There was comfort on Marathi Pride. There was a family — of sorts. There was Captain Sharma and there was order. But I came to know that there was more for me beyond that ship. Goodbyes were not needed. I just wanted that thing that was more. I wanted to live in and walk the streets of one of those places in my logbook. I knew it was possible. 

 

In the deadest moment of the night, when movement and thought and direction do not exist, when action and reason are not brothers, I abandoned my hammock. I took nothing with me. I had nothing to take. Our ship was moored in what seemed to be the outer harbour of an unnamed city — I hadn't paid attention to learn the name.

 

Confidently, but without the comfort of any knowledge or bearings, I stepped down the temporary scaffolding steps on the side of the ship. I boarded the small skiff loosely tied there by a returned shore leave crew.

 

Silent, without motor or paddle, I gently pushed off.