A snapshot of a watch

The clock is slowly ticking towards eight o’clock in the evening the first time I stand at the absolute top of the world. My hands are a bit sweaty, but the breeze has stopped running through my body, stopped cooling me from the inside and outwards. Brisk, salty winds have stopped harming me now that I have started to move around a bit more. Instead, they mix with the heavy tang of rust and the sharp edge of tar to create
a by now well-known smell. The smell of the sea. The smell of work. The smell of Gunilla.

I stare for a bit, looking down at the world below. It is full of boats
of all kinds. English and French fishermen, looking for a last catch
before heading home to their own side of The Channel. Tank boats with
oil and container ships of all nationalities. They are heading north,
maybe to pick up cargo, but most probably to drop it off. And rarest of
all - a small sailing boat, going by motor. I smile when I see it.

But I can not spend all day staring out at sea. At least not today, when
the sun is shining, and the wind is slow. It is a day made for working.

So, I lean around the pole in front of me, turning and looking at the
shackles connecting to everywhere around the mast. The metal wire acting
as a safety to keep them shut looks whole. I give the sea a last glance,
before moving downwards and out on the yard of the topmost sail. On the
way, I inspect all shackles I can find.

Slowly, I work my way down the mast. The work is boring, but better than
freezing on deck. I reach the ground just in time to hear a familiar
call.

“Fika!”

Irma Hörnfeldt