The Maritime Academy

The letter says: be there at exactly 7:30 AM.
The hallway of the Higher Maritime Academy is concrete, with here and there a no-nonsense door. A small painting of a schooner hangs reluctantly from a crooked nail. I knock on the deputy’s door — three times, because I’d read somewhere that ships also sound their horns three times. Inside, I hear a drawer slam shut and a bottle roll over.

The man behind the desk wears a heavy head, topped with a stormproof haircut that could easily withstand gale-force winds. His brown, cabin-like office is decorated with an unpolished brass ship’s bell, and a dull foghorn stands on the desk. I try to focus on the conversation and not drift off imagining the thick layer of spit that must be clinging to the inside of the horn.

‘So, young man, Guido van Zijtveld, is it? No need to sit down, this won’t take long. Says here you only lasted three years at a MULO, a Christian school no less, and still jumped ship early? By Poseidon’s barnacled balls, that’s just
like a landlubber!’

The heavy head turns red, maybe he’s got high blood pressure, or maybe it reflects just deep personal involvement.

‘Well sir, I didn’t find the material very challeng…’

‘It says here you mostly stared out the window.’

‘Well, not much happens in Zwijndrecht. You might as well stare out the window and wait until something…’

‘The medical report says you’ve had acute rheumatism. Water and rheumatism, not a great combination, van Zijpervelt. Looks like you’ve already taken on damage before ever setting foot aboard.’

‘Well sir, I’ve gained quite a bit of experience as a sea scout in the Biesbosch.’

The heavy head folds into a contemptuous grin.
‘It says here your clunky dinghy kept running aground because you kept forgetting to lift the centerboard.’

‘Well, the tide does go out fast in the Biesbosch.’

‘That’s nothing compared to the coast of Brittany.’

He waves the report. Fumes of alcohol roll across the desk.

‘What’s this nice horn?’ I ask.

‘I didn’t catch that, van Zeverveld. And put the foghorn back.’ He consulted the report again.
‘It also says here you once sailed so deep into the reeds during camp that the skipper had to spend hours finding you with his motorboat.’

‘Well sir, that only happened three times. And the weather conditions…’

‘I think we’re done here, van Zijpvelt.’
He opens the desk drawer again; the bottle rolls off in the other direction.
‘You’ll hear from us — by message in a bottle.’

Craftsmanship, that joke.

I know for certain: my admission is practically certain. I walk out with my head held high, which is why I miss the life bouy lying on the floor. Tripping over it, I’m struck by a vision. A few years from now, I’ll be standing on the bridge of a Holland-America Line ship, captain’s cap on my head, a woman in a petticoat on each arm.