Cruise Ship

By the time the liner left its mooring at Fort Lauderdale, it was twilight and the sky and the water were the same hue of violet. The ship turned slowly, artificially, as if the tugboats didn’t so much yank us free but, rather, reverentially altered the earth’s axis in our favour. On deck, lining the sides of the ship, there were a number of people talking and throwing an occasional, casual glance toward the disappearing continent, at the colourfully dressed teenagers on the beaches.

I squatted down on the deck at the stern, opened a can of lemonade, and watched the deep churning wake work its way well out into the Atlantic. I could still see land, but it was distant. Too distant, certainly, to swim, and for the first time on the cruise, I noted in myself an awareness of the instinct to flee in an emergency. In planes, without ever consciously articulating it, I similarly note the emergency doors, I notice the vulnerable and helpless. If there were a crash landing, my internal workings suppose, I’d have a head start to safety. But with that advantage, I realised, there's the obligation to the others... Suddenly, my anus sharply contracted in fear and self-pride, like a Venus flytrap prodded by a child’s inquisitive finger. I exhaled and I drank from my can of lemonade.