The Humble Vessel

The ‘humble vessel,’ as I’d come to call it in my head, wasn’t much to look at, and even less to trust. It was a splotch of faded blue against the churning grey of the Agenda docks, a tangle of ropes that looked more like sea-wrack than anything useful, and a hull that groaned with every shift of the tide. It smelled of brine and something else, something sharp and metallic, like old blood or forgotten promises. It was our escape. It was everything.

Kelly stood beside me, her small hand tucked into mine, her eyes wide and fixed on the boat. She didn’t say anything, which was her way. She’d agreed, of course, after I’d painted the grand picture of England, of a place teeming with the ‘UK people’ and endless adventures. Her agreement had been a quiet nod, a tightening of her fingers around mine, but I could feel the tremor that ran through her small frame. She was scared, and so was I, though I tried to hide it behind a bravado I didn’t truly possess.

“It’s… small,” she whispered, her voice barely audible above the lapping waves.