Beautiful sounds: water

The gurgle and slap of waves along the bow as I lie on the heeling side of the hull, tacking through the sea while reading.

Funny idea

The Chief Officer took a photo of me, but without feet. When I asked him to take another with feet, he said without feet makes me look taller.

Beautiful sounds: pond

The soft shooshing of water as it enters the pond on one side and slips out on the other.

Curtains Against the Coastline

When the Turkish officer recounted the story years later, it was still with a sense of disbelief. His ship had anchored off the west coast of British Columbia, near a stretch of shoreline lined with beautiful, posh summer houses. The evening was quiet, the sky dimming into that deep blue hour between sunset and darkness. Inside the cabins, crew members went about their routines. Some lights glowed through the glass of the portholes.

Then came the order from the Port Authorities: any porthole facing the shore must be covered. The only exceptions were the navigation lights required by international law at the bow and stern. The reason? Residents ashore did not want to be “disturbed” by the sight of light coming from the ship.

The officer asked his captain, “What sort of people are like that?” The captain’s answer was swift: “Rich people.” It was a demonstration of privilege born from wealth most likely, from being white. Not in the form of open hostility, but in the quiet rearranging of other people’s lives to preserve one’s own comfort.

From the shoreline, the request might have seemed trivial: what is the harm in asking for a few lights to be dimmed? But from the deck of that ship, it was a reminder that wealth has a reach. It can cross the water, override practical norms, and erase your presence entirely, without a second thought.

Photo by Roland Schumann on Unsplash

She wasn't born yesterday

She struggles down the stairs at Platform 14 of Hamburg's central station. Labouring somewhat under a backpack and two carry-on suitcases, she stops halfway down the steps to catch her breath.
 
A man, maybe in his thirties, shabbily dressed, picks up one of her bags and asks whether he can carry it the rest of the way. She’s grateful yet suppresses the instinct to say, "Don't bother; I can do it." Instead, she closes her mouth into a soft smile and gives a nod of thanks for his civility.
 
At the bottom of the stairs, she hasn't even finished saying her thank-yous when he launches into an elaborate story: he and six friends were travelling south, he missed his train, and something, something, and still more—she can't quite keep the facts in order.
 
After quite a ramble, she understands that he "just needs" 12 Euros (or was it 15 or 20?) to meet up with his friends. He'll travel with her to Hannover, carry her luggage, and then be able to pay her back when they reunite there.
 
He keeps talking while she thinks: Phaah. He's standing too close. His breath smells of alcohol. He has no teeth. He's obviously high. He can't really think this will work, can he? He must live in another world where an old woman still believes these kinds of lies.
 
When he finishes his pitch, she gazes into his eyes with a measure of kindness and says, "No, thank you." They both nod, and he disappears into the crowd.
 
She lingers for a moment, then glances at a man who has been observing the encounter the whole time. She blinks, gives him a half-smile, and wanders off in the opposite direction.

Beautiful sounds: lone bird

The sharp, trilling birdsong of a solitary singer, breaking the hush of a sun-drenched noon as all others sleep.