The Crossing
by David McWilliam
Genre: Drama
Swearwords: None.
Description: A journey on the night ferry from the ‘oul sod’ to the land of iniquity.
_____________________________________________________________________
The boat sails at 10 o’clock, but embarkation begins at nine. People clamber aboard, up the steep gangplank and, for those lucky enough to afford cabins, a short walk below deck to stow their baggage before returning to watch the proceedings.
Most of the passengers are young or middle-aged men, many with blue and white rosettes in the lapels of their jackets, or blue and white scarves draped around their necks. Some have both! There is an air of excitement as people, chatting desultorily, walk this way and that, afraid of missing something, but God knows what. Of the young women, most of whom seem subdued, one wonders what takes them away. Is it work, or are they hiding some dark secret they hope to have put right across the water that cannot be done at home?
The smell of St James’s Brewery is an ever-present reminder of the city’s contribution to the comfort of mankind. The ship’s bar hasn’t opened yet, which probably explains the apparent lack of purpose among passengers. One or two shout their last messages to friends onshore, eager not to leave anything unsaid before departure.
At last, the anchor is slipped. Ropes are cast off and the boat gives one last belch before pulling away from the dockside and into the middle of the river. Hungry eyes linger on the city that slips slowly astern, while others gaze expectantly ahead as if looking for a sight of angels.
The bar opens, a signal the men have been waiting for and to which they quickly respond by making their way over the high step and through the open door. They try hard not to appear too anxious to tank up for the night’s vigil while crossing the water to the land of iniquity. Many come back to the ship’s rail with jars of porter in their hands, quaffing thirstily, followed by lusty belches not unlike that of the boat’s departure. Some eat thick, homemade sandwiches prepared for the purpose.
Once away from the land, a strong swell causes the boat to heave about a bit. Scarves are wrapped more tightly and coats are buttoned up. Someone says that a storm is forecast, but others mock such pessimism, bravely averring this to be rubbish. However, there is a look of unease on one or two faces.
Two hours later and the threatened storm lashes down in pitiless fury. The wind is strong and makes shrieking sounds as it tears around the funnel and spars and whips spume across the deck. Passengers seek the shelter of the lounge. Loose luggage and glasses go rolling this way and that as the boat rolls from side to side. One or two faces look a bit green as their shivering owners experience the first unpleasant clutching at their heads and chests. The ship begins to pitch: bow up, stern down; bow down and stern up. When the propeller comes out of the water the boat gives a great judder and some of the passengers are now looking terrified. A few make their way to vomit over the side of the ship. Others simply vomit where they stand, trying hard not to get too much over their clothing. One or two have lost their rosettes. The worst simply lie prostrate on the deck, too ill to move, too ill to care. Only death can bring them comfort.
I am sure everyone would swear that things couldn’t get worse. But they do! The pitching and rolling combine into a corkscrew-like motion that rends the doughtiest constitutions. Churned stomachs void their loads and the stench of vomit mixed with the smell of stale alcohol is everywhere. Faces green, vomit a thick, sick yellow. Over the side, over the deck. Moans and groans are heard whenever the fury of the wind abates for a moment or two. How long can it last? The night, like the storm, seems to go on forever.
At last the sight of land appears in the hazy dawn. Stomachs settle with the sea. It is cold and chill. Warm tea is a welcome blessing. Sailors swab down the deck, removing all signs of the night’s suffering. Those who can manage to stagger around go to wash and make themselves more presentable. Others still lie in the corners that have been their inadequate refuge throughout the storm.
Disembarkation! What a transformation ten hours and a strong wind can make! All swagger and boisterousness have gone. People leave the boat, glad to be onshore again, even in the land of iniquity.
Swearwords: None.
Description: A journey on the night ferry from the ‘oul sod’ to the land of iniquity.
_____________________________________________________________________
The boat sails at 10 o’clock, but embarkation begins at nine. People clamber aboard, up the steep gangplank and, for those lucky enough to afford cabins, a short walk below deck to stow their baggage before returning to watch the proceedings.
Most of the passengers are young or middle-aged men, many with blue and white rosettes in the lapels of their jackets, or blue and white scarves draped around their necks. Some have both! There is an air of excitement as people, chatting desultorily, walk this way and that, afraid of missing something, but God knows what. Of the young women, most of whom seem subdued, one wonders what takes them away. Is it work, or are they hiding some dark secret they hope to have put right across the water that cannot be done at home?
The smell of St James’s Brewery is an ever-present reminder of the city’s contribution to the comfort of mankind. The ship’s bar hasn’t opened yet, which probably explains the apparent lack of purpose among passengers. One or two shout their last messages to friends onshore, eager not to leave anything unsaid before departure.
At last, the anchor is slipped. Ropes are cast off and the boat gives one last belch before pulling away from the dockside and into the middle of the river. Hungry eyes linger on the city that slips slowly astern, while others gaze expectantly ahead as if looking for a sight of angels.
The bar opens, a signal the men have been waiting for and to which they quickly respond by making their way over the high step and through the open door. They try hard not to appear too anxious to tank up for the night’s vigil while crossing the water to the land of iniquity. Many come back to the ship’s rail with jars of porter in their hands, quaffing thirstily, followed by lusty belches not unlike that of the boat’s departure. Some eat thick, homemade sandwiches prepared for the purpose.
Once away from the land, a strong swell causes the boat to heave about a bit. Scarves are wrapped more tightly and coats are buttoned up. Someone says that a storm is forecast, but others mock such pessimism, bravely averring this to be rubbish. However, there is a look of unease on one or two faces.
Two hours later and the threatened storm lashes down in pitiless fury. The wind is strong and makes shrieking sounds as it tears around the funnel and spars and whips spume across the deck. Passengers seek the shelter of the lounge. Loose luggage and glasses go rolling this way and that as the boat rolls from side to side. One or two faces look a bit green as their shivering owners experience the first unpleasant clutching at their heads and chests. The ship begins to pitch: bow up, stern down; bow down and stern up. When the propeller comes out of the water the boat gives a great judder and some of the passengers are now looking terrified. A few make their way to vomit over the side of the ship. Others simply vomit where they stand, trying hard not to get too much over their clothing. One or two have lost their rosettes. The worst simply lie prostrate on the deck, too ill to move, too ill to care. Only death can bring them comfort.
I am sure everyone would swear that things couldn’t get worse. But they do! The pitching and rolling combine into a corkscrew-like motion that rends the doughtiest constitutions. Churned stomachs void their loads and the stench of vomit mixed with the smell of stale alcohol is everywhere. Faces green, vomit a thick, sick yellow. Over the side, over the deck. Moans and groans are heard whenever the fury of the wind abates for a moment or two. How long can it last? The night, like the storm, seems to go on forever.
At last the sight of land appears in the hazy dawn. Stomachs settle with the sea. It is cold and chill. Warm tea is a welcome blessing. Sailors swab down the deck, removing all signs of the night’s suffering. Those who can manage to stagger around go to wash and make themselves more presentable. Others still lie in the corners that have been their inadequate refuge throughout the storm.
Disembarkation! What a transformation ten hours and a strong wind can make! All swagger and boisterousness have gone. People leave the boat, glad to be onshore again, even in the land of iniquity.
About the Author
Born in Stonehaven, David McWilliam is a retired science teacher with a very varied career spanning short spells (2 or 3 years each) as a whaler in the Antarctic, a tea-planter in Assam, and as a chemist in a factory producing biocides. He has a wide range of interests, most particularly in pre-history and the birth of language, both spoken and written.
David is a member of a creative writing group that was formed 4 years ago and is still going strong. He is also a voluntary tutor in Adult Literacies and encourages students to write of their experiences. It is as a teacher of Adult Literacies that sparked his interest in writing, and he has now written 2 or 3 dozen short stories and poems.
David is a member of a creative writing group that was formed 4 years ago and is still going strong. He is also a voluntary tutor in Adult Literacies and encourages students to write of their experiences. It is as a teacher of Adult Literacies that sparked his interest in writing, and he has now written 2 or 3 dozen short stories and poems.