One such moment occurred on the day when the waves were highest and I went into the little pool on Deck 12. I felt I was adrift in the sea itself as the water rose and sank by a foot at least every few minutes. The waves roiled and crashed agains the tiles. I shut my eyes and simply existed in a primeval reality.
Another such moment occurred in the garden of St. Nicholas Church in Liverpool when I sat on a bench, accompanised by two fat pigeons and ate the little lunch I had prepared from croissants and ham early that morning at the Buffet at the King's Court. Absolute peace and, although we were due to sail out of Liverpool within a few hours, I had a brief illusion of timelessness. I shared the croissants with the two rather aggressive pigeons and thought about my Putti at home.
The moment when I saw the silhouettes of the three Swords in the Mountain outside Stavanger. That was one of those transcendental spiritual moments frozen in time. I shall never forget it. The wind was blowing and one almost could imagine the sounds of that ancient battle being fought out on the water. The three swords like the weapons of the Jotun, thrust into a hillock of shale stood dramatic against the smoky heavens. If I were to imagine the perfect symbol of my own soul, that would be it.
It is part of our fundamental human nature, i believe, to respond to the sight of a Full Moon. The view of the Full Moon over an open sea is even more thrilling. The curtains in the stateroom always were left open at night and the sun often rose at an ungodly hour, according to the ship's clocks, as we forever were gaining an hour or losing an hour on our travels across the Atlantic and between England and the Continent. Dawn often came at 4.00 a.m. but the days were long and sunset usually did not occur before 9.00 p.m.
I went to bed early but would fall asleep only to awaken again in the middle of the night. On the first night of the Full Moon, I awakened to the sight of a brilliant orb in the sky, creating a broad shimmering pathway along the surface of the sea from the horizon almost to the window.
The first night, the Moon was white, but on the second, it was almost orange.
One could see tiny pinpoints of light on the horizon on the second night... we obviously were not that far from land.
There was another magical moment one afternoon when, looking out of the window, I suddenly realised that a ballet of sorts was being enacted outside. Literally hundreds of tiny white birds were swooping and diving over the surface of the waves to rise again in clouds of fast-beating wings. I tried to capture the extraordinary sight in a photograph but did not meet with much success.
Such a pity... the tiny birds ARE in these photographs, even if one cannot see them. Their wings actually reflected the sunlight and their flight was almost dazzling. I expect they are not uncommon birds and that their antics are well-known to sailors but to me, it was quite enchanting.
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