The Greek Achilles' Heel

There's something very awe inspiring about the way in which a huge vessel prepares to dock. The flag with the white cross and white stripes on the blue base fluttering in the wind as it inches closer to the shore. The radar antenna atop the ship circling around. The seemingly translucent mist formed all around it, like a halo of sorts. I watch the offloading ramp slowly making its way to kiss the ground. The slithering rope being thrown off the ship, and being caught by an expert hand. The vehicles that come racing down as soon as it docks. Unwittingly I count. One, two, three. And they keep going. Until twenty one. And then like a mob, they descend. Hundreds of people. With suitcases. And strollers. And kids. And dogs. White, black, brown. Hair, skin, shirts, shorts, scarves. 

I watch like a hawk, unable to take my eyes off it, fascinated. I've been here for three years now, made a few dozen trips back and forth and yet it takes my breath away every single time. To know that a vessel made of steel and aluminium and whatnot, carrying twenty one cars and hundreds of people, weighing thousands of kilos can stay buoyant. There's a lot you can learn from ships. No matter how heavy it gets, you do not get weighed down. You stay afloat, no matter what. 

And then I see her. Standing out like an angel among the crowd. The brown wisps of hair, the hazel eyes. And as she puts one foot in front of the other, I panic. Look around for an escape as memories come rushing. She's fifty feet away, then forty. I feel glued to the floor. Mentally wanting to run away, physically unable to. And just like that our eyes meet. 

And despite everything I tell myself about ships, I start to drown.