By midnight, the feast had changed.

Not enough for anyone to worry.

Not yet.

The same battered bowl still travelled from hand to hand.

The same fiddle played.

The same people who had tried to kill one another that afternoon now ate, drank and laughed together.

But earlier the question had been:

Will you sit with us?

Now it was becoming:

What else have you got?

Sean found Eljara watching a sailor gamble away his shirt.

Literally.

He had begun the evening with boots, breeches, coat, belt, knife and a respectable pile of coins.

The coat had gone first.

Then the coins.

Then the knife.

Now his shirt lay in the middle of the table.

SEAN: “He’s going to regret that.”

ELJARA: “Tomorrow?”

The sailor threw the dice.

The table erupted.

He began taking off his shirt.

SEAN: “Sooner.”

Eljara smiled.

ELJARA: “And yet he’ll throw again.”

He did.

Around them, the deck had become a small kingdom of abundance.

Fish.

Salt meat.

Cassava bread.

Rum.

Tobacco.

Dice.

Music.

People from shore had arrived carrying bottles, bright cloth, cheap jewellery and everything else sailors with fresh prize money might suddenly decide they needed.

For months, life at sea had been measured in shortages.

Water rationed.

Food preserved until eating it became an act of faith.

Sleep stolen between watches.

Privacy almost nonexistent.

Fresh food a luxury.

Comfort a memory.

And beneath everything waited the simple arithmetic of mortality.

Storm.

Fever.

Cannon.

Knife.

Rope.

Reef.

One bad wave.

Tomorrow was never guaranteed.

Tonight was.

And tonight there was plenty.

A sailor who had already eaten enough for three people reached for another piece of fish.

His companion slapped his hand away.

“You’ve had four.”

“Five.”

“That isn’t better.”

“I nearly died today.”

“So did I.”

“Then take one.”

The second sailor considered this.

Then took two.

Sean laughed.

SEAN: “They were hungry.”

ELJARA: “Some of them still are.”

SEAN: “There’s enough food.”

ELJARA: “I wasn’t talking about food.”

Nearby, the captain’s daughter was winning at dice.

She pulled a small pile of coins towards herself.

Her father stared suspiciously at the dice.

“You cheated.”

“You taught me.”

“I most certainly did not.”

“You would have.”

“That is not the same thing.”

She threw again.

Won again.

Sean laughed.

SEAN: “She’s definitely his.”

The daughter pushed half her winnings back into the middle.

“Again.”

Her father raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve already won.”

“I know.”

“Then why risk it?”

She smiled.

“Because I might win more.”

Eljara glanced at Sean.

ELJARA: “There.”

SEAN: “What?”

ELJARA: “The second question.”

The first drink had tasted like survival.

The second like belonging.

The third tasted like possibility.

After that, counting became difficult.

One more throw.

One more cup.

One more song.

One more dance.

One more kiss.

One more.

Nobody forced anyone.

Not exactly.

But the same crew that had taught strangers to belong was beginning to teach them something else.

A sailor covered his cup.

“No more for me.”

His new companion stared at him.

“You dying?”

“No.”

“Then drink.”

Everyone laughed.

The sailor laughed too.

Someone filled his cup.

He drank.

Sean’s smile disappeared.

SEAN: “He didn’t want that.”

ELJARA: “He didn’t want to refuse it either.”

SEAN: “There’s a difference.”

ELJARA: “An important one.”

The captain’s daughter had stopped gambling.

Her winnings were tied safely at her belt.

Her father joined her and offered his bottle.

She shook her head.

“No.”

He shrugged.

Then drank himself.

No argument.

No joke.

No insistence.

Eljara noticed.

ELJARA: “Interesting.”

SEAN: “What?”

ELJARA: “He heard her.”

SEAN: “She said one word.”

ELJARA: “Sometimes that’s all a boundary requires.”

The music grew louder.

The night grew hotter.

More people arrived from shore.

More bottles opened.

More coins changed hands.

Sean looked around.

SEAN: “They finally have enough.”

ELJARA: “Yes.”

SEAN: “Food. Rum. Money. Music. Nobody shooting at them.”

ELJARA: “For the moment.”

SEAN: “Then why doesn’t anybody look satisfied?”

Eljara watched another handful of coins disappear across a gambling table.

ELJARA: “Because enough is a quantity.”

SEAN: “And?”

ELJARA: “Desire isn’t.”

At sea, they had dreamed about this night.

Fresh food.

Rum without ration.

Money in their pockets.

Music.

Touch.

Choice.

If only we reach port.

If only we survive.

If only we have enough.

Then they reached it.

And discovered something human beings have been discovering for a very long time.

Desire moves.

The hungry man imagines a meal.

The fed man imagines a feast.

The man with one coin wants ten.

The man with ten begins thinking about twenty.

The first victory makes another throw irresistible.

Pleasure does not always say:

Enough.

Sometimes it whispers:

Again.

The battered communal bowl returned.

Someone filled it.

Rum.

Water.

Citrus.

More rum.

Something questionable.

Then more rum, apparently to correct the questionable part.

It travelled around the deck.

Drink.

Cheer.

Drink.

Cheer.

Then it reached the sailor who had tried to refuse earlier.

He looked at the bowl.

Then at the people around him.

They were smiling.

His new friends.

His crew.

His people.

He drank.

The cheer was enormous.

For the first second, he smiled.

For the second, he looked sick.

By the third, he was laughing because everyone else was.

Sean watched him.

SEAN: “There.”

ELJARA: “Yes.”

SEAN: “Something changed.”

Earlier, the bowl had crossed a boundary.

Now it was becoming one.

Drink, and you remained part of the night.

Refuse, and for a moment you stood outside it.

First:

Drink with us.

Then:

Drink like us.

A small difference.

A dangerous one.

SEAN: “So this is where the feast goes wrong?”

ELJARA: “Has it?”

Sean looked around.

People were laughing.

Former enemies had their arms around each other’s shoulders.

The captain and his daughter were arguing affectionately.

Someone was teaching three hopeless sailors a new dance.

The night was warm.

Ridiculous.

Alive.

Beautiful.

SEAN: “No.”

ELJARA: “Then don’t condemn pleasure before it has committed the crime.”

SEAN: “But you see something.”

ELJARA: “Of course.”

SEAN: “What?”

Eljara watched another cup being filled.

ELJARA: “Appetite learning to speak with the voice of belonging.”

There was nothing wrong with the feast.

They had survived.

After hunger, abundance could feel like mercy.

After fear, laughter could feel like medicine.

After loneliness, another person beside you could feel like proof that you were still alive.

The danger began somewhere smaller.

When:

I want this

became:

I need this.

When:

Come with us

became:

Why aren’t you coming?

When:

Have another

became:

Don’t spoil the night.

When the freedom to join stopped including the freedom to stop.

Much later, the bowl reached Sean.

He covered his cup with one hand.

“No.”

The sailor carrying it shrugged.

“More for me.”

And moved on.

Eljara raised an eyebrow.

SEAN: “What?”

ELJARA: “You wanted to know where the boundary was.”

She nodded towards his empty cup.

ELJARA: “Perhaps that’s it.”

The music continued.

It should.

There was nothing shameful in wanting another song.

Another dance.

Another kiss.

Another hour before morning.

But abundance contains its own question.

Not:

How much can you have?

Something harder.

How much can you enjoy while still remaining free to say:

Enough?

If you remember what this felt like…

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