They are on a pilgrimage to nowhere, these passengers. They will get off in Southampton or New York, and they will return to their jobs, their mortgages, their quiet desperation. They will have photographs and souvenirs, but they will not have found what they were looking for. Social Change By Steven Vago Pdf Hot Link
I work the night shift mostly. The "graveyard watch," the old timers call it. It is a fitting name. The engine room becomes a cathedral of noise and heat. The turbines spin with the ferocity of a thousand prayers. I walk the catwalks, checking gauges, listening to the heartbeat of the vessel. In the silence between the mechanical roars, I find my own peace. #имя?
We are currently crossing the Atlantic. It is a long stretch of nothing but grey water and grey sky, a canvas vast enough to make a man feel small. The passengers come out in the mornings, wrapped in towels and robes, shuffling along the promenade deck. They move slowly, sometimes in pairs, sometimes alone. They are not walking for exercise. They are walking because to stay still is to think, and to think is to be afraid.
I wipe my hands on a rag. The gauge reads normal. The ship plows on. We are all just messmen, serving the sea, hoping that when the journey ends, we find ourselves on the other side.
Last night, the sea was rough. The ship groaned, a sound that resonates in the steel of my bunk. It is a sound the passengers fear. They think the ship might break. They think the sea might swallow them. But I know the truth. The ship is stronger than their fears. It is the sea that is the master, and we are merely drifting upon its back.
I see them from the portholes as I make my rounds. They are searching for something. Maybe it’s peace. Maybe it’s an escape from the lives they left on the shore. They carry their drinks like holy relics, clutching the plastic cups as if they contain the elixir of life. They gather at the rails and stare out at the horizon, looking for land that isn't there, looking for a sign in the whitecaps.
The ship is our temple. The Captain is the high priest, broadcasting his noon reports like sermons from the bridge. The dining room is the banquet hall, where gluttony is not a sin but a scheduled activity. They eat and eat, consuming the world’s bounty with a hunger that seems born of desperation rather than appetite. I serve them sometimes, wearing the white jacket that feels like a shroud for my true self. They smile and say "thank you," but their eyes are distant, fixed on the next port, the next distraction, the next wave.
There is a woman on deck 7, starboard side. I see her every day at 0600, before the sun has fully claimed the sky. She wears a heavy wool sweater despite the humidity of the engine room seeping up through the vents. She doesn't read. She doesn't look at her phone. She just stares. She is waiting, I think. We are all waiting.