myWiggins

At Sea

Saturday, February 29, 2020 at 08:23 (UTC+0000)

The thrumming ferry rocked me to sleep after the noisy ladies next door passed out and the car alarm on the vehicle deck finally satisfied itself that the slapping waves were not thieves.

At first light the breakfast buffet was ready, ceiling speakers playing gentle lounge versions of "Shine On You Crazy Diamond" and "Sunday Bloody Sunday" ironically soothing the early diners. I stood in line with plate in hand. The lady right in front of me sneezed across the scrambled eggs. Ay Corona! I took a scoop anyway, and placed a scoop of manure berries — er, mushrooms — on top. Building up immunity, you know.

I sat down, alone, and a bored waiter served coffee. O where is my wee buddy? Karen would be loving this. Outside slid past a forest of tall white windmills planted in the rolling green sea. A red bouy leaned away from its anchor in the wind. The Continent must be near.

Indeed, soon there appeared a yellow helicopter that slowed and turned and approached us from the lee. As passengers gawked a man climbed out its door and was lowered by a winch to land, spread eagle, on our after deck. It was the harbor pilot who will steer our ship safely in to dock. Normally he would arrive by motorboat but perhaps the sea is too rough today. Everyone waved as the helicopter veered away to head home. What a job that would be.