Choppy waters

From the start, I don’t trust it. The idea, the intention to assassinate our director. That's not how you treat people, in my opinion. Even if they're your worst enemies. Even if you hate them with all your heart. They're still people. They're your fellow creatures. The goal should be to live with precisely these people on this planet.

However, the majority of the group agrees with the horrific and cruel plan. That's just how it works in practice. You have a few colleagues who take the lead. People with strong opinions. Men and women who can speak persuasively. The natural leaders.

Of course, I should have spoken up. I should have pushed back. Asked questions. Be critical. But I, too, prefer harmony. I, like so any of our poor and needy human race, don't want to be left out.

It all started three months earlier with the announced reorganization. As an engineer working in the chemical sector, I knew it was coming. Heavy industry is suffering from high energy bills, competition from Asia, and very negative public opinion.

But you hope it will blow over. The negativism, the gloom.

Until the entire staff was called to the company restaurant on a drizzly October day. And it wasn't because the catering company was offering new meals. We realized immediately something was wrong. We'd seen her car in the parking lot. The Bentley Continental GT. The director is usually at the head office. And not where the dirty work is done: the factory. But Sarah Slop was there.

In her own personal style. Straightforward as a torpedo.

Her message was short and clear. Kiki Chemistry was going to close. After more than 100 years, production would cease. And be transferred to Vietnam. Or China. Or India. That wasn't entirely clear. What was clear was that all employees were going to lose their jobs. All 1,500. Various scenarios had been explored with the relevant unions and the local government. But Asian owners found everything too uncertain, too expensive, too much hassle.

As you can imagine, we were distraught. We sought solace in each other. What could we say? After so many years of working together, you become family. You know each other's quirks, jokes, anecdotes, and bullying. It sounds boring and predictable. However, it creates a sense of security and familiarity.

After the management's business announcement, the ground fell from under our feet. Some colleagues burst into tears, while others sat in their office chairs long after the meeting, staring blankly into space. How were we supposed to proceed? How should we move on with our lives? But more importantly, how were we going to tell our spouses, friends, and neighbours about the resignations?

Since then, we've lived like shadows, like ghosts. We breathe, but for what? There's shame, anger, despondency. But above all, there's far too much powerlessness. What can we do? Calling in sick? Strike? Then the factory will close much sooner?

Perhaps that's why we're going ahead with it. The team outing, the group activity, the joint event. We'd already decided to organize this happening long before rumours of the closure circulated.

The program is original and adventurous. We'll rent a sailboat, and with the help of a skipper we'll set sail. Through canals, across lakes and rivers. The rougher the sea, the smoother we sail.

The team outing proves to be something we can focus our energy on in these times of bitter futility and corrupted pessimism.

We meet every day. Every so often we have new ideas, new insights into how to structure the activity. We design a logo specifically for the event. We order windbreakers with a new logo on the back; we make sure the skipper stops at an island where we have a barbecue.

When we're all talking and discussing like this, it's as if there's no closure of our beloved Kiki Chemistry. As if we'll remain colleagues, family members, friends for years to come.

We take minutes, make agreements, we have lunches. We raise extra money. We decide to make a film of the sailing trip. We've already set a date for a reunion. To celebrate our memories.

When day breaks, we've gathered in the narrow street of the town where the harbour lies. "Gone with the Wind" is the name of the clipper. The skipper is already busy with preparations. We wait patiently on the quay in our windbreakers with the special logo.

We chat, we laugh. Despite that the sky is still as grey as the factory walls of Kiki Chemistry, we compose ourselves and try to make the best out it. Bit it is simmering in our minds, in our hearts. The knowledge that this sailing trip is a final farewell. To our jobs.

"She's coming too!" says one of the organizers. Her voice breaks. She looks up from her phone. In disbelief. But the text message she just received is real. Sarah Slop is sailing with us.

"She can't do that," is the group's reaction. The mood immediately changes. Gone is the jovial atmosphere, the excitement. It gives way to grimness, doggedness. As if we are going to be executed.

That's also when the plan is hatched. To throw her overboard. Accidentally. Unseen. Then she too will experience what it's like. To feel powerless. To be in the position of the weak, the exhausted.

We don't agree on anything concrete. No instructions, no directions. We know what to do when the moment arrives.

Suddenly, it’s floating around us like dark dragonflies. Revenge. Payback. Retaliation. Punishment. Penance. Damnation.

Hence our exemplary smiles when the Bentley Continental GT pulls up. Sarah jumps out of the car when she sees us. To our surprise, she's also dressed in a navy-blue windbreaker with the original logo. She shakes our hands. Some even get a hug.

"Are we up for it?" she says when the skipper calls us. She mingles with us. She tells us where she lives, how many children she has, that she loves Thai food, that she despises blue cheeses.

The idea that she is the Enemy, the Devil, is hard to grasp now that she's physically present on the clipper. She hands out cookies, pours coffee and tea, and sings along ‘What shall we do with the drunken sailor’. She is following the skipper's instructions, she hoists the sails with us and adjusts the boom in time.

The greyish-green water laps gently against the ship's wooden hull. For the first time this morning, the sun breaks through the clouds. We all enjoy the unexpected warmth, the friendly breeze.

And just when I think things aren't going so well with our repulsive plan, our horrific idea, I hear a deep splash, a wild scream.

"Someone's fallen overboard," a colleague shouts. The skipper sprints to port, throws a rope to the drowning person. The whole group gathers around him. And notices. How the water turns red.

We freeze. We're paralyzed. This isn't the plan. The idea is for the CEO to get soaked. A light punishment. A subtle retaliation. Nothing more. But now? Is this an assassination attempt?

"She's staying underwater too long," the skipper mutters. He's the only one who makes a move to jump in after her. He takes off his cable-knit sweater, unbuttons his jeans, and kicks off his shoes. He climbs onto the edge of the boat and with a swinging dive, disappears into the water. Searching for the submerged director.

To our great relief, he surfaces a minute later. Breathless, panting. He holds her head and carefully swims to the sailboat.

"She looks like she has a head wound," he says, and gives us instructions on how to lift her aboard. This goes surprisingly smoothly. And so, Sarah lies on the deck. Soaked, bloodied.

We dry her off, care for the wound (it turns out to be nothing serious), bring her dry clothes, and pull the seaweed from her hair. One of the team outing organizers supports her as she is taken below deck to change. She stumbles but moves on.

"Thank you so much for your support," she says. An hour has passed. The initial shock has gone by. We are standing on the upper deck. The sky is blue, the sun is shining as if nothing happened, the water ripples lazily. We are consumed by shame and guilt.

"It's a pity it turned out this way," she says. "I should have paid more attention. But why am I taking this trip with you? I want to let you know that I've bought Kiki Chemistry. Along with the existing management. Good news! All your jobs will be saved!"