Swaying of the Ship

The swaying of the ship





The great swaying of the ship never ceases, even as the grinding of boat-on-boat hails the arrival of our boarding party. We have been sailing a long way with a heavy load and as a result have been on bare-essential rations and minimal electricity usage. The lights in the main hall are dim and give a pale, sickly glow of amber; it is more of a nuisance than an aid. Most of the crew are still at their stations, though several have come to eat of scanty rations with their few passengers – eleven in total, including myself.

An odd calm pervades as we finish our cured seal meat and dried apricots, as if nothing untoward is about to happen. From the outside, it would not seem as though nobody in the room knows any other in the same room, or that an unknown party is boarding us. Suddenly one of the crew runs to the receiver of the phone as it rings, and shortly after asks us to stand and follow him. I don’t begrudge him ending the meal early – the meat tastes foul. Still, who knows when an over-salted piece of dead animal may become the only thing between you and starvation? I stuff it into the breast pocket of my jacket and sling my backpack over my shoulder before following the herd as we leave the room.

More poorly lit corridors lead the way to what is best described as a car park somewhere in the bowels of the ship. The water can be heard crashing against the wall on one side and there is a powerful sense of damp and dimness, even more so than the dingy corridors. No vehicles are being stored here, but the means and equipment to do so are there – chains are attached to the wall and warning signs in an odd foreign language offer instructions for the crew. I find myself suddenly thinking I wonder where they are keeping the cargo?

Above the timid murmurs and anxious mutterings of the crowd I detect a harsher sound that grates on my eardrums. It is the sound of a fellow Briton who, if he were in the army, would clearly be the type to get a whole squadron killed by giving away the position or disobeying an order. I take an instant disliking to him and move away from his cursing and bickering to speak with one of the crew. Unfortunately I can only communicate with polite shrugs and gestures as whatever language he is speaking falls on deaf ears.

“Hey! Chin – up!” He says suddenly, a line clearly learnt from a subtitled American T.V series or movie. Chin up? I think to myself. I didn’t know my chin was down. Look at these guys – why offer consolidation to me only? Most of the group look nervous, anxious and scared, where I feel casual, confident and alert. What do they know that I don’t?

Before I can try to gather some information a bright light is switched on overhead and it half-blinds us. The definite sound of marching boots over loose metal grids echoes into the room. For some reason the sound has me visualising shiny polish on the boots. Finally, our new adversary stands before us, backed by several armed guards, all dressed in black uniforms. Their boots are polished and shiny.

“You are all under arrest.” He states blandly in a thick North European accent, touching his commander’s cap. The bright lights accentuate his pale skin and though bearded, his hair colour has now been lost to grey. “Follow!”

“Wait, wait!” A small, dark-skinned man in a suit begins, “What this is? You say now where we go and give lawyers, or else I no follow!” I admire his bravado but anticipate the response.

“May I remind you that you are in uncharted waters,” the pale man says slowly. His English is flawless, but he is clearly taking time to be sure he gets it right; he measures each word and sees how it fits – clearly it is not something that comes natural to him. I can see he wants to extend his threat but decides to desist, for fear of over-stepping himself at this early stage.

“Fuckin’ pen pusher!” I hear the Brit say, loud enough for the guards to hear. If he wanted a reaction he didn’t get one. We all follow again like sheep, only this time I notice the crew are left behind looking solemn and grave, as if they have made a great betrayal.

I recognise the route to the captain’s office, only I get a feeling the captain isn’t going to help us on this one, or even be there. Either he is part of this or he is a victim like us. Either way, these black-uniformed guards under the direction of “Grizzly Greybeard” are in control now. We reach a wide corridor and already two more guards await us, this time in similar navy-blue uniforms. We are sent past in twos, each being body-searched and having our bags taken. Some people quarrel to no avail, others put up with the treatment silently, probably promising themselves to write a letter to the appropriate agency when it’s all over. They know as well as I do that it would be a waste of time, and won’t stop them from taking our bags, passports and personal belongings in the very real ‘now’. For all I know these could be very convincing and professional thieves, acting up as an official power.

The first five pairs have been processed, leaving me to stand in ridicule as gloved hands search my body. For some reason I’m finding it difficult to refrain from making quips about a concealed weapon in my trousers, like a child wanting to test his boundaries. When the guard takes my bag he bows under the unexpected weight for a second.

“Travelling light never came naturally to me.” I offer with a smile. He seems unaffected. “I mean, your very kind but really it’s no trouble. I’ll take this one with me.” I offer to take the bag back from him, mindful of the endless hours of reading material inside, enough to keep me sane through any prolonged waiting period. The young guard looks at me perplexed, but is unperturbed and continues nosing at my belongings.

“It is no use to try. He does not understand you.” The pale man spoke directly to me, the accent on the word ‘he’ making it clear what he meant. A few words are exchanged between him and the guard, and then suddenly I feel a hand at my breast pocket. My seal meat is being confiscated!

“Consider it a gift.” I laugh, trying to lighten the situation. “Really, it’s not something I’m going to miss!” The guard looks to the pale man as if for instruction. I cannot see the pale man, but I hear him talking. I get the impression he is translating for the guard, and this is confirmed for me when the guard laughs sarcastically all of a sudden and chops at a pressure point on my neck. I fall to my knees.

“You were trying to conceal this from us!” The pale man is saying to me. I have no wit left to retaliate. “Tonight you will not eat.” He decides, and with that we begin walking again. Nobody will look me in the eyes.





***End of Chapter 1*** (Please contact me if you would like to read the rest!)