Night Ferry to Pathos

It was 2 am when I discovered a vacant table in the cafeteria and tried to sleep.

Perched precariously atop several narrow metal seats, with the table slightly obscuring the white lights above, I could see why it hadn't been snatched.

Laying my bag under the table and folding my denim shirt into a makeshift pillow, I realised that a restful kip between the copious amounts of diabolical black coffee and my surroundings was delusional.

Discerning the ship's location without phone service or wifi was difficult, yet I knew we were sailing somewhere through the darkness of the Ionian Sea.

I'd been driven to the docks in Brindisi by Mariana, a devastatingly beautiful 40-something-year-old artist who'd also wound up out of place in Francesca's dysfunctional paradise.

As she'd lain by the pool reading and rolling joints, all long black curls and bikini-clad, looking like a freshly oiled Venus, my mind had run wild with fantasies. I was reminded of Townes Van Zandt's words:

If there ain't no whiskey and women, Lord
Behind them heavenly doors
I'm gonna take my chances down below
And of that you can be sure

With each passing second in the car, I'd hoped she'd make a U-turn and forcibly drive us back to her apartment, where we'd drink and make love for weeks, eventually ending our tumultuous love affair by exchanging hand-written letters in a tired beachside cafe in Hydra.

Instead, my hubristic delusion fizzled into an hour of 90s Italian rock CDs with the windows down and a final, curiously lingering hug as we parted at the pier.

Another missed connection, I reflected, marinating under the clouds of cigarette smoke encompassing the room—another potentially catalytic encounter.

The upper deck had been cleared of passengers who'd presumably retired to their quarters, leaving the rest of us peasants who'd purchased a "standing" seat to trawl for some hovel to sleep in.

I'd spent most of the night reading the final chapters of "The Varieties of Religious Experience" by William James, lingering on the last page, where a friend had unknowingly left a note scribbled during a recent psilocybin journey:

Logic is a choice—the language we choose to communicate with. If everyone meditated into the deepest sanctum tomorrow, then space would cease to exist. The mind is the ultimate creator.

It was one of those quasi-profound realisations that sees you scrambling for a notepad during a trip, only to slightly wince the following morning when you read over your "discoveries."

I photographed the page and made a mental note to send it to him when I arrived in Athens.

It was late. Or early, depending on your proclivities. Save for some stragglers peppered around the room, the cafeteria had been commandeered by several groups of monstrously large Bulgarian truck drivers who'd now lethargically pilled across the tables like bears awakening from hibernation.

Armed with cheap cigarettes and even cheaper Black Sea vodka permanently stashed in the cabins of their semi-trailers, their poker games were perforated by booming, grumbling cries and routine smacking of the tables, which wobbled wearily under the weight of each assault.

Sleep was obviously out of the question.

I began to write, reflecting on the last few months in Italy since arriving at Alessia's.

It was difficult to untangle the thread of providence that had seemingly carried me from Monza to Puglia, and as I lay there listening to the vodka begin to talk around me, I felt the magic of it all. The synchronistic encounters that had arrived at the edge of each uncertain precipice.

Italy had garnered many beautiful gifts, and I'd unhesitatingly welcomed them.

I meandered over to the cafe and ordered an overpriced Mythos from a disinterested, sleep-deprived bartender.

It was now just me and the Bulgarians left, and, noticing me with a beer in hand, the most obnoxious of the clan waved me over to his table, where he was holding court among a group of hairy, unshaven, unwashed drunkards.

"You drink with us."

He gestured to a chair beside him.

The bartender shot me a pitiful glance as I slunk to his left and took a long hit of vodka. It reminded me of the booze we used to buy from the Chinese grocer in Melbourne as 14-year olds. The kind of suspiciously cheap serum that can power a lawnmower.

He laughed, slapping me on the back with a thick, calloused paw.

"Your home?"

"Australia," I said, still wincing.

"Ah! Skippy!" My brother went Australia. Mines. Good people. Too much suuun," He slurred in broken English as he excitedly poured us all another round.

The table was peppered with dog-eared cards, and a pile of unclaimed euros reigned in the centre.

"You play?"

"No money," I said, laughing.

"Me too," he bellowed hysterically as he pointed at the last of his cash on the table and poured us all another shot into beer glasses.

"We drink!"

We continued like this for several rounds as a diffuse light filled the cafeteria.

I stretched, yawning louder than intended, excused myself, and packed my shirt into the bag as the last Bulgarians rambled monotonously under the sway of a night's drinking. Credit was due; they had stamina and cast iron stomach linings. How they'd manage to drive the remaining journey to Sofia was beyond me.

I stuffed the moleskin and pen in my pocket as I made for the doors leading to the deck.

The air was cooler than expected, and the absence of tobacco induced a strange queasiness as the silhouettes of the volcanic Ionian islands surrounding us began revealing craggy coastlines and arid hilltops.

Standing by the rail and inhaling the fresh morning air, I reflected that it was around those rocky beaches that Odysseus had first learned to sail. Those shores that he had longed for in that decade lost to sea and sirens.

As the sun rose over the mountains, I meditated on my own Odyssey since leaving Australia.

At the end of the page, in erratic, almost illegible handwriting, I scribbled a realisation:

Life seems to contract and expand in proportion to our ability to endure ambiguity.