18th to 19th August, 2018
M.V. Hjaltand, NorthLink ferry, from Lerwick to Aberdeen

7.40pm

The tawny horizon pitches, filling the window from 20% to 100%. Matching the giant yawn of the waves, the ferry tips. As my glass of red wine slips off the table, urged by this turbulent sea, I decide not to save it, letting the full glass spill over my denim skirt so that I am forced to walk back to my cabin. I stumble about, dripping, through a force I cannot disagree with. Chucked by the swell into the Game Zone, I deliberately angle my descent, so I slide between two Xbox 360 tower consoles to ease my confused inner ears. A teenage boy is retching theatrically in the corner. I am content. There is nowhere else I can go.

2.40am

I am buckling in the top bunk. Lying on my side. There is no porthole. I have turned on the bedside light. I watch myself in the mirror opposite through the beige safety bars of the bunk. Squinting to witness my ochre face. The bridge of my nose is throbbing. My scalp is shrinking. My ears are fresh. My belly is undulating. My toes are clamping. I keep my lips shut to prevent the possibility of boke. My toes are cold. I think of the pets down on the deck below; small hairy bodies rattling in wire kennels; the water from their bowls splashing, spilling, soaking them. The ferry's lower machinery wails solid. Metallic yelps and deep sea groans. Held up by water. Cradled by wind. Compressed by gravity. I am content. There is nowhere else I can go.

7.40am

I speed off the ferry, running towards the beach. I can barely walk straight, trip over kerbstones, lurch round granite corners, grazing my knuckles. I am laughing. My mustard jumper is on inside out. I haven't brushed my hair. I am here. A lambent tide. Moss green groynes. Vertigo. Longshore drift. A ribbon of cyan sky, just there, between the clouds. The white lighthouse blinks. A giant gust of wind slaps me. I flinch. My tongue is fizzing. Sand crunches between my teeth. I fall to my knees. I am content. There is nowhere else I can go.