I still wake up here every morning like a ten-year-old boy at the start of the big holiday: each time an empty day is waiting to be filled. Nothing is planned. Twelve hours unreachable for everyone, no mails to expect and a cell phone that won't ring. There is only the "life in the present" as Marcus Aurelius meant it: filling in the 'now' without wanting to understand or hold on to that moment. Time is like wind over water; elusive.
"An island is in sight!"
A large hump rises on the starboard side of the water. According to the map this is the Italian Pantelleria. Through the binoculars villages become visible. Strings of white houses cling to the slopes. Italian voices are heard over VHF channel 16, the first familiar sound in a long time. I get a pleasant holiday feeling. The sun is already shining brightly and the sea is calm and smooth today. The only traffic is from coasters, small tankers and fishing boats.We passed underneath Sicily, which remained invisible as we were 60 miles from the coast. For the same reason, we won't notice that we're passing Malta on the other side.It's bizarre how much I need land to orient myself. At the drop of a hat I reach for my maps: how far have we travelled, where are we in relation to the African mainland, where are we sailing to Greece? My behaviour betrays the landlubber that I remain.A sailor only uses latitudes and longitudes to determine his position, or the stars; for him, land is no more than a point of orientation for setting out a course, and what's more, pieces of land are more like obstacles in a world three-quarters of the way made up of water.For instance, the captain indifferently waves his hand when I mention Sicily: 'oh yes, Sicily, it's over there somewhere...'. There's not even a map on the bridge anymore! All positioning is digitised and done by radar and computer. The wide sliders are still there, but they never open.Eventually I arrive on the bridge with the geographical map I tore from my atlas. Gleb and Lawrence look at me pityingly while they listen to my question: could you please draw the course on this from here to Piraeus and Istanbul ? Then I wouldn't have to bother you three times a day.They do it so conscientiously that I almost feel remorse. The scale is calculated, the computer set, and the measurements with a triangulation ruler drawn on my atlas map. With course changes and the number of degrees. I leave with many thank you's, but they will never understand why.
"To them, I remain a strange non-sailor clinging to land like the devil to a soul."
Is it a sign that I'm finally surrendering? Or does my behaviour imply danger ? With a deck chair that I dragged from deck D three decks up to G, I install myself in a corner out of the wind. The camera stayed in the cabin and was replaced by sunglasses and Nivea cream.It is 24 degrees Celsius. The sun is burning. The sea is blue. Today I'm not doing anything, just lazing around. The passenger who has always walked back and forth and up and down is tired. He doesn't want to be an industrious man who wants to see everything anymore, he is now a tourist with a book in the sun. He doesn't give a damn where we are, the next two days there will only be sea, sea and more sea.I put the book away and look at the sea with a feeling that I can't put into words: is this the final surrender, the Great Letting Go? Or is this more a sign of spiritual laziness and am I becoming blasé? No idea. Is it strange that I feel a bit weird, or is this normal for someone who lives eight days at the lowest limit of his social activity? No idea. Or is this an announcement of the even more dreaded "self encounter" ? No idea. I hope not.
"I don't feel like meeting myself at all."
I wouldn't know what to say to me. Hello, it's me. And you?Well, maybe my inner self has just shifted into the lowest gear, the one of enjoyment, something I've never been good at. It's not bad. It doesn't even hurt.I stay up later than planned. With Lawrence and Gleb I am still standing on the outer wing of the bridge at 11 pm. We stare at the sky that is full of stars. Once in a while we see a falling star. They bring good luck! The two of them know the sky by heart and I am given a lesson in astronomy, but as with all subjects, the names of the constellations go in one ear and out the other. It doesn't matter. What counts is that we are standing here, in pitch darkness, with above us the starry sky and below us a ship that is steaming imperturbably towards Piraeus, driven by 76.000 horsepower.
"It's afternoon, the sun is shining hard on the deck and to starboard the coast of Tunisia slides past."
We are now sailing near the Tunisian Sidi Bou Saïd, the former Carthage. Years ago I stood on that spot, from where Hannibal started his elephant ride against the Roman Empire.From now on, from this point on our trip, the history of the Carthaginians, Greeks, Phoenicians and Romans will not leave us until Istanbul, the "gateway to the east" : Constantinople.The sea through which our ship now sails has had all the emperors and rulers of antiquity over it, eager as they were to conquer even more power, even more land 'on the other side'. At home I still have a few history books from my humanities period and I promise myself to refresh my knowledge. But yes, that is what I have promised myself many times.
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