by Phillip CK

The Northern Ocean was much better. We could go out on the deck and inhale the delicious, cool breeze. It was, what do you call it, serene. No violent storms carrying tons of sand from the Italian desert, blasting our old hull. No searing-winds, so hot actually, that they scorched the wooden fittings on deck. I was glad we managed to make it through the Mediterranean all in one piece.

At the far end of the bridge, three people had made a circle, holding hands. I didn’t know them too well; they had joined the crew recently.

“What are they doing, mum?” I asked.

“They commemorate.”

“Commemorate?”

“Yes. You see, Daphne, there’s a city under these waters. Submerged many meters below. An old city from an old land. There wasn’t always an ocean, here.”

“A submerged city,” I mused.

“That’s right. Those people’s great ancestors used to live there. Whenever we pass by, they say a few words. A little prayer, if you will, for their home they lost forever.”

I could hear their quiet chant.

“What was it called?” I asked. “That city.”

“Amsterdam.”

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