There is something about leaning over the wooden railing of a ship in the waning ebb of the day. The roar of a bow wave pushing out from the hull, the light spray hitting the undisturbed water in a light shrill and the tintinnabulation as the white crest rushes below you falling into a layer onto the unbroken sea. The noise slowly recedes, the ship rises. A pause. Silence - and the whole cacophony begins again. The ship sinking through the water repeating the process as we make our way ever forward towards the fading light.
On the horizon several pillars of grey reach earthward from the sky through an ominous cloud in an early evening squall. The last glow of light from the receding sun lighting the sky behind the cloud creating an ethereal dream.
Walking along the promenade the flooring rises to meet your step, the sound of leather against the deck resonates along the empty path.
Dusk is one of the best times to be alone on deck. The area devoid of passengers, diners readying for an evenings repast, the bars empty of patrons, the uniformed bar-tenders polishing glasses awaiting the next evening rush. Bathers retired from the pool deck now inside to sully themselves after the disappearance of the sun. The restaurant doors closed while waiters polish and shine silverware for the next sitting.
A great time to be alone and contemplate the journey to come.
Reaching the stern, you lean over to look down at the metal hull connecting with the sea.
A flat stream of water shooting out of the base of the ship and then turning into a great cascade of turbulence riled up by the propellers. A white frothy path that sings and dances as it slowly settles back into a calm and gentle swell. A trail of bubbles and froth disappearing off behind and into the distance.. Blue water, green disturbance, white froth and then ... nothing save a crested wave and a dirty aftermath marring the blue sea.
I went and sat in the Wintergarden today, the glass conservatory with a roof ready to retract at the hint of a sunny day.
I thought I’d fallen into a scene from Cocoon.
The drone of an American accent breaking through the doze and snore of the occupants until one of the hitherto sleeping residents awoke and silenced the perpetrator with a hiss.
Others sat reading amid the cane furniture and greenery, others staring out to sea through the large windows in a hypnotic state of contemplation.
Silence again reigned until a sandal wearing constituent shuffled across the floor behind the spasmodic creaking and whining of a wheelchair bound for the spa. The noise of the oil forsaken wheel brightening the blandness of the scene, an almost comedic interruption.
Eyeglasses and disapproving looks peered up from books and slumber to watch as the subject slowly made his way across and through the sliding doors out into the open before returning to their books or the contemplation of life outside the confines of the ship.
The water in the midships pool was sloshing from side to side. A tsunami of water tickling against the restraining ropes of the nets covering the width of the structure. The deck chairs, now repacked against the sides of the room heaved and strained against the ropes holding them down. They moved across the area and into the recesses of the spa.
All that was left on deck was the gentle wind kissing and teasing at the towels discarded by the last bathers.
Here the rumbling from the funnel in an oscillating rhythm pushes against the sky belying the power and force that propels this 90000 ton behemoth through the water. Occasionally the sound of a trumpeter practicing his trade falls through the air from the nightclub above. The melodic tones of his scale falling in rhythm with the dulcet base of the engines below.
Soon the ships company will awake, the sound of the cabaret, the laugh of the audience amused by the comedian, the jangle of ice against crystal in a glass of cognac, the swish of fine clothing moving through the companionways and rooms and the silence will be disturbed.
Until then a shipboard silence, a moment in time to be savored.
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