Night-time has fallen by the time the ship's engines are running and we feel the first signs of movement. From the bridge, I look back to land and spot a small pilot boat approach, speeding to the bow to guide the ship's cumbersome movements out of port.
Under the moonlight the sea is like rippling silk, held up by a million actors. Trieste, whose street-lamps form a lattice across the hills surrounding the city, draws further and further away. I spend a long time watching it recede in the realisation that it's my last sight of Europe, familiar territory.
I see the pilot bouncing back through the ship's wake to land, his job done. I, on the other hand, won't be returning for at least a year.
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