The need to write struck me today. I've been thinking about what I've left behind me and the metaphor of a wake came to mind. Then I thought about an Irish wake and I started to write

 

The first few paragraphs are below. If you'd like to read more, go HERE.

 

wake

 

This morning it feels as if we are the only boat on the lake. The barely risen sun is pale, displaying the sharp cold day but too weak to challenge it. As we leave Le Bouveret harbour behind and head west towards Geneva, the Alps are a brooding presence on our left, still mostly in shadow except at their snowy peaks, which deflect the sun like raised blades-

 

The further we travel, the wider the lake looks and the smaller the fibreglass hulls pushing us through the water seems. If I were here alone, I might be overwhelmed by how little of this world I displace as I move through it. Alone, it is easy for me to let go, to slip beneath the surface of the day and surrender my heat to the pull of the cold indifference of the universe. Basic physics perhaps, heat going to cold. The inevitable triumph of entropy. Yet saying such things aloud draws unwelcome attention at my age, so my thoughts stay silent and solitary.

 

I am not alone, of course. This is not my boat. I am Stefan's guest. He stands at the wheel, straight and strong, wearing shorts despite the cold and looking determinedly ahead as if his steady gaze is what moves us forward. He is the force behind our almost-dawn patrol. This boat is his realm. I am... cargo, brought along because his wife, my daughter, Sarah, wants me onboard.