12. FIRST SEA SHOPPING

Anchored near Colombo

It was the last week of that unforgettable year, 2020-the year when the whole world seemed to hold its breath. On the night of 25th December, we left Singapore and headed towards Pasir Gudang, Malaysia, to load coconut oil. After loading was completed, our next discharge port was Colombo. We started sailing again, and on 31st December, early morning, we reached the coast of Colombo. It was not a bright sunny morning-the sky looked pale and still. I was on the bridge with Smith when he dropped anchor a few nautical miles away from the port. From there, I could see the faint silhouette of the city’s high-rise buildings shimmering in the distance-a city waiting quietly beyond the misty horizon. My heart was filled with excitement, the kind that only comes after weeks of endless sea and silence. Just watching Colombo from afar felt like a promise-of color, life, and something new after a long, uncertain year.

Waiting at Anchorage

That morning, I stood on the bridge with Smith, watching the city from a distance. The sea was not calm-waves rose and fell with slow, heavy swells, and the sky looks uncertain, as if it could not decide whether to shine or rain. Still, my heart was light. I kept asking Smith when we would enter the port, and he smiled saying, “Have patience. We will go in when the port calls us for berth.” Then with playful grin, he added, “If you are lucky, you will see something new-something you will really find cute.” Curious, I turned to him and asked, “What is it?” He laughed softly and said, “Wait for a bit. Small boats will come alongside, selling snacks, fruits, even sim cards. You will love it.” When I heard that, I almost squealed- “Are they Sri Lankan?” I asked eagerly. “Yes,” he said, still smiling. From that moment, I could not stand still-my eyes kept searching the horizon, impatient and thrilled like a child waiting for a fair to begin.

The Wait and The Call

I waited and waited, eyes glued to the horizon. With binoculars in my hand, I kept running to both sides of the bridge wings, searching for those little boats Smith had told me about. I even asked the duty officer to let me know the moment he spotted one. But as the hours passed and the sea stayed rough, my excitement slowly began to fade. By lunchtime, I told myself may be the weather was too harsh or maybe we were anchored too far from the boats to come. I did not want to admit the disappointment sinking in my heart. So, to distract myself, I went to the galley to cook for both of us-rice, dal, fish fry, and mashed potato in my Bengali way, mixed with raw onion, green chili, mustard oil, and salt. The smell of mustard oil filled the room, comforting and familiar. I had just started making our plates when the galley phone rang. I picked it up-it was Smith. His voice was full of excitement, “Come out to the poop deck. Quick!” I did not even think. I left the plate right there and ran.

The Little Boat from Colombo

When I reached the poop deck, I saw the Chief Officer, Third Officer, Chief Engineer, and few deck and engine crew all standing near the railing, looking down into the water. Smith was there too. The moment he saw me, he smiled, held my shoulder gently, and said, “Come, look down.”

The rain had begun to fall lightly, blurring the edges of the vast sea. The water was not still-small swells rippled across its surface, as if the ocean itself was breathing. And there it was-a tiny wooden boat, bobbing up and down in the restless waves. Only two men sat inside, and the boat was barely big enough for them. It had a small motor, which they turned off, probably to save fuel.

Our huge ship stood steady, almost unmoving, but their little boat danced wildly-rolling, pitching, rising, and dipping with every wave. Yet the two men looked calm, almost effortless, as if the rhythm of the sea was part of their heartbeat. They chatted with our crew by hand gesture, laughing, shouting over the wind, men of the ocean, utterly at home on its unpredictable surface.

I stood there in quiet awe, realizing how these small boats braved the rough waters just to sell their goods. Then I noticed what they carried-baskets of fresh prawns still glistening from the sea, golden pineapples with spiky crowns, ripe mangoes glowing like amber, and a few king coconuts stacked neatly in corner. Alongside them were bottles of Sri Lankan alcohol and even sim cards, all balanced carefully in that fragile boat.

Smith looked at me and asked with a grin, “What do you want?”

Without thinking, I said “Prawns and pineapples.”

He laughed, “How much?”

“All of it,” I replied instantly.

He hugged me and whispered, “Done.”

I looked down again, wondering how they would possibly pass things up from such a distance while the sea kept rocking. But Smith only smiled and said, “Wait and watch.”

And that is when the real magic began.

The Language of The Sea

The men on the little boat hardly spoke any English. They were just local fishermen from Colombo, speaking Sinhala-their native language-and none of us understood a word. For a moment, I wondered how we would ever manage the deal. Them Smith told me, “Bring a hundred dollar note from our cabin.” I ran, grabbed a single note, and handed it to him. Our Chief Officer held up the note for the fishermen to see, then pointed towards the prawns, pineapples and four SIM cards, using only gestures to explain. They nodded quickly, smiling, and that was our silent agreement-no words, no common language, just trust floating between a giant ship and a tiny boat.

Our crew tied a rope to a bucket, slipped the hundred-dollar note inside a plastic box, and lowered it carefully down to the fishermen. They opened the box, checked the note, and then filled our bucket with prawns, pineapples, and SIM cards. I noticed the prawns were still glistening, fresh from their morning fishing-they had been out at sea since dawn, catching these themselves before selling them to big ships like ours. As the crew pulled the bucket up and handed it to me, I felt a strange happiness bubbling inside me-my first ever “sea shopping.” Smith smiled quietly, knowing exactly what I was feeling without me saying a word.

Then through more hand gestures, the fishermen asked what cargo our ship carried. When the crew said “coconut oil,” they immediately offered a deal-if we could spare fifty litters of it, they would give us the rest of their goods. I asked Smith why they wanted coconut oil so much, and he explained, “It is pure, edible grade-once we discharge it here, they pack and sell it. It is precious to them.” So, the engine crew filled a few gallons and lowered them down. In return, the fishermen emptied their remaining fruits, bottles, and the SIM cards into the bucket-both sides grinning at their fair trade made only through gestures and faith.

Before leaving, the fishermen made another gesture-asking for food. Our hearts melted instantly. Smith told the Chief Cook to pack meals for them, and within minutes he came running with boxes of everything he had made that day. We lowered the food to them, and right there, in that rocking little boat, they began to eat. The sea swayed, rain drizzled, but they ate with such satisfaction that it filled me up just watching them. I could feel their hunger, their gratitude, and their quiet joy-after a long morning of fishing and travelling, they finally got to eat. After finishing, they waved, started their small motor, and slowly drifted away until they vanish into the horizon. I stood there silently, watching the rain blur their outline, feeling the kind of peace that only the sea and simple human kindness can bring.

Back in The Cabin

I carried all our treasures back to my cabin-the prawns went straight into the fridge, and I carefully placed all seven pineapples on the table. Yes, seven-big, ripe, and golden, still glowing from the morning sun they must have felt in Colombo. Smith came into the cabin while I was arranging them, and I started telling him everything, pouring out every little feeling. How I had seen the tiny boat for the first time, how the fishermen moved so effortlessly in the swells, how amazed I was at the hand gesture deal, and of course, how excited I was about the prawns and pineapples. He just stood there listening to every single detail, as if the whole event had happened just for him to hear my joy. Then he asked, “So, when are you going to cook?” I smiled and said, “Just a few for tonight’s dinner.”

Evening Reflection and Dinner

After lunch, while I was still lost in thoughts of our unusual sea shopping, the tiny boat had long gone, leaving only ripples behind. During our evening tea, watching the sun dip into the horizon, Smith and I found ourselves talking only about them-the fishermen. Their language, so different from ours; their tireless work; how little they earned; and how much our coconut oil must have meant to them. Smith explained everything patiently, helping me understand the quiet bravery of these men who live with the sea as both friend and master.

For dinner, I cleaned the fresh prawns and made Chingri Maacher Malai curry, enriched with mustard paste, green chillies, and coconut milk. We shared with some of the officers, accompanied by plain white rice. The taste was divine, but it was the freshness of the prawns that truly made it unforgettable. Everyone praised the dish, and I felt completely overwhelmed-proud, happy, and grateful all at once. After dinner, Smith and I returned to our cabin and continued discussing the day. He said how much he loved the homely Malai Curry, and we smiled, content with the simple, extraordinary day we had shared. That night, with hearts full and senses satisfied, we drifted to sleep, carrying the memory of the little boat and its hardworking crew with us.