We ship anchor at eleven. After surveying the front-of-ship sleeping quarters, we take a stroll on deck. There is always the same childish thrill as the ferry pulls out of the harbour, and civilisation slowly fades from view. The sea is almost preternaturally calm, although the stars are blotted out by some wispy grey clouds, and the whole scene feels very soothing.
We head up onto the top deck and set up our speakers, twisting to some 50s rock n’ roll. The music somehow seems fantastically apposite. We decide it's time to hunker down for the night as we have a long day ahead of us tomorrow, but I am starting to regret not paying for a cabin. The clammy hand of illness rests upon my shoulder, and the thought of a night on the floor or in a tilting chair is not what my body is clammering for. After a few aborted attempts at sleep, I take to exploring the decks. I read, bleary-eyed, in a cafe for a while before finally hunkering down on one of the pew-like benches in the bar on top deck.