I don't know why I am heading back home. I was so close to Egypt, but for some reason I have abandoned the journey, got myself back to dry land, and am consulting the train timetables to get back to Northampton as quickly as possible.
I wake up rolling and writhing and find the boat doing the same. The creaking increases as the boat rolls to one side and before it even steadies it is being pulled in the other direction. From my porthole I can see the mast at the bow of the ship tilting to and fro like a metronome to slow but fearful music.
The loud creaking is answered with unfamiliar alarms and the sound of footsteps running down the corridor. There is nothing I as a passenger can do other than to instil my trust in the officers and the crew. I have a whiskey for breakfast. The sea is choppy, the whole, endless expanse of it, and my mind mistakes on several occasions the white tufts of breaking waves for solid land.
These conditions are, on the other hand, great for practising ping-pong, and much as the world's best runners train at high altitudes, I would recommend to any aspiring ping-pong players several days in the Adriatic, where the trajectory of the ball becomes as unpredictable as whether the table will still be in the same place as you return it.
No comments:
Post a Comment