When you perhaps find yourself on a ferry from Norway to Germany, you might want to try to avoid the noisy party crowds. Hide in your cabin until late. Very late…
Then – as the last few tired Germans saunter to their beds and the ship quiets down – find an empty restaurant, shortly before closing time. Find a beer… a bite to eat… and maybe meet someone like Geir, 46, from Sweden.
Perhaps you might also find yourself still talking with him almost two hours later. About cycling sport, his divorce, playing chess, his four kids that he lives for, kayaking, his work on the ship – two weeks on and two weeks off back home with his children in Gothenburg. And how his days at sea just flows into each other – killing time.
And perhaps he’ll show you pictures of his house, his bicycle, his kids. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀
And maybe he’ll explain how utterly poor he has grown up, how he has been ridiculed at school, but will go silent suddenly when you ask about that too much.
And – on finally parting, smilingly saying goodbyes and exchanging email addresses – you might even invite him to one day visit Cape Town – promise to show him around.
But perhaps you won’t feel hurt when his face drops as he exclaims: “Cape Town!? But zats zo dangerous!!” ⠀⠀⠀⠀
So then – at two o clock in the morning – step outside onto the dark deserted deck of the huge vessel. Feel the ocean breeze becoming warmer as continental Europe draws closer and Scandinavia slips further away. Hear and feel the thunderous drone of the gigantic engines far below as it pushes the ship ever forward.
Look down at the white waves under its bow.
And think of home. Of Cape Town… ⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀⠀ ⠀ ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀
