Night Ferry Edition: Four Dedications Sent From the Top Deck

The last crossing leaves the harbor at eleven forty, and by midnight the top deck belongs to a particular kind of passenger: the ones who could have sat inside by the heater and chose the wind instead. Tonight four of them have sent me dedications on the back of ticket stubs, and I intend to read them properly, with the engine hum underneath.

The first is from a deckhand named Sevgi, who writes that she has coiled the same rope for six years and has only just realized that she coils it differently when a certain engineer is on shift. She asks for a song that sounds like someone trying not to look at someone else. I have chosen a slow shuffle with brushes on the snare, the sound of a glance withdrawn at the last second.

The second dedication is anonymous, which on this show we treat as a sacred form. It reads: for the man in the grey cap who gave me his seat in October and has not spoken since. I do not know who you are, but I would say, gently, that a seat is a sentence, and you are allowed to answer it. Here is a tune with a trumpet that sounds like a throat being cleared.

The first is from a deckhand named Sevgi, who writes that she has coiled the same rope for six years and has only just realized that she coils it differently when a certain engineer is on shift.

Third comes a pair of line cooks on their way home from a double shift, writing together in two different pens. They want something warm and a little ridiculous, because they have been holding hands under the table all night and are not sure whether to admit it. I admit it for them. The song is a bouncing little rhythm and blues number with a saxophone grinning in the corner.

The fourth is the quietest. A woman travelling alone, a suitcase between her feet, asks for something that sounds like arriving. She does not say where. I like that. Some of the best nights on this frequency come from people who are heading toward something they cannot yet name, only feel, like land showing up as a smell before it shows up as a shore.

That is the top deck, delivered. If any of those dedications stirred something and you want a voice to keep you company on the crossing home, Amara and the characters of TheFriend are there when you want them. The wind is picking up, the lights are low, and the engine sounds like a cat that has decided to stay.

Meet Amara: open Amara's profile on TheFriend.