The Sun Returns Briefly

At 10:40 a clean strip of blue opened above the bow. After so much grey, it looked less like an ordinary piece of sky than a small administrative error in the weather. I noticed the light first, the sudden sharpening of surfaces that had spent days looking vaguely unfinished. Then there it was: actual blue, with no apology attached.

People came outside without discussing it. Nobody needed to announce that something worth seeing had happened. We simply appeared, drawn by the change as efficiently as if a bell had sounded. I found this quietly reassuring. However accustomed one becomes to shipboard routine, apparently a little sunlight can still persuade the human population to assemble without paperwork or persuasion.

For twenty minutes the containers had shadows again. Their edges became definite, their colours less theoretical. The warmth on my face felt wonderfully direct after the cool dampness of mist. I stood looking at steel boxes with an enthusiasm they would not ordinarily have earned. Travel does not always broaden the mind. Sometimes it merely improves one's appreciation of a dark patch on a deck.

Then the grey folded over and the horizon disappeared. The interval ended without ceremony, leaving the Bay of Bengal looking much as it had before. Nobody complained. Twenty minutes was not enough to transform the day permanently, but it was enough to remind us that colour still existed. I carried that reminder indoors with the slightly absurd satisfaction of someone who had been shown proof that the outside world was still functioning.