Interlude

Close your eyes and let yourself take away.

You just woke up to take your shift, 6am, and you go out to take a deep breath of fresh air. At first you think it’s fog. You’re not quite awake. The moon is full and she sheds her light from the horizon line to your boat’s bow. The sea is so perfectly flat, not one little edge that would let the moon twinkle. It’s a grey, uniform and clear coat of light on a lake.

Suddenly, there, a crack in this coat, you saw some sparkles. And again, but this time you see a black fin (fr: aileron; pl: płetwa). Suddenly they’re all around your boat on the right, on the left. You run to the front and there, right under your feet, four of them playing with the stem (fr: étrave; pl: łodyga ?). You just have to straighten your arm and you could touch them. But the last thing you want is to scare them away. So you start playing drums on the hull (fr: coque; pl: kadłub).

They’re just like fairies. Under the water, their whole body is surrounded by a white sparkling robe. They bring the sea to life, in their ballet, they are moving so many invisible beings that become alive. You feel like Cinderella, no shoes, and it's time to go to bed.

It’s 8:45 and I find myself still staring. My shift has never felt so short.