Dawn and the Ginger Biscuits

Priya now knows the sound of the small biscuit tin before she sees it. I discovered this at dawn when I came quietly onto the bridge and she said, without turning around, "Not the coconut ones today."

I had brought the coconut ones.

This did not feel like a coincidence. It felt like a breakdown in the security of my private stores.

We were east of Japan, with the coastline finally behind us and the Pacific presenting itself in a much less abstract form. There was water in every direction, a little swell, and a clean horizon waiting for the light. The bridge was quiet enough for me to be there. I put the tin on our usual side table and stayed clear of everything important.

Revised provisions

She said she fancied ginger with coffee. I said I had brought tea for myself and had made a choice on that basis. She said this was a shared operation now and perhaps I should widen my planning assumptions.

I went back down for the ginger biscuits.

On my return she moved her mug to make room for mine, a tiny ordinary gesture which had an unreasonable effect on the quality of my morning. We ate one each while the sky turned from grey to a diluted pink, then towards a colour neither of us bothered to name.

I told her I had enjoyed yesterday. She said she had noticed. I said I hoped I had not looked ridiculous. She looked at me over her coffee for a moment, considering whether honesty was required.

"Happy," she said eventually. "You looked happy."

That was considerably worse, in terms of knowing what to do with my face.

She returned to a chart. I returned to the window. A few minutes later she asked whether there were any of the Busan sesame biscuits left, and the conversation resumed its safer course.

A quiet sort of company

There is no grand arrangement to these mornings. Sometimes her work does not allow it. Sometimes I arrive and leave again because the bridge is busy. When there is room, we have coffee and tea and a biscuit or two, talk for a while, and look at the same bit of sea.

I used to imagine that a long voyage required major discoveries to justify it. Places, experiences, impressive things to put in a paragraph. I am now quite taken with the discovery that another person can remember which biscuits you brought yesterday and expect you to appear again tomorrow.

Container met me outside my cabin afterward and escorted me inside, where she resumed occupation of the chair. I gave her no biscuit. She gave me no privacy.

The Pacific continues. The ginger stock has fallen by four, because someone decided a second round was appropriate. I will not identify her, although she was in charge.