We were halfway up the Red Sea, trailing bits of hay in our wake.
The ship was a floating barnyard. It was delivering 8,000 sheep and 855 camels from Djibouti to Jeddah. An anti-ark: the animals were bound for slaughter. Enamel paint. The thrum of the big diesel. The ammonia reek of the pens. And, now and then, caught on the breath of the wind, the silver whistles of canaries — birds singing their hearts out.
It was the morose engineer. He sat at his post at night playing songbird recordings over and over on his computer. He said it reminded him of a better world.