Ship to Shore (Chapter 1)

Chapter 1

BEING DOUSED IN GIN was possibly not the worst way to be roused from a pleasant daydream of sparkling seas and balmy breezes, but as Sally jerked upright and fished hastily inside her blouse for the ice cube sliding down her chest, she thought it was very near to being the worst.

The plane had hit a patch of turbulence just as the cabin attendant had handed the drink to Sally’s neighbour: she had dropped it, he had fumbled it, and Sally had ended up wearing it. As the aircraft bounced and shook, she dabbed at her blouse with the handful of cocktail napkins the mortified attendant had given her. And to top it off, the man beside her seemed more concerned about his lost drink than about Sally’s wet and gin-scented clothing.

The turbulence passed as quickly as it had begun, and Sally slipped away to change into a spare T-shirt. When she returned, her neighbour was clutching another drink. It was his third, and Sally wondered how many more he could manage on this three-hour flight from Toronto to the Bahamas.

He raised his glass in salute, or perhaps apology, and asked, "What takes you to the Bahamas? Holiday?"

She nodded. "Yes, but only the first day or so will be in Nassau. I’m joining a tall ship there and we’ll be sailing to Portsmouth. England."

He looked puzzled. "A what ship?"

"Like a pirate ship," she suggested. Over the years, Sally had discovered that this was the easiest way to get across the idea of a large wooden ship with three lofty masts and a number of square sails.

"And you’re going all the way to England in that thing?" he asked in disbelief.

She stifled a laugh at the look of doubt on his face. She was of average height and average weight, and 41, and knew that when people imagined an intrepid transatlantic sailor she was not what sprang to mind.

"Why?" he asked. "You could fly in a few hours."

The laugh broke free. "That’s not the point! As the saying goes, it’s the journey, not the arrival."

He seemed unconvinced. "Are you going to sail back, too?"

"No, I live in England. I’ve just been visiting my parents."

He drained his drink. "Lady, I can’t decide if you’re crazy or not, but good luck to you!" He heaved himself out of the narrow seat and made his way to the toilet.

Sally was certain that she wasn’t crazy, but she did wonder what the next five weeks on Portsmouth Belle would be like. She had done more voyages than she could easily remember, but never one so long.

She leaned her head against the small window and looked out at the deep blue sky and the billowing clouds, so clean and white in the brilliant sunlight at 30,000 feet. If nothing else, these five weeks at sea would be a very welcome break from the chill greyness that was London in March. There were times, such as standing on a sleet-swept train platform on a dull weekday morning, when Sally asked herself why she had left sunny Australia two years ago to return to London.

Is it time to leave? she wondered. Move on?

That restless feeling seemed to hit her sooner these days. From Toronto to London to Sydney and then back to London, and now where? New Zealand might be interesting, Sally mused.

She brushed her hair out of her eyes, then wrapped a curl around her finger and examined the colour. Light golden brown, the box had said. It was more red than Sally would have liked, but it did hide those grey hairs that were creeping in.

She sighed. Whatever this voyage brought, it had to be an improvement over the grind of work and commute and chores. Something to shake her out of the dreary predictability of everyday life.