As long as I can remember, my family has walked. We go in the evenings- sometimes to talk, sometimes to take a breather, sometimes to observe, or sometimes on a
snipe hunt.
One summer when we were living in our cabin up in Michigan, we would go for night walks along the road through the dimly lit woods. Everything feels different at night. I'm a bit of a 'fraidy cat, but it's not so scary when you're with your parents or big dog. One night we heard an owl swoop down through the trees after a mouse. We didn't see it, but you begin to understand the night noises the more you walk. Walking silently is an art I'm constantly working on.
"Heel to toe" my dad used to repeat. He said that's how the natives walked without making sounds. Part of me suspects this was just a way to get us to stop flat footing on the cement or rustling up twigs and leaves on the trails. I find walking on the balls of my feet or on the knife-edge to be quieter usually.
When walking in the winter, the snow is usually crunchy or squeaky. For the most part during the day, you wouldn't notice, but the random noises of living cease in the dark cold. If you listen carefully, you can hear the falling snow and creaking branches. Sometimes we walk to the end of our street in Indiana, just to where the power lines hum across the road. By then our feet have frozen, the cold seeping up through the souls of our boots, and our sniffles rudely break the silence.
Arizona nights found cockroaches scurrying across your path and mysteriously cool breezes catching you by surprise. Seattle nights found me at Gas Works where the night noises of the city were carried across Lake Union to the top of kite hill as I sat watching Gazza run around in the shadows below. Florida nights are begging to be appreciated, but so far they are hot, muggy, and tiring. I'm looking forward to cooler ones with Peleke this winter.
Why am I writing about this? Because it gives me something to muse about in the wee small hours of the morning when I can't sleep for the coughing and sweats but can't do much productive for the lack of sleep. It's vicious.
I've been able to stroll the dock a few times at night. We're caged in (literally) after our curfew for safety reasons, but there's a narrow stretch next to the ship where the yellow lights shine down on us and the Gurka security guard on night duty keeps an eye on us stepping over concrete blocks and weaving through dumpsters. The ship groans against the giant bumpers and strains against its ropes as the swells rock it back and forth. I'm reminded again of our little world aboard whose floors endlessly pitch and toss. The walk reminds me of a caged animal pacing, but it feels good to stretch my legs after being cooped up.
Tonight I wandered around the ship for a bit. It's not like walking outside of course, but it was nice to take in the sights at a slower pace. For example, did you know there's a little orange foam monkey stuck to the trolley for dirty plates and glasses? And it's never completely deserted anywhere on the ship. There are random people up for midnight snacks, night workers around for lunch, insomniacs, and folks calling other time zones. As Mercy Shippers know, there's always the guard at the gangplank and somebody at the front desk. Usually there's some quiet music floating up from behind the desk. Sometimes I realize I'm walking without noise and then consciously try to continue that way. But I'll rustle a paper or maybe give a soft cough (not that I have a choice at the moment) so as not to surprise other people.
As I sit here now in the dining area, the water and juice machines endlessly churn their contents and the coffee machines steadily drips hot water into a pan. The occasional night worker comes in to sheepishly raid the galley and sit quietly by one of the windows to observe the tankers congregated just outside the port, waiting for their turns to enter. The security patrol follows an invisible path around the tables on his circuit through the ship, a walkie talkie clipped to his pants.
I'd give almost anything to be in Idaho with Peleke and The Beast, just setting off on a walk through a dark forest that will allow us silent passage... but for now, things being as they are, I'll settle for a cup of steaming tea, quiet music, and thoughts of things to come.
