The Bridge Has a Biscuit Tin

There is now a biscuit tin which belongs on the bridge. Not officially. It does not appear on an equipment list, and I would not want anyone to inspect it under the impression that it is essential to the safe operation of the vessel. Nevertheless, it has a place on the small side table and Priya notices when it is absent.

This morning she noticed it was present before she noticed me.

"You have replenished it."

"Good morning to you as well."

She looked at me, then at the tin, then back at me. "Good morning. You have replenished it."

The dawn arrangement

We had coffee and tea as the sun came up over a sea that had decided to make an effort. The grey of Sunday was gone. There were long soft bands of cloud, a little gold at the horizon, and then enough light to pick out individual containers far down the deck.

I brought a mixed selection. Ginger from the precious remaining supply, sesame from Busan, a dependable chocolate biscuit, and one of the less successful coconut experiments which I believed deserved another chance. Priya removed the coconut one from the plate and put it back in the tin.

"Not with coffee."

The collection is no longer mine in any practical sense. I am its custodian. She is developing policy.

When her duties interrupted us, I waited or looked outside. It is a working bridge, and there is something rather reassuring about having a conversation which must occasionally yield to people ensuring that we do not collide with anything. I wish more meetings in my previous life had possessed so clear a reason to stop talking.

What counts as an update

I told her I was trying to write about the last several days without making the fire hose sound more important than the actual drill. She said that would be wise. I told her the barbecue had been excellent. She said I might mention that I had survived somebody taking icing from my plate.

I said that was an isolated incident.

She took a ginger biscuit, held it for a moment, and said, "We will see."

I am used to her being amused by me now. I am less used to the fact that I look forward to it.

Later, Tiny asked whether I had revised the dream garage. I said the fifth space was still available. He suggested a comfortable grand tourer for long journeys. I pointed out that we were currently on a long journey in a vehicle with a cook, a library, and a room of its own for the engine.

He considered that and said the handling needed work.

Dinner and the resident

Elena continued the world menu with a Moroccan inspired chicken dish, warm spices, rice, and vegetables. Nothing containing my old enemy aubergine. She remembers without requiring me to announce it each time, which is one of the many reasons I trust her more than several restaurants I have paid considerably more to visit.

Container followed me back to the cabin, waited while I put the notebook down, and climbed onto the bunk as though I had merely opened the door to her apartment. The new pillow arrangement has become permanent. I have stopped describing it as temporary because she appears to find that insulting.

We are at about thirty eight degrees north, well east of Japan and still on the western side of a very large Pacific. Long Beach remains ahead. There will be more sea first, more meals, more cars built in conversation, and presumably another inspection of the biscuit stocks.

I came away to find some time of my own. Somewhere along the route I seem to have acquired a cat, a place at a side table, and people who notice whether I have turned up.

The tin is replenished. I will be there at dawn.