Warm Water and a Stash of Tea: 14, 15 and 16 July

The days are beginning to blur in the best way. I no longer know what day of the week it is without checking the meal schedule, and I have started measuring time by the colour of the water. We are far enough out that the sea has gone from brown to green to a deep, serious blue. The air is warm. The ship is steady. And I have made several discoveries.

14 July: The swimming pool

I learned about the pool from Tiny, who mentioned it in the same tone another man might use to announce a promotion. "They fill it when the water gets warm enough," he said, gesturing aft. "You swim. Or you don't. Mostly we don't."

It is not a pool in any conventional sense. It is a large, collapsible tub lashed to a cleared corner of the deck, filled by hose from a desalination outlet when the sea temperature crosses some threshold known only to Kev and, possibly, God. The water is cooler than the air, faintly metallic, and absolutely glorious. I spent forty five minutes in it on Monday afternoon, floating in a way that can only be described as horizontal, while containers rose above me on every side and the Atlantic slid past.

No one else joined. I was, apparently, the only person on board who thought this was a holiday.

15 July: Eye spy at 02:30

I could not sleep. The ship hums, the cabin is small, and my body has decided that 02:00 is an excellent time to review every embarrassing thing I have ever said. I went up to the bridge, quietly, assuming I would be alone with the night watch.

I was not alone. Priya was there, of course, because Priya never seems to sleep. She was standing by the chart table with a mug of something that steamed, looking out at the dark. She did not look surprised to see me.

"Can't sleep?" she said.

"No."

"Good. Play eye spy."

I will not detail the entire game, except to say that she won, decisively, using the word "anemometer" as her opening salvo. I spent ten minutes guessing before she took pity and pointed at a small wind gauge on the mast. We played three rounds. She won all three. At 02:45 she said, "you should sleep now," and I did, somehow, as if she had given me permission.

16 July: The tea

Elena found me out.

I had been carrying, in the bottom of my laptop bag, a small ziplock bag of English breakfast tea. Not one or two bags. A considerable number, collected over years from hotel rooms, conference breakout tables, airport lounges, and one memorable train. They were crumpled, squashed, and of wildly varying quality. I had brought them in case the ship's coffee finally defeated me.

Elena spotted the bag when I opened the laptop case at breakfast to retrieve a cable. She stopped mid sentence. Her eyes moved from the bag to my face and back to the bag.

"How many?" she asked.

"I am not sure."

"English breakfast?"

"Mostly. Some with labels I cannot read."

She sat down across from me with a cup of her own coffee and said, "we shall compare notes."

We spent the next hour sorting them by brand, by age, and by what Elena called "honesty," by which she meant whether the bag actually contained tea or dust. She kept six. I kept the rest. We agreed to conduct a formal tasting on Sunday, which is her half day, and which I am now treating with the seriousness of a state visit.

Tonight

The pool is still lashed to the deck, gleaming in the last of the sun. Priya is somewhere on the bridge, probably winning another game she invented five minutes ago. Elena has my six best bags in a tin marked "experimental."

I am, for the first time since Savannah, not a passenger. I am a man with a swimming costume, a losing eye spy record, and a tea collection that has finally found its audience.

This is better than I expected.