Paperwork and Suspicion

The day before any port is a day of paperwork, and the day before an American port is a day of paperwork with a capital P.

There are crew lists and cargo manifests and declarations. There are forms about what is on board, and who is on board, and whether anybody on board has brought any fruit. As the only passenger, I have my own small pile of forms, which Priya delivered to my cabin at nine in the morning with the air of someone handing over homework.

"Fill these in. Black ink. Capital letters. No jokes."

"Why would I make jokes?"

"Because you always make jokes," she said. "Customs officers do not like jokes. I do not like customs officers who do not like jokes. Please do not give me a reason to meet one."

I filled them in. Black ink, capital letters, no jokes. It was the most disciplined I have been in four months.

Marco prepares

Marco has spent the day ironing. Everything. Shirts, trousers, tablecloths, a pillowcase I am fairly sure was not his. He says he intends to look excellent in Long Beach, because Long Beach is near Los Angeles, and Los Angeles is where people are discovered. He has asked me if I would film him walking along the quay "in a natural way". I said I would think about it. I will not think about it.

No trivia

Trivia night was postponed, because of arrival preparations. The Starboard Minds therefore remain unbeaten this week, which Priya has said is "technically a winning streak" and which Tiny has said is "a streak of one". Both of these are true.

The shopping list

I have made a list for my shore leave. It has exactly two items on it:

Tea bags. Biscuits.

I have been told there is a British shop in Santa Monica. I intend to find it. I have been told it stocks proper tea. I intend to buy a great deal of proper tea. I have also been told by Priya, in her official capacity, that I may bring back as many biscuits as I like provided some of them are the American peanut butter kind that she has apparently been thinking about since Busan.

Tiny has added a third item, verbally, which is "a photo of the engine of whatever you drive". He specified the engine. He does not want a photo of the car. He is not interested in the car.

Container knows

Container knows something is happening. She can tell. All day she has followed me even more closely than usual, which I had not thought possible, and this afternoon, while I was packing a small canvas shoulder bag for the shore, she climbed into it and sat down and refused to move.

I took everything out around her. She stayed. I put the bag on the floor. She stayed. I gave up and left the bag where it was, with her in it, and she sat there for two hours, watching me from the opening with an expression of deep suspicion.

I told her I was coming back. I told her twice. I am not sure she believed me. I am not sure, a little, that it matters to her whether I believe it, so long as she has made her position known.

The approach

We are close now. As I write this, the Captain has slowed the ship, and somewhere to the east there is a coastline I cannot yet see. The pilot is booked for the early morning. Big Kev has unwound her a little, sounding faintly mournful about it. The deck lights are on. The sea is flat and black and full of other ships.

Tomorrow, for the first time since Busan, I will see land up close. I find, to my surprise, that I am nervous. Not about the customs officers. About the land. I have got used to the sea.