If only.

I bared myself to the doctor today: body, mind and soul. He’s new to the job, very young and most thorough, but he’s earned my confidence and trust. 

He concluded, after a comprehensive examination, that what ailed me was existential vexation, and he prescribed a long sea voyage as a certain cure-all. 

Alas, I cannot afford the medicine, but we concurred that a long sea voyage is indeed what’s called for. Not an all-singing, all-dancing cruise, but a long, slow tramp on a freighter, putting in to small trading ports all down the east coast of South America then up the west coast of Africa, back across to the Azores. Better if I could be felled with a slight fever for a day or two along the way, but nothing too serious.
 

No fellow passengers other than one or two Agatha Christie, Graham Greene type characters reeking of scandal, intrigue and conspiracy. No casino, disco (oh please, no disco) or cinema. No swimming pool or slot machines. A small table in a corner of the crews mess to eat at, and a cupboard full of whiskey where I could help myself - an honesty bar. No phone or internet access. No children. Mixed weather. Squalls and mist but no hurricanes. No piped music, just the rhythm of the sea against the dull background murmur from the engine room. 

I wouldn’t go ashore at any port. I’d be content just watching the activity on the dock with stevedores loading and unloading, me leaning over the salt-encrusted rail on the deck. Of course I’d giggle if anyone said “poop deck”, but I’m still a child at heart. There I’d sit in a sheltered corner of the deck in the long, complicated company of James Joyce, Kierkegaard and Dostoyevsky. 

Oh, if only.