In hindsight, it wasn’t a very good idea. Earlier in the day moving between one boat and the other had been easy. After two weeks together, navigating along the coast and fjords of South Greenland, the skippers were adept at manouvering their boats close in the water, pulling up to cliffed walls, delivering passengers onto rocky shores in shallow water. So earlier in the day, when a passenger needed to move from one boat to the other, it was easy enough for them to pull along side and the passenger simply climbed over the railings from one boat to the other. That evening, it was a different story.
The day started with crisp blue skies that drew sharp lines around the dark peaks. By midday, a brisk breeze ruffled the glittering water and wispy cloud in the valleys began to build and gather. By the afternoon, the breeze was a cold blast and the clouds stretched themselves across the sky, leaving long shadows on the choppy water. A storm was coming. The skippers gathered us on board and retreated far into the fjord for shelter in more protected waters.
By nightfall, the storm was in full force and the boats lurched in heavy seas, despite the protection of the sheltered fjord. There was no anchorage and the skippers held their place out in the deep water. Then, the decision was made to transfer one of the passengers between the boats. The skippers manouvered the boats slowly toward each other, lights illuminating the decks in the stormy darkness. Gently, slowly, they approached, with the skill of seasoned seamanship, and the passenger waited in anticipation on the foredeck, ready to vault over the railings when the moment arrived. In the instant the railings met, he launched over the first, only to find the other boat pitch suddenly down and away on the rolling sea, and he fell between the boats and into the darkness.
Immediately, the engines roared and the boats careened away from each other, and from the man in the water between them. Simultaneously, spot lights converged on the lone figure, his red life jacket luminous in that brilliant pool of light on the otherwise dark and heaving water. I remember the roaring engines, the spotlight in the darkness, the panicked faces of other passengers. I don’t remember how they brought him back on board, though it happened swiftly. In what seemed only a few dramatic moments, we were all gathered again in the mess, wide-eyed, still frightened. We drank coffee and whiskey, talking in low voices, our hearts thumping, our skin tingling with dread at what might have been. Late in the night, the wind still howling, I retreated to my bunk and dropped into a murky sleep.
I woke to unanticipated stillness. It was early. I could hear the soft breaths of my cabin-mate, still sleeping in the bunk below me and I climbed out of bed quietly, so as not to wake her. Outside, the wooden deck was cold on the soles of my bare feet and the early morning air fresh on my skin. The boat was completely still in the mirrored water where we sat moored below the end of a long wooden jetty. Small coloured houses were scattered across the rocky hills around the small harbour. All was quiet. The skippers had brought us in to a fishing village in the early hours and now even they were asleep in their beds.
As I stood there alone, in the cool silence of the morning, I heard the faint creak of a wooden beam in the jetty above me and glanced up. A cluster of small, dark faces met my gaze with cautious smiles. Children, huddled together, watching.
