Lost at Sea: The Ferry Mystery
An announcement echoed softly through the ferry’s corridors: we were entering Belfast harbour and a subtle shift rippled through the air. Around us, people in the restaurant area began gathering their belongings, their movements purposeful yet tinged with anticipation.
Since we had been nestled comfortably in our own corner, we didn’t need to move just yet. Instead, we began organizing our carry-on bags and shoulder bags, fingers brushing over familiar zippers and straps, double-checking that nothing was left behind.
That’s when Dad decided that he wanted to use the restroom.
A sudden knot tightened in my stomach. The ferry was just beginning to dock. The gentle rocking of the ship had almost ceased, replaced by the quiet murmur of passengers preparing to disembark.
I hesitated to let him go alone, my eyes following his steady steps as he disappeared down the corridor. He turned back briefly, offering a calm smile, “Don’t worry, I’ll find you guys.”
But minutes stretched painfully — three, then six, then ten — and my calm unravelled like a fragile thread. The queue of passengers to leave the ferry lengthened, voices soft but urgent, footsteps echoing on the decks.
After few minutes, only a few remained inside: the restaurant waiter tidying up, maintenance workers moving quietly in the background and me and mom.
I paced our deck, heart pounding, scanning every corner, every restroom — but dad was nowhere to be found.
Panic gripped me with icy fingers. My breath caught, ears ringing with the thrum of my heartbeat. Mom’s voice trembled beside me, “What if he had a stroke?” she whispered, eyes wide with fear. This was something she used to say when dad would do such things.
I tried to steady her, “Mom, please,” though inside, terror mirrored hers. What if something had happened? My legs felt rooted to the floor, as if swallowed by the very steel beneath me, frozen in place, mind racing yet paralyzed.
We were out of options. Dad’s phone number from India was useless here — no way to reach him.
The ferry staff’s gentle but firm requests to disembark pulled us toward the exit. Another wave of dread crashed over me: what if dad returned and couldn’t find us? The thought squeezed my chest tight.
Just as we stepped toward the gangway, my phone rang. An unknown number flashed on the screen.
Relief poured through me like warm sunlight breaking through storm clouds when I heard dad’s voice — steady, calm, unmistakably his. The dam of fear burst, flooding me with gratitude.
He told us he was waiting in the baggage reclaim area. Somehow, he had borrowed a phone from a fellow passenger to call. Quiet pride swelled in me — despite the chaos, dad had taken charge.
Mom, however, was still mad. Even after we reunited at baggage claim, she scolded him for his “childish behaviour.” Dad explained that the restroom on our deck had been closed, so he had to go around to the other side. By the time he found his way, the ferry was already docking, and people had started disembarking. He couldn’t find a way back to us and decided the best thing was to disembark with the crowd and wait outside, confident we’d meet there.
He said it so matter-of-factly, oblivious to the storm of worry Mom and I had endured in those brief moments.
Mom didn’t speak to him until we boarded the bus toward Belfast city centre, where she unleashed a steady stream of complaints about his “childishness.” I smiled quietly, relieved to see them both safe and together. Normalcy returned and ahead lay a few precious days in Northern Ireland and then the Republic of Ireland.
In that moment, a profound gratitude settled over me. As a son living far away, these moments — the laughter, the fears, the reunions — are treasures beyond measure. Family is the anchor in life’s unpredictable voyage, and having this time together, sharing these adventures, is a gift I will carry with me always.
