Embarkation Notes from Savannah

Savannah is doing that thing Savannah does, where the air has weight, the light is copper, and every second building is quietly on the National Register. I have three days here before I board. I have used them, so far, on the following:

Day 1: Paperwork

The shipping agent is a woman called Doreen who has been doing this for thirty one years and gave me the impression, within four minutes, that she has already met every version of me and is unimpressed by all of them. There were forms. There were more forms. There was a form to acknowledge receipt of the previous forms.

"You're the passenger," she said, without looking up.

"I am," I said.

"Mm."

I have chosen to interpret the mm as a benediction.

Day 2: Oysters

A dozen at a low table on the river, followed by a second dozen because the first dozen made a compelling case. The waiter volunteered, unprompted, that the ship I am boarding "is a big one." I asked how he knew which ship. He gestured vaguely at the river and said, "sir, we can see it."

Day 3: The medical

A ten minute physical in a clinic on Bull Street conducted by a doctor who asked exactly two questions:

• Do you have any conditions that would prevent you being at sea for extended periods?
• Are you emotionally prepared for that?

I answered honestly on the first and evasively on the second. He stamped the form anyway.

Tonight

I am sitting on the porch of the guest house with the third book from the duffel, the one I have been lying about reading since 2019, and the sense that everything I've been rehearsing for the last two months is about to stop being a rehearsal. Boarding is tomorrow afternoon. Departure is Friday, on the tide.

I will not sleep well tonight, and I do not particularly mind.