Our ship pulls into the harbour, and we can see the sails towering over the low buildings around it. We aren't allowed to visit the ship yet - she's like a bride before a wedding. But some of us climb the hill behind the harbour and look down on it.
The clarity of distant mountains is unimaginable. They look hyperreal. You can see every rock, every crack, every piece of ice, all details in such sharpness you could close your fingers around them. But they're miles away.
I buy last-minute supplies:
Cling film: one roll
Chocolate: four different formats
Bitter strawberry gelatine sweets: quarter kilo
Jameson Whisky: half-bottle
Tomorrow we set sail. No telephone, no internet for two weeks.
You will read everything I have to say on my return, please be patient.
I pass a graveyard while on my run, a dozen uniform white crosses scattered across the rock slope:
I believe in ice
I believe in memories
I believe you didn't mean it
I believe you wanted to explain everything, but never found the time.
Remember, kids: running with tears in your eyes makes it hard to breathe. And zero degrees is not cold enough to freeze them.