The Harbour Pilot – Part 2: Slack Water

By September, the fog was gone.

The harbour lay glittering in the late sun, calm as a mirror. Tugs bobbed at their berths. Cranes stood against the sky like tall green giraffes. A seagull stood on a bollard and surveyed its kingdom.

Agnieszka sat on the quay at the end of a long shift, her boots dangling, a thermos beside her. She had piloted eleven ships that week. Her shoulders ached. The tide was between flood and ebb, the water perfectly still.

"Slack water," said Tomasz, sitting beside her.

"My favourite time."

"I know. You always stop at slack water."

"I didn't know you'd noticed."

"I notice everything about the harbour," he said. "And a few things about its pilot."

She laughed. He had changed since the first day: the uniform jacket hung open, his hair was windblown, and he'd stopped saying "observing." He brought her sandwiches and left out the paperwork. He had amended the manual twice.

"Can I ask you something?" said Tomasz.

"Yes."

"Would you object if the harbour master and the pilot had dinner?"

"It's against three policies."

"I've amended them."

"Have you?"

"This morning."

She laughed again, delighted. "Then I'd love that. May I kiss you first?"

"Yes," said Tomasz. "And if you say stop, you must take me out in the pilot boat at dawn."

"That's not a punishment."

"I'm learning."

She kissed him, warm and a little breathless, her hand against his open collar. He kissed her back with slow, serious tenderness, tasting of coffee and salt. The tide turned silently beneath them. A tug blew a long note across the water.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Agnieszka. "Very green."

At dawn she took him out in the pilot boat. The manual now has a footnote about fog, slack water and trust.

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