Personal / Stories and pebbles

The Ferry.

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Ferries are nice. Escpecially the overnight ones. They are this thing that can take people on the middle of the ocean, somewhere where they were never meant to be, and yet there they are, on their own little floating piece of land, so safe and most of the time quite oblivious to the fact that they are surrounded by vast quantities of salt water. It is only now and then, when their look wanders past the shoulders of the person they’re speaking with, and see nothing but blue, blue all around, that they are reminded. Reminded that a fragile shell of iron is the only thing saving them from being a part of that blue, nothing but blue themselves. It makes them more humble, I think. That is why I like ferries. There is that special feel all around. Like someone is standing on the deck, screaming “Fragile! Oh so silly and fragile! Just human, nothing without the iron beneath your feet!” at all the passengers and no one looks in his direction, but they all hear him. They hear him well. You can see it the way a man makes a way for a woman on the narrow pathway by the railing. You can see it in the way a mother unpacks a bag of homemade sandwiches and then turns to a stranger sitting next to her family, and says: “Excuse me, would you like a sandwich? We have plenty.” You can see it in the way people smile to each other, sometimes for little things, like when a seagull passes their heads dangerously low, but most of the time with no reason, strangers, just smiling to each other across the deck. Everyone is so beautifully equal. It doesn’t matter if the man in the brown jacket is a CEO at home, or that the girl reading a book by the rail sells newspapers on the street corner. Just human, all too human. Nietzsche would like it.
It might be because of this feeling, that ships have always took place in big love stories. Where better to fall in love, even if just for a day, than somewhere where that day might be your last?

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The sun is just beginning to rise from the sea. Almost everyone on the ferry is still asleep, most of them huddled together on the deck in damp sleeping bags. The storm that raged through the night is nowhere to be seen, now there is only oily, calm sea and clear skies, being freshly painted with pink and orange streaks over the dull morning grey. On the roof of the ferry, in the “extremely prohibited” spot that you have to climb 4 miniature ladders to get to, there is a dark statue on the background of the sky. If one would look closer, he would see that it is made of two bare-footed, wind-blown people. He is hugging her from behind and she is laughing in the wind, her laughter getting carried away before it even has the chance to escape her lips properly. She spreads her arms, like a bird, who could fly away any second. His arms come up to match hers, their finger entwine and now they are a strange bird with four wing. They laugh at the movie-like moment, laugh so hard they don’t notice how cold their bare toes are on the wet iron ground, or how close to the edge they stand, with little to hold on to if the wind would pushed just a little stronger. The only thing that there seems to be, is his warm breath on her neck. She turns around just enough so that their lips can meet halfway, and they kiss to the sound of the wind, roaring in their ears and a single seagull somewhere in the distance. The sky is orange and pink, with streaks of gray that haven’t crept away just yet, and no one knows they exist.

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