new supplies were safely stored. I said they were. She asked whether I had accounted for movement at sea. I said I had. She asked whether that meant putting the tins in a drawer rather than admiring them on the desk. Unfortunately, that was precisely what it meant.

She knows me well enough now to remove the dignified version of my answer before I have even finished giving it.

In the afternoon I walked my usual route along the permitted walkways. The air was cooler than it had been further south, and the water had a purposeful little chop without being unpleasant. I am still walking several miles a day. The ship continues to travel much further without appearing to try.

The returning resident

Container inspected my cabin shortly before dinner. She checked the bag from shore, ignored the book I had acquired, and climbed onto the chair beside the desk. I had been about to sit there. She looked at me as though this was something I should have mentioned before she made her decision.

I sat on the bunk instead.

Elena served fish, rice, and vegetables with a sauce I could not identify but felt no need to question. The menu's journey around the world apparently resumes tomorrow. My stomach and I are cautiously optimistic.

A message reached me after dinner through Marco: if the bridge was quiet at dawn, the biscuit tin would be welcome.

No formal invitation. No complicated arrangement. Just a place I am expected, with something to bring.

Busan is behind us. Long Beach is a long way ahead. For the first time, the long way does not sound like the inconvenient part.