A Kite, Plain Rice, and a Respectable Second

The last week has been a masterclass in small adjustments. The ship closed on Rotterdam, the weather turned mild, and I was gently but firmly folded into a series of routines I did not choose and now cannot imagine escaping.

Tuesday: the kite

I had not flown a kite since I was approximately eleven. Priya discovered this somehow, probably through the same intelligence network that produced my birthday, and this afternoon she produced a kite from a locker on the bridge deck. It was red, slightly battered, and clearly older than some of the junior crew.

"Hold this," she said, and handed me the spool. Then, without waiting for agreement, she began issuing instructions. Stand here. Let out line when I say. Do not run. Do not jerk. Do not, under any circumstances, let go.

She delivered all of this in a tone I can only describe as stern yet inviting, which is a difficult combination to achieve and which she appears to have perfected through years of practice. The kite climbed. The wind did most of the work. I did the minimum required, which was exactly the amount she expected of me.

When it was steady overhead she stood beside me for a moment, not touching, both of us looking up at the red diamond against the grey blue sky.

"You are better at this than you are at eye spy," she said.

"I have had more practice at holding string."

"Mm."

We stood there until the wind shifted and she took the spool back without asking. I have no idea what that was about. I have been thinking about it ever since.

The plain rice and plain toast protocol

Elena has, as predicted, moved me onto a diet of plain rice and plain toast. She does not discuss it. She simply places the plate in front of me with the expression of a woman who has seen this before and will see it again. The toast arrives at breakfast, the rice at lunch and dinner, and both are prepared with such professional care that I almost feel respected rather than managed.

I tried to apologise again. She said, "you are not the first passenger to discover an enemy at sea." Then she added, with what I believe was genuine warmth, "you are handling it better than the man from Hamburg."

I did not ask about the man from Hamburg. Some stories are best left in the galley.

The cat and the 1.25 inches

Container has stopped pretending she does not live in my cabin. She now sleeps at the foot of my bunk every night, arranged in a neat loaf that occupies, by my careful measurement, approximately 1.25 inches of mattress but somehow claims the entire bottom third of the bed. I have learned to sleep with my feet angled toward the wall.

I still do not know how she gets in. I have checked the door, the porthole, the ventilation grille, and the small panel behind the desk. There is no cat sized entry point. The leading theory among the deck crew is that she has mastered a parallel dimension. The leading theory among me is that I should stop asking questions and accept my new roommate.

Rotterdam approaches

We are due into Rotterdam in a few days, and I have begun planning what I will do with the eighteen hours they have warned me we will be in port. Eighteen hours while the ship unloads and loads, while cranes move above us, while the crew do the actual work of global trade. I intend to get off, walk on ground that does not move, and buy supplies for the next leg.

Chief among these supplies: tea bags. Proper ones. The hotel collection is running low and Elena's approval rating of the remaining bags has dropped into what she calls the "drinkable in an emergency" category. I am also considering a pillow, a new notebook, and possibly a small kite of my own, although I suspect Priya would regard this as competitive.

Wednesday: quiz night

It happened. The rostered event I had been dreading since Monday arrived with the inevitability of a tide.

The mess was rearranged into teams. Priya sat me at a table with Yuki, Tiny, and a cadet whose name I have already forgotten and for whom I feel terrible. She gave us a team name, "The Starboard Minds," which I am fairly certain she came up with on the spot and which no one dared challenge.

We came second. Out of five teams, which is, I suppose, mathematically above average. Priya said, "respectable," in a voice that made it clear respectable was not the desired outcome. She then stood up, collected the score sheet, and left without another word.

Yuki said, "she will remember this." Tiny said, "we all will." I sat there wondering whether second place was a victory or a warning.

Tonight

Container is asleep at the foot of the bed. The seagulls have finally abandoned us somewhere past the Channel. The ship is low and steady underfoot and the lights of passing traffic are beginning to appear on the radar with the casual frequency of a commute.

Rotterdam tomorrow. Or the day after. I have lost precise track, which is one of the things this voyage is teaching me to do.