Love, War, and the Sighing Horizon

Between England’s storms and Europe’s promise, I drift, half-broken, half-laughing. The sea growls beneath me, Camus at my side, solitude’s teeth pressing where love once lived.

It is Friday, September the fifth, and as I open my eyes, the sun is rising, and the entire room I am at along with my bunker bed is quite wobbly. Just yesterday, I woke in a stable super king-sized bed in downtown London, where I was roused by the storm battering against the Victorian window, water sneaking in through the crack of shattered glass. Now I am on a ferry to mainland Europe, a voyage of three days. The ocean doesn’t whisper here; it growls.

The cabin is narrow, a monk’s cell disguised as hospitality. A top bunk above me, another below, a tiny window pretending to be generous but framing only the grey-blue pulse of the sea. I laugh to myself, Londoners pay thousands for minimalist boutique hotels that offer less charm. At least here, the swaying bed comes with a free reminder that you are mortal.

I am alone. Or rather, not alone but always in-between. Friends call, lovers write, some care enough to ask where are you now? Others simply vanish. Love and war reporting never cohabitate well. Lovers want predictability; wars are allergic to it. The number of times I’ve returned from an assignment to find not just one lover gone but the plants too, that hurts in ways I can’t explain. You expect people to leave, not the cactus.

I dress, steadying myself like a drunk pilgrim along the walls of the corridor. The ferry rocks with the dignity of a pensioner jogging, and I’m forced to laugh at the absurdity of it. There’s no gym here, but stumbling through hallways feels like training for old age. Eventually I find a vendor open, and he looks at me with the weary eyes of someone who has poured too many bad coffees for too many seasick passengers. I settle for lemon tea, warm and sharp against the morning cold, and I carry it into an empty restaurant.

The restaurant is a deserted ballroom of mismatched chairs and flags of nations pretending they get along. I sit by the window, pull out Camus’ The First Man. I met Camus, so to speak, in Ukraine. There, in trenches, between artillery salvos, I read Combat. My companions in that bunker were cold hands, ration tins, and Camus’ stubborn belief in truth. His words taught me what editors rarely do: that clarity is not a luxury, but a weapon. Writing about war is not about grandeur; it’s about stripping language down to the bone. That style carried me into my Gunpowder Chronicles. And in some ways, it carried me out alive.

I sip tea, the sea rising and falling like a chest in sleep. Then the phone rings: Elayne. Her voice is music after hours of silence. We talk about languages, how each word is a key to a door we haven’t yet opened. History too, what we can carry forward, what we must discard. It’s the kind of talk that nourishes, not drains. And I realise how rare that is. Too many conversations in life are like cheap coffee, warm but bitter, leaving you unsatisfied. Elayne’s words are wine.

Still, solitude has its teeth. War reporters live like migratory birds, but without the guarantee of finding their way back. I remember women I loved who told me they couldn’t wait anymore, who grew tired of phone calls from airports, train stations, and barracks. One of them told me once: “I never know whether you’re coming back to me or coming back broken.” I had no answer. Sometimes I wish I could explain that being broken is the condition of returning.

The decks outside are vast and blue, the morning sun stretching shadows of railings across the steel. Smoke trails upward from the funnel, as if the ship itself is sighing. I lean against the railing, watch the horizon unroll itself like a promise. Here, in the middle of water, I feel both free and imprisoned. Free of cities, free of wars, yet imprisoned in this endless habit of moving on.

Inside, lounges wait, tables, chairs, the flags of nations hung like trophies. I can hear faint laughter, the clink of glasses. It’s too early for that, but ferries bend time differently. I smile, if the bombs didn’t kill me, perhaps secondhand karaoke on a ferry will.

And so I continue walking, sipping tea, carrying Camus, fielding calls, thinking of lovers lost and conversations waiting for me in London. Three more days on this ship. Three more nights with the sea holding me like a restless mother. Ahead: Europe. Behind: England’s storms. In-between: my life, half-broken, half-laughed at, entirely mine.

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