Each day started with a wake-up call from the captain: the weather report, the port schedule if we were due to dock and then reading of ghastly doggerel writ in the 1920s by the “poet,” Don Blanding. This was the signal for breakfast on deck under the spreading sun umbrellas. The days at sea were filled with Indian cooking tutorials interspersed with lectures from an over-the-hill political commentator and a self-help guru – a flashy painted woman who wore wide brimmed hats and heavy jewelry that clanked when she moved her arms. Eschewing their educational efforts, we lounged on deck watching the thousands of silvery flying fish trying to escape the bow wake. They went leaping and bouncing along like pebbles tossed in a game to see how many touch-downs could be made before finally disappearing under the water.
Judith Works (to be continued)
