It was ten o'clock in the morning I was struggling
to keep my balance looking out of the porthole in
the galley and the day was dark as acute hatred
against the living. Green waves hit the deck, tried
to break portholes, a full winter storm and fear of
the sea filled us with silence. Somehow the cook
managed to bake bread and make Irish stew and it
was my job to stop it from flying off the stove.
On an iron ship on the precipice of a mountain of
water; we were insignificant and vulnerable ants
on a leaf in an immense pool. Yet the sea calmed,
and the storm abated. I was fifteen and was proud
to have survived a winter storm in the north Atlantic,
something to tell my mum when coming home.