Nonfiction by Gloria Lauris
What had started out as a lovely, lazy excursion soon turned into a nightmare.
“The boat’s gonna leave–without us! But where is it?” I cried to my son Alex, who had scouted out ahead.
“There!” he shouted, pointing to our cruiser at port in the distance. My heart sank. No way we would make it in time before the 4 pm set-sail time. It was 3:30, and we were far away and up a hill. We had no transportation and didn’t speak the local language.
I mentally reviewed how we arrived in this predicament. Our luxury liner had moored in the Baltic Sea’s cyan calm waters at Tallinn, and we had earlier strolled ashore. My main purpose here was to buy a wood icon dating back to the 18th century from an Estonian shop, located in the city’s Old Town Square. Given my art history training, I was excited to pursue these panels which had been obtained from the hallowed walls of old Eastern European churches, and even more keen to secure a piece.
Alex and I wandered leisurely through the quaint, walled seaside town. We admired the time-worn architecture of the well-preserved medieval city, peering into windows of old museums and galleries, and picking our way along the meandering cobblestone walkways.
Stopping at the well-known antique store, I spent over an hour agonizing over the many religious items, focusing on the more affordable ones. I finally settled on a work featuring ‘Archangel Michael with St. Florus and St. Laurus’ which especially appealed to me due to the similarity to my last name. The mysterious painted eyes of the archangel’s face looked as though they held secrets or at least stories from the icon’s time on church walls.
Clutching my new prized possession, I joined my impatient son waiting for me outside the shop and we walked along the city’s streets within the marketplace, examining the fresh produce, assorted merchandise, and colourful cotton clothing.
The intoxicating and exotic smells from the food vendors mingled with the fragrant air of the lazy summer afternoon. We seemed to merge into the historic, serene landscape, caught up and lost in a timeless trance—in a dance of sorts—of life in that ancient town which was foreign yet somehow familiar. Time stood still for awhile.
Eventually rousing from the lull of relaxation and daydream, we realized that the sun was no longer overhead and it was time to return. In fact, it was very much past time to go. We also then realized that we weren’t sure exactly where we were or how to navigate our way back.
Panic set in.
Despite the day’s warmth, I felt a chill as the potential seriousness of the situation sunk in. My hands formed sweaty beads and breaths started coming faster through my parched throat.
It would be a tight race to get to the vessel in time, assuming we were going the right way at all.
Our once casual pace now quickened in an increasingly desperate effort to get back. If only we could find which road to take! This one? Or That? Signage was not helpful since we couldn’t read the words.
In asking several vendors how to find our way back to the seaport, we used charade-like gestures to communicate as their English was poor and our Estonian was non-existent. We later learned we were pointed in the wrong direction and went even further afield. We tried unsuccessfully to find a taxi.
The outline of the massive ship could be seen far away in the harbor, blasting out its loud and final no-nonsense warning signals. It was calling for us, its wayward passengers, one last time.
We were stranded and miserable.
Then, what seemed like a miracle happened.
Unexpectedly we found the right road back towards the cruise liner. Did Archangel Michael himself hear, through our icon, our feverish muttered prayers for literal guidance, and compassionately and invisibly intercede?
Separated from the ship by a steep hill, we abandoned any pretence of decorum, desperately throwing ourselves down the grassy knoll, traversing rocks, ignoring blisters on our feet, and trying not to stumble or fall. Cutting away from the pathway, we scrambled, taking the most direct way back we could.
The ship would leave shortly for Russia. Not reaching the vessel meant we would have to regroup three days later somewhere else entirely once it exited Soviet waters. Missing the evening sail-off was unthinkable, not even an option as there was no Plan B. We pushed ourselves harder, hearts thumping in our chests, and gasping for air as we ran.
My memory of the rest is a blur, and I don’t know to this day how we did it, as it seemed impossible to get there in time. Did we fly? Somehow, we found the strength to stagger, exhausted, to our floating hotel, avoiding the stern looks from the boarding crew about to hoist the loading plank. I looked at my watch: 3:58!
I don’t think my son and I were ever more grateful to be on board a boat. The food tasted amazing, the shower heavenly, and my small bunk bed extremely welcoming to my aching body and feet. My precious icon stowed in my luggage, to be unearthed only upon our return home.
No one wants to miss the boat, whether figuratively or literally. My son and I occasionally refer to that fateful day and shake our heads with disbelief remembering how close we came to almost doing so. It will be a story Alex will tell his kids one day: the time when their dad and grandma almost didn’t make it.
When I hung that special item on my wall at home, I could have sworn the quiet and unassuming painted Archangel Michael winked at me.
I guess our Baltic adventure is just one more story added to his silent, secret mysteries.
Gloria Lauris is a writer in Ottawa, Ontario, Canada. She has degrees in sociology and art history and is a retired government analyst. Inspired by her education, experiences, and observations she writes nonfiction about animal welfare, travel, gardening, and food, as well as fictional children’s animal stories with a colleague.
