Night Flight

The WB Journey departed from the port at dusk. The figures of those seeing us off on the dock and the colorful paper streamers gradually blurred into a hazy palette, until finally, nothing remained visible. Only the long, mournful sound of the ship’s whistle lingered, trailing like an invisible tail, winding through the deepening twilight. The shore, at last, became a thin, dark green line, low and distant, stretched across where the water met the sky. A little later, even that ink-like line faded, dispersed, and melted completely into the boundless, gray expanse. And so, all around, there was only one color, one sound, an endless, gentle undulation. We had truly arrived at the heart of the sea.

I stood alone on the navigation deck, observing the fishing boats around us, watching the bow of our ship silently yet stubbornly cleave through the thick, satin-like seawater. As the water parted, it produced a continuous, soft rushing sound—like a sigh, or perhaps a murmur. The divided waves churned into heaps of snowy foam, only to be cast behind the hull, stretching into two long, rolling white trails that stood out vividly in the dimming light. These trails stretched far, far behind the stern before reluctantly calming, slowly settling back into the vast, azure expanse. This blue was alive, layered: near the ship, it was a dark, almost blackish green, thick and rich, while farther away, it softened into a pale, gray-tinged green, extending all the way to the horizon, merging with the descending twilight clouds.

By now, the sky was almost completely dark. Where the sun had set, a faint trace of crimson glow lingered, like the last blush on a beauty’s cheeks after intoxication, soon to be wiped away by the night. Overhead, against the deep, dark blue curtain of the sky, a few sparse stars had already timidly emerged, twinkling with the unease of young girls stepping onto a stage for the first time. The wind had turned cool, carrying a fresh, slightly salty scent that pierced through my clothing. Unlike the winds on land, laden with the mingled smells of dust and vegetation, this wind was pure, clean, even somewhat unruly, determined to wash away the accumulated grime of the city from the depths of my lungs.

The ship’s lights had come on at some point. From the cabin windows, warm, yellowish squares of light glowed, inside which the shadows of chatting and laughing people swayed. Faintly, the sound of a gramophone drifted out, but that liveliness belonged to them—as if separated from me by a pane of transparent glass, having nothing to do with me. I preferred to remain in the darkness outside. This darkness was whole, and it belonged to me alone. The vibration of the machinery rose steadily through the deck beneath my feet, powerful and rhythmic, like the steady pulse of this great beast. This monotonous rhythm, after listening to it for a while, was not irritating but instead brought a hypnotic tranquility. It made one feel that this massive vessel was a living, trustworthy companion, carrying you forward as it broke through the heavy curtain of night, steadfastly heading toward an unknown shore.

Suddenly, I thought of the navigators of ancient times. They had no steel hulls, no precise charts, and certainly no electric compass to guide their direction. All they relied on were wooden sailing ships, observations of the stars, and a kind of almost primal courage and intuition. On nights as dark and vast as this, listening to the wind and waves battering their fragile hulls—how vigilant, how solemn and stirring their hearts must have been! The loneliness they felt was undoubtedly a thousand times deeper than mine. It was an absolute loneliness, the kind of being cast aside by the entire civilized world, suspended on the edge of life and death. My loneliness, in contrast, carried a touch of leisure, a hint of self-indulgent poetry, as if I had deliberately stepped away from mundane affairs to savor a cup of clear, bitter tea—astringent at first, but leaving a faint sweetness upon reflection.

The night grew deeper. I was the only one left on the navigation deck. I looked up at the boundless starry sky. Away from the light pollution of the land, the stars here seemed exceptionally dense and bright. They were no longer scattered decorations in the sky but a vast, rushing river of light, pouring down endlessly from above, silent yet deafening. Because of this, the sea was no longer purely black but shimmered with fine, fish-scale-like glimmers, reflecting the starlight. The ship sailed amid the reflection of this celestial river, as if it were not moving across the sea but floating through the cosmos.

At this moment, all the entanglements of life on land—the relentless pursuit of fame and fortune, the trivial worries, the complicated and inescapable human relationships—suddenly felt incredibly distant and insignificant. Against the backdrop of heaven and earth, one could truly feel the insignificance of the self. Yet this feeling of insignificance did not bring despair; instead, it gave rise to a strange sense of freedom. Since we are but dust in the grand scheme of things, why take gains, losses, honors, and disgraces so seriously?

I don’t know how much time passed before a chilly breeze gently brushed against my face. Feeling a bit cold, I tightened my collar and prepared to return to the wheelhouse. Just as I turned, I thought I saw an extremely faint, delicate white light piercing through the ink-black horizon. I gazed more intently, but the light had vanished, as if it were merely an illusion. Was it the herald of dawn? I stood there, waiting quietly. The ship, steady as ever, continued sailing unhurriedly toward the darkness ahead—and toward the dawn that was sure to come.