The Arctic


I stand on deck with the steady throb of the engine in my ears and the dry, bitterly cold wind snapping at my face. The waves crash against out prows, furious and relentless. Whether they are striving to thwart, or merely mark our progress, I cannot tell. The clouds are heavy, the sun is nowhere to be seen, and a faint blue tint hangs over these unsettled waters. All the time, the sky is only a shade lighter than the sea, and on the murky horizon dark mountainous landscapes rise out of the gloom; vast silhouettes of unfamiliar terrain.
Later I lie in my lurching bunk, watching the moonlight playing a violent light show on the ceiling of my cabin, as it is reflected off the waves lashing the sides of the boat. The winds are strong tonight, and the waves are lashing us with such force that a ferocious thud reverberates within the hull everytime the seawaters crash down against the porthole, plunging my cabin into periods of darkness.





Copyright Douglas Fenton 2017