Time to Go

The Danish Policeman looked at us both, and rapped his fingers on his grey metal desk in a five-finger drum roll, little finger to big.

"What do you mean, you missed the boat?" 

Dick said, "We missed the boat. If you miss the boat, the boat leaves without you. You have a time to leave, and if you miss it, the boat doesn't wait. We missed the boat, and it left us here."

I said, "You can't miss the boat. It just isn't done."

He pointed a sharp finger at me, fast, like drawing a gun. "I didn't ask you. I asked him. I am talking to him. Let him talk."

Dick looked even sadder, if that was possible. Dick hated to talk unless he had to. I have worked a lot of twelve hour shifts with Dick where he never said a word, sitting eight feet from me. He liked digital integer talk, not words.

"What boat is this?"

"The Kristen Svenska."

"And what kind of boat is this? A fishing boat?"

"No. It is a seismic boat," said Dick, once again staring at his boots, as if they were the cause of the current sadness in his life.