It is cold; sea spray paint the ship white, light green is the Nordic water, a mighty cocktail of clinking ice cubes. I scratch a happy face on the thick glass of the porthole. We will dock in a town that have warm rooms people sit around a fire give a **** about sailorβs miserable life. Seascape paintings hangs on gilded walls; look at that sea, so verdant, delicate brush strokes; the artist died at a mad house.