The bend in the river

 

Paula's story: 

When Genevieve left her husband after 30 years of marriage — at least 10 of them good, she figured — she was determined to make for herself a sanctuary, a safe place of her very own: Solitary. Peaceful. Happy. She found a fifth-floor walkup in a narrow building on a cobblestone street in the oldest section of the city, which happened to be walking distance from her job. She lugged her linens, her cutlery, and her cats up the steep stairs, settled in as best she could, and waited, hoped, ached for her new life to begin.

Meanwhile, one of her closest friends, a man she had worked with for a few decades, and who, over the years, had become not just a drinking buddy but also a confidant, was dating a younger woman and, naturally, had become consumed with his new paramour. Genevieve and Lewis rarely spoke these days; he didn’t even know that she had left her husband.

Then, one afternoon, Genevieve, in the midst of her divorce, overcome with sadness and fear, had a mini-meltdown in the employee bathroom. Her sobs were witnessed by one of the young writers on Lewis’ staff, who immediately reported it to her manager, who then mentioned it to Lewis.

“What the fuck?” Lewis thought.

And thus was born his Grand Plan.

Within a few months, the younger woman in his life had been jettisoned, and Lewis had become singularly focused. On a new life. On a life with Genevieve. On a life he had always dreamed of.

They worked together so well. They liked each other so much. How could love not be far behind?

They started hanging out, just like the old days. Cocktails. Card games. Confidences. And when the short-term lease on Genevieve’s apartment was up, Lewis just happened to mention that there was a woman in his building who wanted to lease her apartment for six months while she went to Thailand. Genevieve shrugged, and thought, why not? And so it happened that Lewis moved all of Genevieve’s possessions, including her cats, into the apartment two doors down from him, one evening while she was at work. She was flabbergasted. She was charmed. She was wondering what he had up his sleeve.

This particular apartment was in old warehouse, sitting in the bend of the Mississippi River, in downtown New Orleans. Their apartments were on the top floor, and Genevieve sometimes would spend hours looking out at the river, wondering about her future. The ships reminded her of life. As they barreled down the river past the city skyline, larger than the skyscrapers on the bank, their bows were pointed straight at her apartment, and their rusty steel hulls would fill her vision. At night particularly, Genevieve would fear that disaster must be at hand. But always, just in time, the ships veered away south in a gentle, majestic arc, turning aside and sweeping down toward the Gulf of Mexico. You just had to have faith.

By the time her absentee landlord decided to come back home, Lewis had won Genevieve’s heart, and he had once again moved all of her stuff while she worked, but this time, just two doors down, into his spacious corner apartment. There, against all convention, they moved their bed into the immense front room, where they could lie in the moonlight and watch the river traffic, as the constant stream of ships traversed that treacherous bend in the mighty Mississippi.

They lived together, learned together, laughed together at that bend in the river. They fell madly in love at that bend in the river. He proposed marriage to her at that bend in the river.

And they finally understood that, even when life seemed to be barreling straight at them with malicious intent, if they held fast and believed in each other, the things that scared them would, finally, turn away, and leave only the starry sky.

 

 

Patrice's story

You know how when you are at the river getting ready to get into a kayak or plop into an inner tube?  

There’s all this noise around you.  Kids chasing each other, chattering, yelling.  Music playing from multiple sources.   Maybe even traffic sounds on an overpass, dogs barking.   A cacophony, auditory and visual.  Once you are in your kayak, canoe, or  inner-tube and have pushed yourself away from the shallows, letting the current move you along, the noise becomes background, or even ceases.  And if you are a little ambitious you can stroke faster with an oar, or kick your legs, and take a bend in the river ahead of the others and suddenly, there is tranquility, an entirely new sense of place.

Well, that’s how I’m going to treat the world of politics in my country, and maybe even family drama for the foreseeable future. I’m going to go ‘round the bend toward the tranquil space where the noise is background or inaudible.  I’m going to float where the river takes me, drifting in contemplation.  Perhaps like an otter I’ll relax on my back and when I sleep, lightly hold Robert’s hand and listen to the tinkle of water in my ears.

If I get too close to shore and the noise begins to intrude I will sing to myself, loud and proud. I will speak extemporaneous poetry to trees, and birds, and fish, and rocks.  I will live in the lacuna and find the drift, the float, that raises silence to an imperative,  where a soft approach serves both me and the river.  

Should I last on the river until the noise subsides I will step ashore, find some kindling, build a fire, and sit once again on the ground. 

 

Sarah's story

 Richard gazed idly out of the window.  Why were they creeping along at this lazy pace?  It was supposed to be a high-speed train, wasn't it?  The pride of the French railway system.
He began to notice, nevertheless, that in this way he remarked more things, for example this strange orchard running alongside the tracks, with spindly trees, how woefully thin!  Only a yard or so apart and help up by a sort of wire fence.  No wonder, how could one expect a tree to grow successfully in such conditions?  Leave it to the French!  Then it occured to him that perhaps it wasn't an orchard but a tree nursery, a vast tree-nursery, for it had been going on for several minutes, and stretched almost as far as the eye could see.
But the train was picking up speed now, leaving the trees behind, and they came to a river, with full-grown trees wildly lining its banks.  The trees, of various sizes now, mirrored themselves in the still waters—this was no raging stream, which was the way Richard preferred a river to be, and for a moment he wondered whether it was not a river at all, but a canal, so straight did it run.  The French were fond of canals.  As he lazily racked his brain, however, he did not remember any canals in this region.  He was bored again, and he sighed.
The train slowed again, and eased into a town.  Not a particularly attractive town.  The train stopped, a few passengers got off, others climbed on.  And, what ho! a young girl of 19 or 20 or so came in and chose to sit down in the very seat directly across from him.  As if she couldn't have chosen another seat, there were lots of them, and left him in peace.  Was he going to have to sit here and look at her for the rest of the journey?  
He was just about to suggest the idea to her when she smiled brightly and got a word in first.  "You wouldn't mind, would you," she began.  In French of course, but that was not a problem for Richard; he was fluent in several languages.  "You wouldn't mind changing seats?"
His look of stupefaction only encouraged her to go on.  "I mean, you don't seem very interested in the landscapes, you look as though you're just thinking your own thoughts."
How the dickens did she know what he was thinking or not thinking, or what interested him or not?  Besides, what 'landscapes' could she be referring to in this doddering town?  But before he had time to finish asking himself these questions, she had jumped ahead of him again, as the train slid out of the station.
"I mean, I love watching the countryside slide by, there are all the old familiar things, but also surprises.  You never know just what you're going to see."  She was looking at him expectantly.  What the devil did she want him to do?  Agree with her?
"So.  Can we change seats?  It's so much better looking out the window in the right direction!"
She stood up, still wearing her expectant smile, and he realized he was meant to stand up too.
Why should he do so? he asked himself with some irritation.  But it was less of a bore to comply than to start an argument, so he got up, not without a frown, and gave her his seat, sitting down in hers.  Too late he realized he could have taken a seat farther away.
"Look!" she said brightly before he could even get his thoughts together.  But how could he look, and at what?  He was now facing the wrong way to see what she was looking at, even if it were interesting.
"There's a bend in the river!  Who knows what's just beyond it?  I do, of course, because I've been here many times before.  But you don't.  Aren't you curious?"
Good lord, she expected him to converse with her as well?  He was about to reply that curiosity was not one of his defects, but she prevented him the ignominy of rising to her bait by continuing without interruption herself.
"Even so," she said, "there could be a surprise around the bend.  Look, we're almost there.  Yes!  Today there's a fisherman, he's got a long white beard, a real grandfather.  And he must be one, there's a little boy with him.  I imagine he tells the boy stories.  But why isn't the child in school?  Oh, right, it's Wednesday afternoon.  Ah, they're gone now.  Too bad."
Was she really going to chatter on like that for the rest of the journey?  In fact, she was, as he soon saw, but he needn't have worried about having to hold up his part in the conversation, for she valiantly took over the whole responsibility herself.  At every change in the landscape she found something to exclaim about or to marvel at.
"It's like life, isn't it?  Full of unexpected things.  You never know what's around the bend."
Ha!  She could say that, at 19.  But for him?  His course was mapped out in one straight line, to the next promotion, and the next raise in salary, and then another promotion, and another raise in salary ...  For what, he surprised himself by asking.  But she was bubbling away again.
"Look, beehives!  Over there at the end of the field.  So many of them!  They must make tons of honey.  I would like that.  I would like to raise bees some day.  Wouldn't you?"
No chance of that happening, he thought.  Or ...?
"The world is full of so many routes to take, so many doors to open ... don't you think?"
Of course she didn't expect him to reply.  But so much cheerfulness, Richard  grumbled automatically to himself, was irritating to one of his nature.  Yes, it was quite oppressive.  In fact it was, rather, somewhat disturbing.  But then the train began to slow down again, and after a minute or so came into a station, hardly less glum than the one before.
The girl jumped up.  "Well, this is where I get off.  It was so nice talking with you." (With me? he thought, to me you mean.)  "But you can get your seat back now."  She shouldered her small backpack and started to leave.
"Wait," he said, to his own surprise, " what's your name?"
"Judith," she said.  He had a momentary vision of her holding the head of Holophernes by the hair.  Dripping blood.  But girls didn't do that sort of thing any more.  Or did they?  But before he came back to the moment to say "Thank you" (now, why did he say that?) she was out the door, with a little wave.  He strained to see her out on the platform but she must have gone off in another direction; there was no-one to be seen but the station master, blowing his whistle.  
As the train pulled out, he stared at the seat across from him, which looked singularly empty.  He got up and crossed over, taking his original seat again.  And began to look out of the window, at the delightful French countryside, dotted with farmhouses, some of them with lighted windows now that dusk was setting in.  What could be behind those windows, he thought?  And he speculated.  On many things.
 

Geraldine's story

THE BEND IN THE RIVER

 

The river, still quite far from it’s estuary, was running alternatively through wild and smooth landscapes. 

In the early morning, Kate and John, after a wonderful night spent under the stars on one of the little sand island’s dotting the river, got up very smoothly, heated the water for their coffee and prepared a bowl of cereal and yoghourt.  It had become their daily routine before starting the rowing to the next step.

The itinerary had not really been prepared.  They would store their belongings in a waterproof container which was fixed in the middle of the canoë and start rowing in the early morning mist, making as little noise as possible in order not to break the charm : the river was like a mirror with just a few dots made by the insects waking up and taking their first sip.  The reverberation of the high trees was an invitation to follow them, reach them and catch them, between the few white clouds dancing in the water.

This deeply zen tempo would last untill the sun would set highly in the sky provoking a mild wind which would start moving the water they were sliding on.  The East wind was the most welcomed as it would help pushing the canoë and easing their efforts.

After a couple of hours, they would start watching out to see if there was a little village around where they could stop for the morning coffee , which invariably would show up.  They would hopp off the canoë, keeping their rows with them and connect to humanity again with a hot coffee and a croissant in a country bar, listening to barroom gossip : bliss ! 

Where will the luncheon stop be ?  Where there’s a church, or a castle, or something to visit. They would consider the distance, then, spotting it on the map, would hop back into the canoe and row peacefully along the shores.  What is there to see ?  Beavers bringing little branches of wood to consollidate their dams, blue kingfishers spotting fishes in the river and , if lucky, catching them,  otters swimming along, metallic blue or bright yellow dragonflies frantically flapping their wings, shoals of fishes gliding through the shimmering water and sometimes, herons crossing the blue or grey skyes above.

Lunch stop : back to civilization.  The canoë would be hidden in high grass under a bridge in the town, the rows taken with them, used as walking sticks, not that they needed them, but to make sure noone would sail off with the canoe.  Stroling along, they would invariably come accross a « brasserie » for lunch, near the castle or place they wanted to visit.  And back to the Middel-Ages or Renaissance period showing what life, for the rich, poweful and noble was like.  How incredible the constructions were, the huge chimneys in the great lounges, the stained glass for the windows, the stone or marble slabs, the terracotta or yellow tiles, and the richly designed furniture and woven drapery !

After a little pause in the minimarket to buy food for the evening dinner on the chosen island and the next morning’s yoghourt, the  trip would continue towards the sea where all rivers end up to, but it was still more than 500 kms away…

One afternoon, rowing vigorously to the West, they came to a bend in the river. As soon as the bend had been taken, what did they see, but a barbed wire crossing the river with a « no entrance » pannel and a signpost arrow showing where to leave the river…. And walk for 3 to 4 kilometers with the canoe and belongings to avoid…. The big nuclear power station built there in order to have enough water to cool down the system.  

Pulling up all the courage they had left, and regretting the big meal they had taken, they picked up their luggage, home, means of transportation and all and bending under the weight, struggled along the deviation of this power station on the wild river, erected there for mankind confort !

That evening, they landed on one of the scattered sand  island with no noise, hence the bird crys crossing over their heads, gathered a few branches, started their fire and when they had enough braise, took out their grill, and feeling like Robinson Crusoe, gently cooked the meat they had bought in town, the potatoes cooking in the charcoal, and a fruit.  So close to paradise !

 

Jackie's story

The bend in the river

Sitting in the courtroom that morning I reflected on the time we had spent scouring the internet  for a house for sale.   This one appeared one day on a freebie website.

“House for sale, 4 bedrooms, Large kitchen and fireplace with sitting room,  bay windows and a view on the river.     The photos looked too good to be true and the view from the sitting area onto the water was promising.

We leapt at the occasion.    A dream come true. We were transferred by my husbands work from North to the South and we leapt at the occasion to discover another part of the country.

 I had always wished somewhere to live with access to water, whether it be a lake, small pond or better yet a river.

We immediately phoned the agent and even without seeing the house we said YES we wanted to buy.   Cash and the only request was that we could move in before the month of June so as to enjoy maximum pleasure from the garden and especially the river.

Done.   Paid and we moved in.    Our first thoughts were delight as we walked into the house.   Impeccable condition, colours that we loved on the walls and the kitchen was to die for.

When though we got to the sitting room and looked for the so called view of the river – we couldn’t see any  water because of a bend in front of the garden sloping down and made the view impossible.    So,  no river view.

Should we take the owners and the real estate agent to court.    When is a bend not a bend?  A view onto the river obstructed by a bend?.

So here we are in front of a judge.    Examining the advertisement made by the real estate agent and approuved by the owner.     

She stated that :

The agent advertised a “view on the river”
If the physical reality (the bend) means the view doesn’t exist, the agent made a false representation.

The bend is simply the cause of the obstruction, not the person responsible.   In fact it is not the bends fault. The river’s bend blocks the view, so the property does not actually have a river view. Because the agent claimed it did, they made a false statement—regardless of whether they intended to mislead anyone.

Many months later we got our view having put up with tractors , scoupers, and men shoveling sand and earth to un-bend the bend in the river thus providing us with a fantastic view  !

If this story is driving you “round the bend “ You will be happy to know that this is the BEND ooops THE END

Jesus Cacophony dinner blood vertigo grandiose callow

Patrice story

Cacophony, grandiose, callow, vertigo, dinner, blood, Jesus

Dinner had begun because it had to begin.  The before dinner drinks were finished and that had been dreadful enough.  This ritual of meeting her daughter’s boyfriends had been going on since Tess was 14 years old. The addition of a cocktail hour had made no improvement to the ordeal or the young men.

This one had arrived in a cacophony of metal bracelets, neck chains and charms, and earrings that set her teeth on edge every time he moved.  His long hair was parted down the middle and draped behind his shoulders in a Jesus parody that continued to his sandal clad feet - in February.  Instead of shaking her hand, or even god forbid, kissing her on the cheek, he put his palms together, bowed, and said, “namaste”.  Anna thought to her self, na, I’m not staying, but outwardly smiled and offered drinks.

Tess had introduced him with his full name, Barclay William Henry Mackinnon III.  Grandiose sounding at the best of times, and these were not those.  At the drinks, he’d asked  if she had any Lagavulin - the callow punk.  She did but said she didn’t and gave him the Ballantine she used for baking.   During the drinks the public displays of affection were appalling and Anna prayed that Tess was doing it to annoy her and didn’t behave like this when she was out.

She had deliberately not asked about dietary restrictions.  Tess, the darling had been serially - a vegetarian, a pescatarian, a vegan, a carnivore, and one or two other things Anna longed to forget.  She’d opted for potatoes, vegetables and a roast thinking that even if there was a preference something could be eaten from that safe menu.  She’d even bought a cake not wanting to spend more time preparing  the meal than the relationship was likely to last. Her respite in the kitchen was over.  She loaded the platter and brought it to the table.  Tess and the wunderkind were not at the table, nor in the living room where she had left them.  She heard something in the entryway and poked her head through the doorway.  She heard noises coming from the downstairs loo.  Anna had a moment of vertiginous outrage.  Were they really?!! Was it possible - but yes, from the noises it was indeed possible.

Anna went back into the kitchen, poured herself a glass of wine, drank it, then poured another which she sipped, contemplatively.  Was it possible to really disown one’s blood relatives?  One’s child?  Or did one just put up with it hoping that one day it would all change and make sense?  She had no idea.  She heard the loo door open, she sighed and carrying her wine glass, she went to sit at the table.

 

Paula's story

“Jesus,” Charles muttered as he threw the pages of the Times to the floor of the sitting room. “Is there no end to the cacophony of press coverage of this thing?”

Camilla looked up from liberally buttering a piece of toast at her place across the breakfast table, and smiled mischievously. “It certainly puts your wishing to be my tampon in a bit of perspective, doesn’t it, my bonny boy?”

“So true,” he grinned his special devilish grin at his wife, once a pariah herself in the press and now the queen of England, his queen, indeed. “Seems it was a simpler time then, wasn’t it? But now! Just think of it! Allegations of rape and pedophilia against a member of my own family!” He was getting heated up again. Camilla let him rant. She knew he would burn himself out eventually, and by dinner time that evening, he would be settled sedately with his Scotch in front of the fire, all thoughts of his ruinous younger brother far from his mind.

But for now, the king was incensed. He stood, drawing himself up to his full height of 1.78 meters. He sighed. He couldn’t appear grandiose no matter how he tried. Scepters, crowns, medals, swords: he still managed to look like the frightened little boy left at Groton in Scotland by his parents, a jug-eared adolescent at the mercy of his classmates. “It will toughen him up,” his father had assured the skeptical Elizabeth. Actually, all it did was provide blood sport for the upperclassmen.

“I’ve made a decision,” Charles announced to Camilla. “Andrew will be stripped of his title. He will no longer be a prince. He will henceforth be known as Mr. Andrew Mountbatten Windsor. Everything I have done up to now

, convincing mummy a few years ago to strip him of his public duties and keep him under wraps, has not been enough. His cavorting with a known sexual predator and convicted sex offender is just beyond the pale. I mean, really! It makes one’s head spin! It’s enough to give one vertigo!”

Camilla nodded. “I agree, darling. I completely agree. I say, let’s kick him out of his home in the Royal Lodge, too!”

“Yes, I fear that is necessary as well,” the king mused. “Although where Fergie will go, I couldn’t guess. Maybe she’ll bunk in with one of their daughters. I never understood why she continued to live with Andrew after their divorce, anyway. Maybe he’s still licking her toes…”

Charles sighed again. “I guess I should involve Will in this decision,” he said. “As the heir to the throne, he will have to deal with the repercussions. Especially if this cancer kills me as quickly as the doctors expect.”

Camilla wiped a small tear from her eye with a manicured pinky. “Oh, darling Fred. I simply cannot bear the thought.”

“I know, Gladys, I know,” the king said, as he moved behind her chair and took the opportunity to gently squeeze the robust breast peeking out from his wife’s silken robe.  “These doctors, they are all so young, so raw, so callow. But they seem so certain.”

“Well, we must keep a stiff upper lip, my king,” Camilla said, standing to curtsey, as she had been trained to do. As she knelt, one leg thrust elegantly behind her, her robe slipped from her shoulders, revealing her nakedness.

“I say,” King Charles proclaimed. “Not just the upper lip, now! Jolly good show, Cammie!”

 

Jackie's story

The dinner preceding the art exhibition was grandiose and as I walked into the room of guests in their fine evening wear a sudden bout of vertigo caused me to knock over a statue of Jesus – as it cascaded into a million pieces,  blood flooded the floor and my normal callow nature overcame me and I stood up and shouted to stop the cacophony in the room, my heart pounded like a drum in an African jungle but then I fainted in the midst of the crowd and everything went blank.     

_______________________________________________________

Geraldine's contribution:

In those days, boarding schools were separate !  Was the idea that girls among girls and boys among boys would discover the joys of blending their minds and bodys later ?  Maybe ! 

Or was it to protect the girls against the boys ?  Or was it to teach the girls that their future life was to attend the males they were to connect with later ? Or maybe only just to separate their body odours considering that the feminine were much lighter and pleasant.  Who knows !

Nevertheless, this related boarding school story took place in a girl’s boarding school.

It was late afternoon at the begining of December : the November winds had completely alliviated the trees of their colourfull autumn leaves and spred out their naked branches towards a dark grey sky.  A load of shiny black crows were furrowing the sky looking down for any leftovers that could feed them and  diving  to the ground in a terrific cacophony.

Santa Claus accompanied by Mr. Bogeyman were expected after dinner and the little girls were impatient, worried and excited.  Had they been good enough to deserve a present, was Mr. Bogeyman going to give them a cruel look and deprive them from their orange, what was to be expected ?

The 6th of December dinner was always grandiose : instead of the plain soup with a few potatoes usually served at night, there would be roast potatoes, cabbage, a bit of bacon and certainly a peace of cake and a tangerine.  Bliss !

Then, everyone would sing

 « Ô Grand Saint Nicolas, Patron des Ecoliers,

Apporte-moi des pommes dans mon petit panier

Je serai toujours sage comme un petit mouton

Je dirai mes prières pour avoir des bonbons »

This song would be followed by a prayer to Jesus asking him to rid our souls of any bad thought or any sin committed recently.  Also to take care of the beloved and make us good !

The nuns would clap in their hands to put the kiddys in a row, the lights would go out and who would walk in but Santa Claus in his red velvet gown with his tall bishop’s crosier, a miter on the head,  a large white beard and just behind him, Mr. Bogeyman, a dark coloured man wearing a turban with an austrage feather and a zouave uniform,  walking in the middle of the row lighted by candles. 

They sometimes provoked a kind of vertigo amongst the young public, the most undisciplined, also being greeted by butterflies in their tummy. 

The stage was set, the show was to start !  The little girls, one by one, went up the 3 steps that led to the stage and sometimes the callow ones didn’t understand what they were supposed to be doing.  But, then, the magic would begin and every single one was given a paquet of sweets, an orange, a gingerbread cake called speculoos, a smile from Santa and a wink from Mr. Bogeyman who clearly made them understand what a loving man he was and how he would never harm anyone of them.

Once all the little girls had been presented with their gifts, they would form a circle and begin to sing the songs that they had learnt at school during the term : happyness and joy were there : a communion of good feelings contrasting with the dull everyday life they were granted with, missing so deeply their homes and their  parents.

________________________________________________

 Annemarie's story

Shipping forecast for the Caribbean, 25 October 2025:  

General Forecast: Mix of clear skies and clouds with a few brief isolated light showers.

Wind Forecast:Moderate easterly breeze at around 30 km/h 

26 October 2025.  Tropical Storm Melissa rapidly strengthening into a powerful hurricane. Strong winds and torrential rainfall could lash the island. Melissa reclassified  as category 5 hurricane bringing devastation, storm surge, flash flooding and landslides

The Hurricane

The seas start to swell, waves climbing higher and higher.

Thé wind shrieks, twists, barrels over rolling waves, through tumultuous seas towards the island.

People run, as the surging storm screams over  beaches, over homes, over crops.

Beams tumble, as buildings jettison windows, tin and tiles.

 A callow youth caught cowering beside a wall is struck.

And blood flows slowly from the innocent boy.

As salty sea water rushes headlong through streets

Roofs ripped, rising, soaring over tempestuous skies.

A frightened family crouch around the table, 

Water crawling through a door; dinner left, going cold,.

The woman stands, trembles, tilts. Shadows slide across her vision.

The floor rises and falls beneath her, as she folds into vertigo’s whirl.

Radio unheard above howling winds, tumbling trees,  crashing waves of water. 

Wires cut, wires dancing, tangled lines flailing furiously over matchstick trees,

Glittering lights extinguished by nature's frenzy.

A blanket of blackness descends.

Outside the swirling storm captures trees, bricks, timber in a cacophony of escalating sound.

Grandiose Anglican Church is razed and Jesus falls from collapsing, fractured  walls.

Grey dawn breaks on broken homes, on shattered lives,

On fields flattened, food finished, soil eroded,

Streets awash with filth, destruction...

...And bodies washed from flooded shores.

The island is broken.

Oh Melissa! - as sweet a name as honey.

But the hurricane has  no guilt, she has no shame; 

Melissa is just a name.

(Cacophony, grandiose, callow, vertigo, dinner, blood, Jesus)

 

On Deck

 

 

Mary's story

The Voyage

Before sunrise, when the sea was still steel gray and coral, and golden light began to seep into the sky, I would climb out onto the deck — my only quiet time, my only solitude.

One morning, a strange boat sputtered into the port, coughing black smoke. It looked like a diving boat at first, packed with people in dark clothing. My brain was still foggy — why would a dive boat be coming in now, at this hour, when it should be heading out?

As it drew closer, I realized something was wrong. The boat was silent. Its windows were shattered, tattered sails hung limp from a broken mast, and sulfurous fumes billowed into the morning air. It looked haunted — not by ghosts, but by suffering.

No one moved on board.

The boat lurched up to the quay behind ours. I jumped out to catch their cords and tie them off. As they came into focus, my heart stopped. The vessel, built for maybe six people, held over seventy. Faces — gaunt, exhausted, hollow — stared back at me. Children clung to their parents. A little girl, gripping her mother’s hand, raised hers and gave me a shy wave. I smiled and waved back. Slowly, a few others did too — tentative, wary.

A siren screamed. Police vans pulled up, and officers spilled out, dressed in hooded jumpsuits, goggles, and masks.

“Are these your immigrants?” one asked. The question struck me as strange.

“No,” I said quickly. “I just tied them off.”

I wished I could do more.

I guessed they’d come from Libya or Tunisia — 300 kilometers or more, through last night’s brutal storms. No one risks a voyage like that unless there’s no other choice. Unless staying behind is more dangerous than the sea.

A Red Cross bus arrived. More people in jumpsuits helped the passengers disembark, one by one, and loaded them into the bus. Their faces were drawn tight with fear and exhaustion — and yet, I caught flickers of something else.

Relief. Maybe even hope.

I still think of them, now and then. The girl who waved. The silence. That shattered boat.

I wonder what life has brought them.

I hope they found safety.

I hope they found kindness.

 

 

 

Geraldine's story

ON THE DECK

My main, major and dearest hope is that, on Monday, we will be sitting on the
deck !
Just this suspended deck between the house and the landscape at 180 degrees
with it’s green fields scattered with a few bushes and some remarquable trees.
Land of and for horses who spend their days and nights out there grazing the
grass, galloping here and there, trotting towards the humans ready to pat them
on the nose and giving unexpected shows when running together to
unsuspected places : what are their codes ? Playing, showing off, exposing
their non revealed hierarchy ?
No matter ! Just a beautiful place to be sitting in !
And why not with budding writers who gather joyfully every now and again to
submit their delusional ramblings to each other.
And whatmore, make a point of preparing the most interesting, lovely and
tastfull meal to share.
And unforgettable deserts.
And coffee.
And stories revealing each one’s personnality, sensitivity, favourite themes,
concerns and tastes.
But, if it’s too cold, too damp or too unconforable, we surely will be happy to
sit inside, looking through the window on to the deck, at the framed landscape
and appreciating the warm welcome of our hostess, the fabulous food and
wine, our stomachs and feelings taking it all in.

 

Paula's story

Some of you might be familiar with something called vertigo.

Vertigo is different from dizziness. Dizziness is when you feel light-headed, weak, or a little unsteady on your feet. Vertigo is an out-of-control sensation of spinning, of the world around you spinning, of feeling completely off-balance.

I’ve been struggling with these sensations for the past four days. It’s much better now, but in the beginning, it brought with it incredible nausea, headaches, and, quite frankly, fear. It’s a scary thing to feel like you have lost control of the very ground beneath your feet.

The most common type of vertigo, and the kind I believe happened to me, comes from a problem in your inner ear, or the vestibular nerve in your brain: the structures that help you stay balanced. A typical cause of this type of peripheral vertigo is called BPPV, or benign paroxysmal positional vertigo, which is basically an inner ear disorder. It happens when you move your head a certain way, such as tipping it backward.

So, what causes this? An inner ear disorder can happen when tiny calcium particles get dislodged from their normal location and collect in the inner ear. This can occur for no known reason, and has been known to occur more often as we age. And because the inner ear is constantly sending signals to your brain about your head and body movements to help you keep your balance, these dislodged crystals wreak havoc with those signals. And your balance is suddenly shot.

For me, I sat up to get out of bed early Thursday morning, and the whole room around me spun, fast. All I could do was lie back down and wait for it to stop, which it did after a minute or two — the longest minutes of my life. James was at my side in a second, and I moved incredibly slowly, trying to keep my head at the same level, as he walked me to the bathroom. What followed over the next few days was a combination of brief instances of vertigo, yet a constant feeling of being off balance, like being on the deck of a ship in rolling seas, where you are continually grasping at any inanimate object just to stay upright, and to get from one place to the next.

James has suffered from a different, more serious form of vertigo, for years, something called cervical vertigo, which stems from inflammation of the cervical nerves in his neck. Thankfully, it has happened only three times since I have known him, but it’s serious enough to last for hours, and twice, to land him in the emergency room for IV fluids and sedatives. My point is, that he understood instinctively what was going on with me, and he was a huge help in managing the symptoms.

As the days went on, I found I felt best sitting in one position with a book held at a certain angle in front of me, so that I wasn’t moving my head; indeed, I wasn’t moving much at all. I got a lot of reading done! On the second day, I was desperate for a shower, so James stepped into the shower with me, and washed my hair as I sat on the tiled bench he had insisted on making when he renovated the bathroom, adding features like a seat and a safety handle that we thought we’d need only in a far distant future. And he had to dry my body because I couldn’t bend to towel off my legs. (That might have been a high point, actually.) Eventually, I found I could stand up and walk without the room spinning around me, as long as I held my head in the same position. I could watch television, but I couldn’t look down to eat off my plate at the same time. Bending down to pick something off the floor was out of the question. If James wanted to show me something on his phone, he had to hold it in front of me; I couldn’t turn my head to look at the images. Tipping my head back to drink was unthinkable. Getting into bed meant moving like a snail until my head gently reached the pillow, which was one of several piled up behind my shoulders, and then not turning from side to side.

Anyway, I have gradually improved, and I’m beyond grateful. It’s amazing the parts of our everyday life that we take for granted. We, all of us, stand on shaky ground as we age, and although we really don’t need the universe to remind us of that, it seems determined to do so.

Cheers!

________________________________________-

Annemarie's story

On thé Deck

One of my most exciting voyages was on the passenger liner SS Uganda. Usually the family's biennial trip to the uk was by plane, a journey at that time taking three intervening refuelling stops between Kampala and London. This time it was to be by boat, a part of our holiday.

SS Uganda  was built in 1952  as a passenger liner then became a cruise ship. During the Falkland's War she was called up for military duty while on a cruise and her 315 cabin passengers and 940 school children were immediately discharged(dumped!) in Naples, where on docking  the ship full of children could be heard singing "Rule Britannia".

I had just turned six and the children on the voyage had a certain amount of freedom to roam this vast ship, watched over and spoilt by the stewards. My most memorable moment was crossing the equator.

In the 18th century and earlier, the line-crossing ceremony was a brutal event, often involving beating pollywogs (those who have not crossed the equator before), with boards and wet ropes and sometimes throwing the victims over the side of the ship or dragging the pollywog through the surf from the stern as an initiation ceremony for the sailors. On the HMS Endeavour voyage of 1768, captained by James Cook there is a description of how the crew drew up a list of everyone on board, including cats and dogs and interrogated them as to whether they had crossed the equator. If the answer was 'no' they had to choose to give up their wine allowance for four days, or undergo a ceremony in which they were ducked three times into the ocean.

Fortunately for us crossing the equator was an excuse for a party and fancy dress. My baby brother was simply fitted with a pair of wings and went as a naked Eros.  The rest I don't remember so enamoured was I of my own costume representing the ship and lovingly made by mum.

Blue skies, tropical sun, the Indian ocean alive with white horses as we crossed the equator east of Somalia. With great expectations we left our cabin, my black and white crepe dress rustling and rasping, my hat, a funnel of two black rings encircling a white ring, tethered to my hair with countless Kirby grips. Both hands gripping my tottering hat we arrived on the deck. In place of colourful deckchairs were  crowds of  countless one-eyed, bare-chested pirates with cardboard cutlasses (my father one of them), Neptunes bearing wonky tridents and a number of biped mermaids in shimmering shells...but...only one SS Uganda!

Anticipation and apprehension filled my 6year old self until I heard ..."and first prize goes to the little girl dressed as our ship..." I ran to collect my prize - 10 African shillings - and without waiting to hear 2nd and 3rd prize announced I tore through pirates, mermaids and Neptunes to the onboard shop. Since the beginning of the voyage  I'd ogled a camouflaged army tank with a rotating gun turret. I had no idea what the vehicle was but the rotating turret had me mesmerised...and it was exactly 10 African shillings - the value of my prize. Of course the shop was closed, everyone else participating in the equator crossing ceremony. I had to wait an agonising 20 hours for my heart's desire. I loved that toy for a whole month only to have it crushed under the wheels of a car when we reached England. And I loved my funnel hat.

_______________

Jackie's story

ON the 29^Th of December 1959 a family left their home in Ferndown England climbed into the waiting taxi with all their worldly possessions and set off for Southampton.    The taxi was stuffed to the gills with suitcases,  three passengers and the driver and as it was very low on the ground,  got stuck on some railway tracks.    Several men rushed over to heave the taxi back on the road and tension mounted as the funnel of the boat started spewing white smoke and the horn bellowed announcing its departure.

Clutching their passenger ticket bought through Cook and Son Ltd. For 163.15 pounds sterling they boarded The Statendam cruise ship that went regularly from Southampton to New York

The family were directed to their 3 berth cabin n° 452  in tourist class and set off.  

Crossing the Atlantic at the end of December in a smallish ocean liner was no joke.    After the first few hours of calm weather in port and a good lunch the change was subtle, the air turned damp and heavy, the wind sharpened and the horizon darkened to a bruised slate gray.    The calm sea transformed itself heaving and churning, rolling in slow, muscular swells and rain started to lash the deck in horizontal sheets.

The cabin was small and for three people they just had enough room to move around.   As the parents were nailed to their sick beds the ten year old daughter  managed to climb up stairs onto the deck and find a place on a window seat of a shop where she managed to curl up and wait it out.  

She watched as the wind started to howl and send fine sprays of seawater high into the air. Waves towered over the railings, great walls of green seawater capped with foaming white, broke against the bow with explosions of spray. The horizon disappeared behind curtains of rain and sea mist.

The small girl clung to the window seat on deck calmly admiring the spectacle of the sea.    The seasickness abated as she was outside but the announcement that stabilizers were being lowered to try to steady the boat made her and the passengers worried.         Crew members tried to reassure the little girl and passed by her window seat regularly – “are you alright love, not too cold up here”?   She clutched her coat put her arm through a bar in the window to stabilize and decided to stay put.   The crew moved quickly and efficiently, their practiced calm offering reassurance to passengers, but even they paused to glance at the towering seas.

The boat pitched and rolled underfoot, sometimes with a lazy sway, sometimes with a sudden, stomach-dropping lurch. Plates rattled in the dining rooms. Doors slammed unexpectedly.   The low groan of stressed metal echoed through the corridors, and every so often, a deep shudder ran through the hull as a wave collided with it head-on.

Then a out of the mist with horn blowing and shouts of laughter and joy the Statue of Liberty emerged.     New York finally after  7 days that had seemed interminable.    The little family went through customs and taxied to the next part of the journey as they made their way to Chicago then onto the Pacific railroad Golden State train to San Diego California where a new life began.

The young girl avoided any cruises, ocean crossings, ferries and anything moving on water until this day.

 

_______________________________

Sarah's story

On the Deck 5 no falling
(18.09.2025)
As she lay back on the deck in her two piece bathing suit (topless was a little too risky), admiring the view of the beaches and
palm trees flying past her, occasionally glancing down at her trim figure (no bulges, like some), she felt more than satisfied.
She had never been clever, but she had beauty, or so she always consoled herself. She was still young (she paid no attention to
the years that were attributed to her, in fact, she no longer counted them), she would always be young. Not like some.
But when she stepped off onto the unfamiliar wharf (they always holidayed in new and different places now that they had the
money for it), she tripped , and fell flat on her face. The wharf attendants rushed up and excused themselves and the marina for
the unfortunate accident. But as it turned out, she was all right and thanked them stiffly. She hadn't liked their helping her up,
as if she were an older person.
As she stood in front of her mirror that evening, making up her face for dinner, she smiled complacently. No wrinkles on her
face! Not like some. She smoothed the cream over, and patted her cheeks. But as she left the bathroom, she felt a bit dizzy.
And she fell. She managed to scramble up before her husband could come in and see her ignominiously crumpled on the floor.
But he caught her as she was just straightening up.
“What's the matter? Did you fall?”
“Certainly not! Nothing's the matter. I was just readjusting my dress.”
He looked somewhat dubious, but took her arm as the went down to the hotel dining room.
Once seated at their table she glanced at the menu and then looked round at the other guests, who were already being served.
The menu had two propositions for the evening: salade au saumon fumée or biftek frites. Bob of course would take the steak
and fries. At the other tables she noticed that most of the younger, svelter diners were having the salmon.
“I'll have the salad,” she announced.
Bob looked surprised. “But you've never eaten that before! You hate raw fish!”
Actually, she couldn't say she hated raw fish because she had always refused to touch it. But there was always a first time.
She didn't really appreciate the soft, slimy stuff, but she got it down. Or at least most of it. And exchanged a glance of triumph
with the young woman at the next table, who seemed in reaction to be somewhat nonplussed.
The next day she went to have her hair done. The hairdresser washed it, trimmed it and then asked her gently, “Couleur,
Madame?”
“What?” she said, and he showed her a colour chart. Shocked, she replied vehemently, “No! I am naturally blond and I don't
dye my hair!” (Not like some.) For years she had had hair so blond it was almost white, which she attributed to her
Scandinavian forbears (she had a Swedish great-grandmother in her lineage). The hairdresser looked somewhat dubious, but he
let it go.
Out in the street she tripped over an irregular paving stone she hadn't seen and fell flat on her face. People rushed up. One
took out his phone to call an ambulance. Before she knew it she was on her way to the hospital. They kept her all evening and
said she would be staying through the night. She was furious, because they had planned to go to a cabaret and she was now
locked up like a prisoner.
“At your age, Madame ...” the doctor began in his careful English.
“At my age, ridiculous! I am perfectly all right, and you must let me out!”
“I am sorry, Madame, but we cannot let you out until we have the results of the tests.”
As it turned out, the tests revealed nothing seriously out of order, but the doctor warned her to be more careful. “It's probably
just age, but ...” She didn't even give him time to finish.
He did, however, give her a prescription, which she went to the pharmacy to have filled. As she stood in the queue waiting her
turn, her eyes took in the rows of products on the shelves beside her. “Anti-chute” said one lot, “fortifiant”. She knew enough
French to recognize that “fortifiant” meant fortifying, and racking her brains she finally dragged up a memory. “Chute”
meaning falling or something like that.
“I'll have one of those,” she said when her turn came.
“La lotion?”
“Oh. And something to, er, eat?” She made the motions of swallowing something.
“Les comprimés. Bien sûr. C'est pour votre mari?”
“Mari” meant husband. “No,” she said, before she could think, “it's for me.” And then of course she regretted it. Why admit
to weaknesses? It was bad enough to have bought the stuff.

The woman looked at her dubiously, and then made the motions of rubbing her hair. “Frottez bien,” she said. Whatever did
she say that for?
Their week in France was now up and they boarded the next boat, which would take them to Greece and Turkey and
thereabouts, and ten days later, home. Her sister and her sister's husband were joining them in Rhodes. (They couldn't afford
so long a cruise as herself, she thought with satisfaction; as a child she had always been jealous of her younger sister, but things
had changed.)
As they lay on the deck, she noticed how gray her sister's hair now was, how pudgy she had become, and there was no doubt
about the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. She had never been clever like her sister, who had the brains of the family. But
she, she had the looks. She smiled internally and said nothing. But then her sister did.
“Your arms and legs have become very hairy,” she said. How typical of her sister to say whatever came into her head!
Annoyed, she looked at her arms, which she had been rubbing daily (along with the rest of her body) with the new lotion.
Indeed the hairs were longer, stronger and darker than before. She looked at her legs, which she had shaved only two days
earlier, and the hairs were already out again, sturdy and dark. “But your hair looks nice.”
Well, that was something. She had been doubtful about that part, but the package said something about “cheveux” so she had
thought she had better rub the lotion in there too. She was glad that some good had come of the product, because despite her
daily applications, she had fallen twice since she had begun the treatment.
“Let's go in to lunch,” said her sister then.
They stood up and, following her sister as the latter skipped nimbly along the deck, she tripped over a towel someone had
dropped, and fell once again flat on her face.
After the ship's doctor examined her and took her pulse, and after Bob had so inconsiderately told the man that she had fallen
several times lately, he prescribed rest. “At your age,” he began, until the gleam in her eye stopped him. “Anyway,” he
continued, “the captain has ordered that you not walk around where you might fall again. You can stay in your cabin or in this
deck chair, as you please.”
As she sat on the deck, fuming internally, she waited still for the medicine to take effect. She swallowed double doses, and in
her cabin rubbed the product furiously onto her skin. By the time they reached their home port, she was as hairy as a baboon,
but that didn't stop her falling as she stepped off the gangplank.
+ 1285 wds