Becalmed

For once, I am looking forward to travelling. Because this will be different, no intrusive security, unbelting your trousers, divesting and revesting, no mad speed and lurch into the known unknown. Or trying to put out of your head the Ryanair flight just last week that had to turn back when the crew noticed an ?oily smell? in the cabin, something to do with traces of ash (from that unpronounceable Icelandic volcano) they found later in the engine. No meditating on words like fuselage or glass-rich-plume or clogged turbine blades, that would call for another double gin and tonic.
 
I sleep well then my wife wakes me with a mug of coffee before giving me a lift, from her parents? place in Wexford, to catch the ferry from Rosslaire to Fishguard, then connect with the train to London. Time?s tight, we have to take our five year old son and the portable DVD playing Shaun The Sheep, but the weather?s lovely and it?s a smooth run, except for a brief stop for him to do a quick piss on the verge; he can?t go at first and I tell him to take his time, standing with my back to him, standing guard, while he gets it together to plant his trembling arc, bless every inch of him.
 
I have never had a problem with boats, not that I?ve been on that many. But we all know that faint motion that tilts the fluid in the inner ear?s gyroscope, its spirit level, that can make some people queasy even before we?ve shuddered off into a sea calm as glass.
 
And that's just how the sea is, a seriously sunny day to wave goodbye into before boarding the boarding lounge and waiting, not too long.

About half an hour from Rosslaire, as I?m sitting down to a breakfast of beans, fried egg and chips, I become aware that something has altered. I lean forward to look out the window (as the man next to me is doing) and yes, our lovely churned-bright-green wake is fading rapidly, though the froth of its path is still there, curving back towards Tuskar Lighthouse.

The calm captain?s voice on the intercom announces that the engines have stopped for some reason; no need to worry, they are trying to locate the problem, though we may be a little late in Fishguard. My first thought is that at least this isn't happening at 30,000 feet. My second thought is of how easily things can go wrong on these huge steel boxes whose hollowness is mainly what keeps them afloat, that and the careful distribution of weight, a kind of balancing act. It doesn't seem so long ago (the 1980s still seem like yesterday) when Charon took the helm on the Herald of Free Enterprise, leaving the sea-doors open enough to tip that balance.

And even though Tuskar is nearby, just over there, there is enough of where we shouldn?t be. The sea is calm but I can still feel its swell, disquieting now because it is the only significant movement. The queue for breakfasts has dissipated, the dim lounge rocking slightly, amassing absurdity. Sorry, I can?t keep face. I put down my fork, rise, prepare to pace, then change my mind and walk to the bar to ask for a glass of water. 'Sorry', the woman in the white shirt shrugs, 'no power.'