The sea is is nothing but love and emotion;
it is the Living Infinite.
J. Verne
The ferry was slowly moving out of the Maltese harbor. The engines were humming, the wind was blowing, the splashing waves were sliding down the glass of the huge porthole. We were sitting in the soft armchairs in the cabin, drinking coke, chatting about things and looking at the light-brown cliffs, castles and caves of Malta that we had already loved so much.
I felt sad and really yearned to come back there again. The water area was lit up by the sun, and the ferry was slowly turning around with its nose pointing to the gray-blue cloudy distance.
North. That was where we needed to go. There was no way back.
It was stormy. The vessel had already reached the open sea when something banged in the sidewalls. The wave crests were hitting them. The boat tilted a little, then to the other side, then again, the rock started. The engines began to hum harder and the catamaran began to speed up. Waves came over the bow and rolled off the sloping deck overboard.
Sicily was five hours away.
I left Sveta to enjoy the seascape, and I myself decided to take a walk around the open back deck. I stepped out onto the stern and pressed the button. “Poom!” the door slid open and the wind, cool and white from the splashes and sea salt, blew me around. The rocking increased, and I stood at the edge of the deck, holding on to the rail. The vast expanse opened up in front of me, and I suddenly felt free. The vessel was riding the waves, and I was standing there like an albatross riding a giant sea-horse.
– Excuse me, sir! – I heard behind me out of nowhere.
– Yes, – I answered, and looked back. A steward stood behind me, swaying.
– May I ask you to bring blankets for these two young ladies? – he pointed to the girls sitting right on the deck in the corner under the canopy near the rescue raft box.
They looked alike as if they were sisters. Except, one was a little older, about nineteen or so. Tangled thick black hair, slightly smoggy pretty faces with lost looks on them. Seasickness gave them an extra blue-green touch.
– Sure! No worries! – I said, took a couple wide steps and pressed the button. “Poom”, and I found myself back in the cabin. Here I quickly found the blankets piled on the shelf above the seats and went back aft.
It took me just a minute, but the girls had already fallen down like autumn leaves. They were lying right on the deck, and there were two parallel yellowish streams running smoothly down the deck. The girls had thrown up. We blanketed them silently and left them lying on the deck. The steward fussed around them like a birth father dad or an elder brother. He was still running back and forth bringing them water and clean napkins, was sitting next to them the whole voyage all the way to Sicily where their parents were waiting for them.
I watched the girls quietly. They were lying there slightly breathing, wrapped in those greenish heavy blankets, reminding two little rags, which made me feel sympathetic, caring and helpless. After all, no matter how warm the feelings are, they can’t even stop a tiny storm.