The shop, or as it's known for some reason, the slop, where the sailors can stock up on cigarettes, Twixes and disposable razors, is open for only one hour a week, and today is that lucky day. I go halves on a bottle of whiskey with Markus. “Are you sure?” asks Razvan. “Well, if I don't finish it after five days, I'll leave the rest for you.” “No, I meant are you sure it's enough?!”
Razvan is on night duty, so we go to the bridge and annoy him while he tries to work. He talks us through the various instruments and computers, and together we mark on a chart covering the drawing table our current position. Whiskey turns out to be the perfect match for an evening whiled away on the bridge, chatting not only about the study of navigation but about dreams, love and life in general.
Razvan takes us outside onto the compass platform and we look up into the night. Sugar has been spilt across the dark sky. He turns out to be well versed in the constellations, and he points out, as clearly as I've ever seen them, lizards and swans and harps dancing through space. As we listen and admire, it occurs to me quite how isolated we are. Surely travel such as this is the height of “getting away from it all”.
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