It’s a small miracle that we made it to the ferry in time, and it would be a big miracle if we made it back down. We surrendered ourselves to the Bruichladdich, non sclavi, sed servi, as my Latin teacher used to say. Not as slaves, but as servants. Have I ever learned Latin? I don’t remember, toast myself or who I think I am in the mirror above the urinal and hurry to the upper deck, where the foreign exchange dealer is cursing under his straw hat because the whiskey is already half empty again. At the bow, the ferry’s horn sounds like a mournful trumpet over a battlefield.
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