 |
 |
|
At home…
After dinner last night, I went on the deck for a smoke and to watch the night sky and the moonlit water flow past. I saw a fire in the distance. At first, my morbid imagination attributed this flame with a burning boat. Then I realized we must be on the Mississippi River again, out of the Gulf of Mexico, and very close to home. I checked my cell phone. One bar of reception. I just didn't know how to feel. A bar of reception. Civilization. Land. Cities. Responsibilities. Mundanities. One bar of reception told me all this. It also told of nights out with friends, my stupid cat that I like more than I care to admit, and being in places where the ground doesn't slowly rock. One bar of reception had me all twisted up in conflicting emotions, but the result was clear: the end was nigh. This morning we had breakfast while waiting for U.S. Customs to clear the boat so we could begin disembarking. When we queued up to leave, who should be in front of us but Rod Stewart. What are the odds? (Well, approximately 2100 : 1, actually.) Walking behind him was like saying goodbye to an old friend. Everything about that ship, and many people on it, had become so familiar. It's astounding how used to the delicious routine of sea cruising one can become in just a week. There was lots of internal goodbye-saying, and I dreaded the inevitable moment when my phone would ring and shatter the beautiful mirage that had been created. I stood behind Rod Stewart, eyeing him longingly. Not longfully because I had any lusty feelings left over for this stranger, but because he had, without knowing it himself, become a staple to our trip. And he was leaving. And we were leaving. I looked at his duty free box and saw the name "Karl." At customs, I heard him say he's from Canada. Okay, Karl. I'll be in Canada in January and I hope to see you there. |
 |
 |
 |