an entire new chapter will be much more laborious than inserting snippets here and there? No, actually. It could take for ever to add soulful asides without doing grave damage to the overall tone, which is one of ghastly can-do breeziness masking a steely determination. It will actually be far easier and more plausible to change gear radically somewhere in the middle to invoke a different Millie, a hitherto unsuspected Millie, a Millie full of spiritual rapport with the oceans she sails over. It matters not that I can feel my breakfast borne upwards on a surge of gastric reflux at the thought of the piffle I shall have to write. This is the professional’s way forward. And it is also part of Samper’s master plan.
‘You know, Millie,’ I say in a tone somewhere between earnest and deeply moved, ‘maybe you and I have more than a little in common after all. Tell me, do you believe in Neptune?’
‘Wasn’t he the ancient god of the sea?’
‘Quite right. Neptune was the name the Romans gave the much older Greek god Poseidon. When the universe was divided up between his brothers and sisters, Poseidon was given the sea to rule. He was also the god of the winds and earthquakes and was notoriously temperamental. When in a good mood hemade the sea calm and commanded new land to emerge from it. In bad moods he would strike the land with the gigantic trident he carried, causing earthquakes, storms at sea, shipwrecks and drownings. He lived in a palace on the seabed off the biggest of the Greek islands, Evvoia, where he kept his chariot and a stud farm for breeding horses.’
‘Seahorses?’
‘Not at all. The real things. Poseidon seems to have been the god of horses as well, and he certainly identified with them. When he wanted to have sex with his sister Demeter she turned herself into a mare in the hopes of thwarting his advances. She should have known her brother better because he simply changed into a stallion and advanced all the same. Some time later she gave birth to a foal. They led complicated lives in those days.’
Millie is giving me a puzzled look. ‘Why are you telling me this, Gerry?’
‘Because if you’re interested in the sea being, um, sentient and divine, mightn’t you want to reflect on your own feelings having ancient roots common throughout pre-Christian history ? Maybe those are what you’re tapping into now. A sort of Jungian thing. Of course, I’m only throwing this out as an idea for bulking out this new chapter I have to write. A different Millie and so on, in touch with primordial deities.’
Now she becomes a bit more animated as the implications begin to dawn on her. ‘But that’s marvellous, Gerry darling. It means I didn’t imagine it and that people have always felt like me. I can relate to that, all right. I don’t mean the palaces on the seabed stuff, obviously, though I know lots of people who believe in Atlantis.’
I bet she does. ‘Most of them probably think Atlantis is an archaeological site they hope will be found one day. A sort of drowned city where a fabulous civilization once lived. No doubt the very looniest are expecting there to be people in togas strolling its streets beneath two thousand fathoms of water. Forget Atlantis, Millie. It’s a complete red herring.’
‘Right. Of course I don’t believe myself in people walking about on the seabed. But the idea of Poseidon being some sort of …’
‘… Gaia figure …?’
‘… Gaia figure, exactly, Gerry. A spirit of the deep, a sacred principle of the sea. And those with the right sensitivity can harmonize with it. And that’s what happened to me off the Canaries. That’s why I broke the record. It was the strangest sensation.’
‘Well, anyway,’ I say, thoroughly disgusted with myself but thinking that several pages of wacky discourse along these lines will enable me to polish off this new chapter in fairly short order, ‘I’ll just leave you with these
‘You know, Millie,’ I say in a tone somewhere between earnest and deeply moved, ‘maybe you and I have more than a little in common after all. Tell me, do you believe in Neptune?’
‘Wasn’t he the ancient god of the sea?’
‘Quite right. Neptune was the name the Romans gave the much older Greek god Poseidon. When the universe was divided up between his brothers and sisters, Poseidon was given the sea to rule. He was also the god of the winds and earthquakes and was notoriously temperamental. When in a good mood hemade the sea calm and commanded new land to emerge from it. In bad moods he would strike the land with the gigantic trident he carried, causing earthquakes, storms at sea, shipwrecks and drownings. He lived in a palace on the seabed off the biggest of the Greek islands, Evvoia, where he kept his chariot and a stud farm for breeding horses.’
‘Seahorses?’
‘Not at all. The real things. Poseidon seems to have been the god of horses as well, and he certainly identified with them. When he wanted to have sex with his sister Demeter she turned herself into a mare in the hopes of thwarting his advances. She should have known her brother better because he simply changed into a stallion and advanced all the same. Some time later she gave birth to a foal. They led complicated lives in those days.’
Millie is giving me a puzzled look. ‘Why are you telling me this, Gerry?’
‘Because if you’re interested in the sea being, um, sentient and divine, mightn’t you want to reflect on your own feelings having ancient roots common throughout pre-Christian history ? Maybe those are what you’re tapping into now. A sort of Jungian thing. Of course, I’m only throwing this out as an idea for bulking out this new chapter I have to write. A different Millie and so on, in touch with primordial deities.’
Now she becomes a bit more animated as the implications begin to dawn on her. ‘But that’s marvellous, Gerry darling. It means I didn’t imagine it and that people have always felt like me. I can relate to that, all right. I don’t mean the palaces on the seabed stuff, obviously, though I know lots of people who believe in Atlantis.’
I bet she does. ‘Most of them probably think Atlantis is an archaeological site they hope will be found one day. A sort of drowned city where a fabulous civilization once lived. No doubt the very looniest are expecting there to be people in togas strolling its streets beneath two thousand fathoms of water. Forget Atlantis, Millie. It’s a complete red herring.’
‘Right. Of course I don’t believe myself in people walking about on the seabed. But the idea of Poseidon being some sort of …’
‘… Gaia figure …?’
‘… Gaia figure, exactly, Gerry. A spirit of the deep, a sacred principle of the sea. And those with the right sensitivity can harmonize with it. And that’s what happened to me off the Canaries. That’s why I broke the record. It was the strangest sensation.’
‘Well, anyway,’ I say, thoroughly disgusted with myself but thinking that several pages of wacky discourse along these lines will enable me to polish off this new chapter in fairly short order, ‘I’ll just leave you with these
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